A Storybook Wedding

Chapter 6 Nate

I’m not really sure what happened between me and Cecily last night. I mean, yes, I was there. Obviously. But it’s not every day that I hang out with someone unexpectedly like that and enjoy it so much. I’m Nate Ellis, misanthrope, loner. I keep friends and socializing to a minimum.

So you can imagine my surprise when I wake up the next morning and find sixteen missed texts on my cell phone.

Bro! Why am I watching you on Fallon right now?

Honey, we saw you on the Tonight Show! Daddy has it on DVR!

Nate!!! Who’s the hot chick eye-banging you on national TV?

Yo, Nate, long time no speak! So, first books, now TV? Let’s catch up soon, dude!

And my personal favorite, which makes me want to strangle myself with my phone charger: Hi Nate.I saw you doing karaoke on that late night show. Just wanted to tell you that I miss you, and if things don’t work out with the girl from karaoke, you know where to find me.

And this is just a sample.

I frantically google “The Tonight Show last night” and find Questlove’s Kazoo Karaoke Bomb segment from just hours ago readily available on YouTube. I click on it. It has forty-five thousand views already.

Well.

I suppose objectively, it’s not so bad. CJ’s on fire—she’s really got that whole hot librarian thing down pat—and Questlove looks so damn cool, I’m sure the kazoo will end up trending worldwide. Then there’s me. I’m singing. And—yikes—attempting to dance.

Breathe, Nate.

And yup, there it is. She lays a fat smooch right on my mouth for the whole world to see.

It’s fine. I mean, right? It’s fine. I’m sure it’ll be old news by tomorrow.

In fact, it’s so not a big deal that I don’t even give it a second thought as I shower and get myself dressed for Thanksgiving. I continue to ignore the steady stream of text messages from people I haven’t seen or spoken to in forever as I make my way to the NJ Transit train into New Jersey. I switch the phone from vibrate to silent, just because I can’t with all the buzzing.

It’s only once I’m settled into a seat on the train that I extract the phone from my pocket and see that I’ve got a mildly disconcerting email.

From Dillon Norway.

On Thanksgiving.

Dear Nate, it reads. I would like to schedule a Zoom meeting with you for this coming Monday at noon. The matter is urgent. The link is below. Please confirm your attendance. Best, Dillon Norway.

I write him back, because I can’t not respond.

Happy Thanksgiving, Dillon,I write. Can you please tell me what this is in reference to?

I close my eyes and lean my head back into the seat headrest. The ticket agent comes by and scans the ticket on my phone, and I notice that I’m clutching it so hard my knuckles are turning white.

A few stops later, Dillon responds. It has been brought to myattention that you have been intimately involved with a student in the program. Unfortunately, now is not the time or place for me to discuss this further, so I respectfully request that you hold any rebuttal until Monday atnoon. Thank you.

Fuuuck.

My knee-jerk reaction is to call CJ, but I realize I don’t have her phone number. I do have her email address though, thanks to her being in my workshop. So I forward her the email thread, along with a one-liner: Is your phone blowing up today after our impromptu karaoke session last night?

I hit Send and hope she’ll get back to me ASAP.

This is not good,I say over and over in my head as I watch the buildings pass by out the window of the train. It becomes a mantra of sorts. Not good, not good, not good.

I rewatch the bit on Fallon a few more times, letting the stress wash over me. Sometimes, when I get really overwhelmed, I just sink into negativity like quicksand. I feel actual weight on my shoulders, as if gravity placed a sumo wrestler on my back and told me to carry it around. It’s a new thing for me, dating back only a few years. My doctor has suggested therapy. He says, “Nate, success does not come without an emotional price tag,” but so far, I’ve become very good at avoiding and procrastinating making time for my personal well-being.

What? I’m on deadline.

I’m pulled up momentarily by the arrival of a new email.

Hi!

Happy Thanksgiving.

Yes, my phone’s been buzzing off the hook. Shit, I don’t like the sound of that email from Dillon Norway at all. I’m sure it’ll all blow over if we just explain what happened though, right? I’maround if you want to talk.

My number is (917) 558-0607. Feel free to call or text if that’s easier than email.

