6. Laine
6
LAINE
Unsurprisingly, it takes me ages to pick a song. When I finally decide on one (“Cowboy Take Me Away”), I head back to the bar. But Sutton isn’t there. After a minute of searching, I see him outside the front windows, talking into his phone with his jaw clenched. Everything about his face is tense, strong, and angular. It’s not a look I’ve seen before—at least, not with such intensity. I didn’t know Sutton even had that kind of emotion in him.
Not wanting to intrude, I stay at the bar and turn back to the stage. There, a drop-dead gorgeous couple has taken the stage. The woman has long chestnut-brown hair cascading in loose curls, and the guy has a short-trimmed beard, not unlike Sutton’s, and dark hair that is pushed back, hanging to the collar of his shirt. Even without them being on the stage, they would both tower over me like Roman gods. They’re singing a folksy song that I haven’t heard before, but it sounds old and romantic.
I’m enthralled by them. Not because they’re particularly gifted singers, but because they look at each other with smiles so full and contagious, laughing through the lyrics, everyone in here smiles in return. The young woman looks so familiar, though I can’t put my finger where I recognize her from.
When the couple is done, they walk, intertwined, toward the bar, leaning into one another.
“You two did great,” I say to them, leaning closer so they can hear me over the tone-deaf rendition of “Total Eclipse of the Heart” that just started.
“Thanks!” the woman says, smiling at her date yet again. After she orders a drink, she asks me, “Are you here with someone?”
I gesture outside to Sutton, who is still talking on the phone, pacing in tight circles.
She nods and looks my purple tiered and ruffled dress up and down. “You’re celebrating tonight?”
“We just graduated from NYU today.”
“ Exciting! ” she gushes. “I’m Ophelia Brooks. And this is Adam Abrams.”
“Oh!” It all clicks. “You’re in fashion, right? Don’t you write for Atelier Today ?”
Ophelia beams. “I used to, yes! But Adam here,”—she pauses to wrap her arm even tighter around him—“started an independent magazine, Wonderings , and I joined the team.”
“What are your plans now that you’ve graduated?” Adam asks.
I wince. “Good question. I majored in journalism, but I’m still looking for the right job.”
Ophelia and Adam exchange a knowing look before she looks back at me. “Have you written anything before?”
“I worked at NYU’s student newspaper, but that’s it.” I shrug.
“Do you have any articles I can read?” Ophelia asks.
“Um, sure...” I grab my phone and pull up the website for the Washington Square News , navigating to my most recent article.
Ophelia holds her hands out eagerly. “May I?”
As Ophelia reads, I ask Adam about their magazine.
“It’s all about culture,” he explains. “Travel, food, art, and—thanks to Ophelia—fashion. We have seasonal issues every three months, plus online articles in between. Our team is small right now. Everyone works from home. But it’s fun.”
“Your writing is unique—in a good way,” Ophelia interjects, handing my phone back. “It feels so natural.” Her lips curl. “Have you ever thought about freelancing?”
As always, when I think about my career, or lack thereof, my skin crawls. “I haven’t—not yet, at least,” I admit. I slump down a bit, leaning my elbows on the bar. “To be honest, I’m still figuring this out.”
“I get that,” Ophelia says, taking a sip of her drink. Behind her, Adam nods.
“Really?” I say in an exhale. “You felt directionless after graduating? Like…there are so many options out there you don’t know which route to take?”
Ophelia tilts her head a bit. “Well, no. I’ve always known I wanted to write about fashion. But it took me a while to get there. And during that time, it felt like my life was at a standstill.” She drums her fingers on the bar, pursing her lips. “Freelancing can be a nice way to make some extra money while you search for something more permanent.”
“That does sound nice,” I say, sneaking a peek outside to Sutton. He’s still on the phone, his free hand balled into a fist.
“We like to work with a lot of freelancers,” she says. “And the ones who are a good fit sometimes end up joining our team on a permanent basis. If you ever decide you want to give it a try, email me.” She hands me a white linen-textured business card: Ophelia Brooks, President of Wonderings Magazine .
“Really?” I ask again, feeling like my heart might fly out of my chest. My face stretches into a wide smile as I imagine Sutton’s face, my parents’ faces, when I tell them the good news.
“With you writing like that ,”—Ophelia points at my phone—“yes, really. You’ll just need to find something worth writing about.”