Sincerely,

Cecily

Panic is a funny thing. It makes my heart beat at the speed of light, makes me sweat, and causes me to be impulsive. I’ve got her number, so that means I’m calling her. Right. Now.

It rings only once before she picks up. “Hello?” CJ sounds cheerful. I mean, she’s always cheerful, but something about even just this single word I find surprisingly soothing.

“Hey. It’s Nate.”

“Hi. I was wondering what this number was. Good thing you identified yourself right away. I once blocked my doctor when she called me from rounds at the hospital with results from a Pap smear. She spoke so quickly I couldn’t understand what she said, and there was noise in the background, so I was like, ‘Nope! Must be spam!’ and I hung up on her. I mean, not that you need to hear about my Pap smears or anything. Which are fine, by the way. I’m perfectly healthy in my downstairs. Wow. I’m sorry. This call is off to a rocky start, huh? My bad. So…uh…how’s it going?” She giggles nervously.

Even with what appears to be thousands of milligrams of caffeine lighting up her voice, I can tell my blood pressure is dropping. It’s fine. Everything will be totally fine, I reassure myself. “Hi,” I reply. “Did you have a hangover today?”

“No, thankfully. I think the latte helped. How about you?”

“I didn’t really drink last night,” I remind her.

“Oh, right,” she says. “Well, have you started drinking yet today? Because that email sounded pretty scary.”

She’s trying to keep it light, which I appreciate, although I really don’t think she understands the gravity of the situation here. “He wasn’t exactly writing to wish me a happy Thanksgiving,” I say. “And I’m not going to lie, I’m definitely freaking out a little.”

“I’m sorry, Nate. I’m sure I can just tell him that it was a mistake. He’s my mentor, remember?”

“I remember.”

“So I’ll just explain what happened. No biggie. Don’t even sweat it. Dillon Norway is one of the kindest, most reasonable people I’ve ever met.”

“You sound pretty sure of yourself.”

“I’m just saying! I know he’ll listen to reason. I’ll just explain that it’s his fault, actually. He’s the one who told me to get out there into the literary scene and take the world by storm, or whatever his advice was. So I did that! And if it ended up with me drinking a little too much and dragging you up onstage and forcing you to sing with me, then that’s on him.”

“And the kissing? Was that his fault too?”

“I mean, technically? Yeah, I think so. He never told me about wine consumption and book talks. He assumed that I would be some kind of connoisseur, which, I mean, I can’t blame him. I do look very posh and chic and all that, but he could have at least said something.”

“And what would you have had him say exactly? Hey, Cecily, go out and find book events but sip your wine very slowly so you don’t end up trying to tongue down your professor?” The guy across from me on the train gives me a look. I shift my body to face the window and lower my voice.

“You’re not my professor.”

“I was your professor!”

“For one workshop, like, months ago. It’s not like you’re my mentor or anything.”

“Yes, CJ, I know. I wasn’t up to your standards for mentorship. Please, kick a man while he’s down.”

“What? Did you want to be my mentor?”

I sigh. So much for my blood pressure. “I wouldn’t have been against it,” I reply.

“Oh,” she says. “Well, I didn’t know that.”

“I told you I thought your work was good.”

“Yeah, but you were sick when you said it. I thought you were just being nice.”

“For the record, I’m never nice.”

“Okay, Scrooge McDuck. Calm yourself. You’re extremely nice. Anyway, mentor stuff aside, it was one night. One kiss. Onstage with Ahmir ‘Questlove’ Thompson, so obviously for dramatic effect, right? Dillon Norway is a good and rational human. He will understand. I’ll talk to him.”

“No, that’s okay. I’ll just wait until the Zoom thing on Monday.”

“Pen, it’s fine. I’ll shoot him an email and explain what happened. We talk all the time. It’s really no sweat.”

“I don’t know if it’s a good idea.” My stomach turns a little. I look up; I’m at Rahway. Two stops left.

“Don’t try and fight me. He likes me. I mean, at least I think he does. He always reads my extra pages.”

“Listen, I’ve got to run. My train is pulling in momentarily, and my dad is picking me up at the station. Bad enough they’ve got the Fallon bit on DVR. Can we please discuss this tomorrow?”

“Sure thing,” she says. “I really am sorry. I can tell you’re mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

“You’re worked up.”

“A little, but not mad. It’s fine.”

“I hope this doesn’t ruin your Thanksgiving.”

“It won’t. Don’t worry. I’m good.”

“Okay. You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“It wasn’t even a big deal.”

“I know.”

“But I’m still sorry.”

“Stop. We’re fine. We’ll talk tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Happy Thanksgiving, CJ.”

“You too, Pen.”

It’s true what I told her. I’m not mad. I’m upset, but more at the idea that it would be a problem if we had kissed on purpose and people found out, because we’re, like, two years apart in age, and we’re both consenting adults. The sound of her last sentence reverberates in my brain. You too, Pen. I like that stupid nickname, damn it. And I don’t like lots of things.

My train pulls into the Woodbridge station, and I walk to the door, steadying myself. The sun is shining, but I can feel the cold trying to push its way through. I get out onto the platform and immediately head toward the front car, knowing exactly where Dad will be waiting. It’s like muscle memory; I don’t even need to think consciously about the moves I make. My body just knows where to take me.

My parents moved to Woodbridge when I graduated from high school. I grew up in the city, on 88th and Amsterdam, not far from where I live now. Dad worked for Memorial Sloan Kettering in the accounting department, and my mom was a commercial actress—meaning an actress who specialized in commercials. Before I was born, she’d star in advertisements for department stores, mostly Macy’s and Nordstrom. Then, after she had me, she really thrived in the laundry circuit. She became “the Tide Lady” for about four years, and that included print ads as well as TV spots, before she moved on to Dreft and, finally, All. She must have really given off that I can’t wait to wash other people’s underwear vibe. When my sister, Katie, and I were teenagers, Mom used to complain that the industry was really shifting to the online market, and the pay wasn’t great for the work she was getting, so she wanted to move out of the city and learn how to garden. My dad—a workaholic who swore he’d never retire—agreed that once I graduated from Regis (a pretty big deal Jesuit high school in Manhattan boasting alumni such as SNL writer Colin Jost and COVID master Anthony Fauci), he’d be willing to move to Jersey, land of Wawa gas stations and no left turns.

I was not thrilled.

I decided to go to NYU for my undergrad, and because we were still just a commute away, my father and I took the train into the city together most days. Katie, who’s twenty months older than me, was attending school in Philly; my folks’ move to Woodbridge gave her a reason to ask for a car, so she was psyched. She ended up moving in with my parents once she graduated. You know, like most kids do, to try and figure out her life now that she had a bachelor’s degree in communications, one of the most vague fields out there. She celebrated this degree by working at Applebee’s, where she met a guy who promptly knocked her up and then “agreed” to marry her, real romantic-like. They lived in my parents’ finished basement with my niece, Lila.

Rent free. For four years.

True to her word, my mother was doing her gardening thing. She excelled at it, really. She joined a gardening club and worked on town beautification projects and at farmers markets on the weekends. My father continued to work in the city—until a few days shy of Lila’s fourth birthday, when he had his heart attack. They called it “the big scare,” because evidently it could have been much worse. He was fifty-eight but had made more than enough money to retire. So my mom convinced him. Dad liked the warm weather, so they bought a condo in Florida, and they gave their house in Woodbridge to Katie, Johnny, and Lila, with the caveat that if they ever wanted to come back and visit, the basement would be available for them to stay in as a guest space.

And now we have Thanksgiving here every year. Just my parents, my sister, her husband, Lila, and me.

As I’m sure you can imagine, my brother-in-law is not exactly a go-getter. He’s an assistant manager at a Dollar General, and Katie runs the after-school program at Tyler Avenue Elementary School. (How’d she get there with a communications degree, you wonder? Hell if I know.) Lila’s twelve now, and she’s becoming a bit of a handful, according to my sister. Don’t get me wrong; I love my family, but we just don’t have all that much in common. Katie’s more concerned with my relationship status than with anything I’ve done professionally, and Johnny just likes to have another guy around to watch football with (or maybe just someone to drink beer with). When Work took off, they didn’t come to any of the events or signings—although Katie said that if I did anything in Woodbridge, she’d show up for it (that’s right, folks—Woodbridge, New Jersey, a.k.a. the literary capital of the world)—and when the film comes out, they said they’d watch it on Netflix. I never heard another word about it. Family is funny like that, I think. I’m pretty sure Katie and Johnny don’t even own a copy of the book.

I’m not bitter about it though. Really. It’s actually kind of refreshing to have a handful of people who just see me as Nate, with zero pressure attached.

My parents are a different story. I am definitely a combination of the two of them: creative like my mom, strong work ethic like my dad. We get along well, except now that I’m a name (some) people have heard of, my mom is forever trying to pretend she’s my publicist. She was bragging about an interview I did with Time magazine while in line at the grocery store, and she made the lady who she was talking to open up her phone and buy my book on Amazon right there on the spot. When she recounted the story to me later that night on FaceTime, she was all giddy and kept saying, “ABC! Always be closing!” while I made a mental note that if any hate mail comes in from a woman in Florida, that’s just the fallout from my mother’s trip to buy chicken cutlets at Publix.

My father, meanwhile, has found his new passion for life on the golf course. He gets out there at least five days a week, and I think he believes it’s his new job. He now likens everything to golf, which is interesting at best and a real stretch at worst.

So when I get to the car (to be clear, this is Johnny’s car, a sputtering Camaro from the 1990s with a rust-lined undercarriage that has easily 150,000 miles on it—“I’m restoring it,” Johnny insists), it’s no surprise that the first words out of my dad’s mouth are, “Hiya, son. Sorry I had to pick you up in this old thing. Makes my cart look good by comparison.”

Because yes, of course he owns his own golf cart.

We drive back to the house, and he asks how the new book is coming along. I tell him the truth—it’s hard work and I’ve pushed back the deadline a few times—to which he responds, “Just like the great Lee Trevino once said: ‘Putts get real difficult the day they hand out the money.’”

“Yup,” I say.

“What about this singing competition on TV? Was it like some new version of The Voice or something?”

“God, Dad, no.”

“Well, forgive me. Every time your mother looks at it, she cheers so damn loud that I can’t hear over her.”

I laugh. “That sounds about right. It wasn’t a singing competition. It was just a bit where someone from The Tonight Show goes out to do stuff among unsuspecting regular people. In this case, karaoke,” I add.

“I didn’t know you were a big singer,” he says.

“I’m not.”

“I also didn’t know you have a girlfriend. I think that’s the part your mother is most excited about.”

“Oh. That. Well, she’ll have to calm down. That’s just CJ. It’s complicated.”

“Like putting from the rough.”

“Yeah, Dad. You took the words right out of my mouth.” I shake my head.

Thankfully (or not, depending on how you look at it), we’re at the house. Dad opens the front door, and I’m overcome with the scent of home cooking. My mother is in her full glory, with an apron on (I can say with absolute confidence that Katie has never worn an apron, as the self-proclaimed queen of Taco Bell), her hair pulled back, and red and gold oven mitts that intentionally resemble the hands in Iron Man. She shrieks when she sees me. “Nate the Great!” she yelps, setting down a large Pyrex dish and power walking over to give me a hug.

“Hey, Mom. Smells delish in here.”

“Honey, I am so sorry. If we had known that you were seeing someone, we would absolutely have invited her to dinner! Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Wow, waste no time.” I chuckle under my breath. “I’m not, Mom. You’re fine.”

“But we saw you on the television! She is lovely, Nathan.”

“There’s a lot to unpack there, Mom, but the gist is that we are not a thing. Very sorry to disappoint you.”

“I saw the way she looked at you,” my mother insists.

“Hey, little bro,” Katie says, wiping her hands on her jeans as she comes out of the bathroom down the hall.

“Thank God,” I reply. “What’s up, Kay? Good to see you.” I give her a hug.

“Mom giving you shit for working those pipes on Fallon?”

“I am not giving him shit!” Mom contests.

“Tell us about that chick you were with,” Katie continues. “Spicy little number, huh?”

“Sweet Jesus,” I reply, rolling my eyes.

“I’d do her!” Johnny calls out from in front of the seventy-inch TV screen in the living room. Not even so much as a hello out of him. Heaven forbid he tried a greeting before laying claim to a female who’s not my sister.

“Hey, Uncle Nate,” Lila says, having emerged from her bedroom. She gives me a weak hug. “Don’t listen to them. I thought the whole thing was pretty embarrassing for you. I mean, what even was that song?”

This is it, you guys. This delightful scene is my Thanksgiving.

I suffer through it for the next three hours, during which my mother only makes us rewatch the segment on the DVR twice (because once was not enough). I stress eat two overloaded plates of turkey, stuffing, candied yams, homemade applesauce, and green bean casserole, along with a small slice of each of three different pies (apple, pumpkin, and pecan). By the time I’m done gorging myself, I feel so full that there’s no space left for anyone’s comments inside me. I power nap in my dad’s old recliner while Johnny screams at the New York Giants with the gusto of a man who actually believes they can hear him. The screaming makes it so that I can’t fully fall asleep, but that’s just par for the course (to borrow a term from my dad), when sure enough, on the screen, the camera cuts to none other than—Seriously? Why?—Questlove.

“Lots of celebs here today,” says the announcer. “There’s Questlove and his lovely girlfriend. Oh, did you see his Kazoo Karaoke Bomb last night on The Tonight Show? It was classic.”

The other sportscaster replies, “Did you know that guy up there was the guy who wrote Work?”

“Oh yeah?” announcer number one says.

“True story,” announcer number two says. “He should stick to writing, if you know what I mean,” he adds with a hearty chortle.

The trio on the couch (Johnny, Dad, and Katie) look at me. “Oh!” Johnny cries. “Sick burn, man!”

And that is my cue to leave.

I pull up the schedule for New Jersey Transit on my phone. Trains are running once an hour, and the next one’s in thirty-five minutes. I get up and hit the head, then pop into the kitchen and tell Mom I should get going. She hastily dries her hands off on a dish towel and gives me a big hug. “Next time, you bring her,” she whispers in my ear. Then she summons my father to take me to the station. By the time he gets himself together and we arrive, I’ve got ten minutes to get up on the platform. We shake hands and he wishes me luck with my deadline, telling me to “be the ball,” not that I have any idea what he’s talking about.

By the time I get back on the train, which is thankfully mostly empty, I sink into a seat and exhale deeply. Something about visiting with my family takes a lot out of me. I pull out my phone and check it. Only a handful of new texts, and it’s mostly just more of the same nonsense from earlier, except for one new text from CJ from a little over an hour ago.

Hey,the text reads, just checking on you. I hope your dinner is going okay and that your family didn’t upset you even more.

I consider my response, then begin typing. It was fine. On the train home now. Hope your holiday is going well also.

No more than thirty seconds pass when the phone vibrates again.

It’s been a crazy evening. I’ll be leaving soon. Can I call you when I get out of here?

Sure,I reply.

I proceed to spend the next twenty minutes going through my old emails from back when I was hired by Matthias. I remember receiving a personnel handbook. I never read it, of course. But I think I still have it, so I do a search. After rereading several onboarding emails, I finally find the one from HR. I download the handbook to my phone and comb through the table of contents. Page thirty-three: Personal Relationships in the Workplace. I scan through it, as the entire beginning is all about familial relationships and nepotism. Then I get to the section about Intimate Consensual Relationships.

It reads as follows:

Intimate consensual relationships between faculty members and students can create an imbalance of power in an academic setting, resulting in an elevated risk for the University’s mission of fairness and equality to be undermined. As a result, such relationships are strictly prohibited. (This does not apply to relationships between faculty members. For more information, see page 45.)

There may be instances where a faculty member has a preexisting intimate relationship with a student. While this is a manageable risk throughout the University as a whole, such student may not enroll in the program where the faculty member is employed. (Ex. A student of Theater Arts may not enroll in the Theater Arts program if his/her intimate partner is a Theater Arts faculty member.)

If a faculty member is married to a student, this relationship must be disclosed to the Director of the program in which the faculty member works. The Director may then use his/her discretion to determine if the married student can participate in the program; however, under no circumstances will the student be permitted to be placed in a grade-bearing workshop/class or receive formal mentorship from his/her spouse. These special circumstances are evaluated on a case-by-case basis.

Well, shit.

I get to Penn Station and transfer to the Uptown 1 train, which I take to the 86th Street station. Once I emerge from the city’s underbelly, my phone goes off, letting me know I have a voicemail message. I listen to it in the elevator.

“Hi, Nate, it’s Cecily. I was just calling, well, because I said I’d call. I guess if you get this and want to call back, you have my number. Okay. Talk to you soon. Maybe. Bye.”

Once inside my apartment, I kick off my shoes, go to the bathroom, and then change into sweatpants. I’m reclined on the couch when I call back.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hey. Sorry I missed your call. I was on the train and it went underground.”

“No worries. How was your dinner?”

“Well, let’s see. My mother was upset that I didn’t bring you to the holiday meal, so there’s that.”

“Ha!” she exclaims and then begins coughing heavily, as if she just choked on her own spit. When she composes herself, she asks, “Seriously?”

“Yup. And then, not sure if you were watching the Giants game, but the announcers basically said my singing was crap, so that was a fun blow to my ego.”

“What?”

“Yeah. Evidently, I did something in a former life to deserve the karma of public humiliation, so Questlove took his lady friend to the Giants game for Thanksgiving, and the announcers commented on my lack of vocal ability. It was great. My brother-in-law thought it was the most hilarious thing he ever heard in his life. This is a man who has been freeloading off my parents and my sister for the past twelve years, so really, an opinion I respect.”

“Jeez, Pen. That’s rough.”

“Just a snapshot of my life at the moment. Ups and downs, right? Just riding this wave until it crashes me headfirst into a brick wall. Which may happen sooner rather than later, it turns out.”

“Really? How’s that?”

“Oh, I’ll tell you in a minute. First, tell me, how was your holiday celebration?”

“Well, you remember how I mentioned in your seminar about my sister marrying my ex-boyfriend?”

“Yeah.”

“They’re pregnant.”

“Ouch.”

“With triplets.”

“Triplets? Really?”

“Yup. It wasn’t enough for them to procreate. They had to do it three times as efficiently.”

“Wow.”

“They’re not the only ones. My older sister Melanie is also pregnant, but only with one. This is also brand-new information. It was really something. So we’re all at the table, and Jamie gets up and is all, ‘We have some exciting news,’ with a smirk on her face. I brace myself, because this is not a surprise. They’ve been married for a little under a year now, so if they hadn’t started to procreate, my mother would have staged a fertility intervention.”

“What’s a fertility intervention?” I wonder.

“Basically, she drops off salmon and avocados at your house every day until you get knocked up. Also, she’ll make you wear the necklace.”

“Do share.”

“She has a gold necklace with a medal on it that has a picture of Aphrodite. It looks sort of like a penny, but with a woman on it instead of Abraham Lincoln. Anyway, Aphrodite is the Greek goddess of fertility. She bought the necklace when my oldest sister, Anna, had a tough time getting pregnant, but to be fair, Anna had only been trying for two months. She wore the necklace throughout the third month and boom—baby central.”

“Are you guys Greek?”

“We are not,” Cecily laughs.

“Does your mother not believe in mercury poisoning?”

“Apparently, no. And believe me, nothing is more awkward than having a freezer full of salmon you can’t figure out what to do with after eating it for a few days in a row. Anna told me she felt like she should be living in Alaska instead of northern Queens.”

I snicker. “Okay, so go on with the story.”

“Right. So Jamie says she’s got big news, and I brace myself, because, I mean, it still stings a little bit, seeing them together, you know? Anyway, she spills the beans, and everyone’s really happy and congratulatory, except for Melanie, who bursts into tears and runs to the bathroom. So Jeff—he’s Melanie’s husband—follows her, and Jamie’s all confused, and my mother’s about to pass out from the joy of three impending grandchildren. Finally, Jeff and Melanie come back to the table, and Mel says she’s pregnant too, but there’s only one fetus taking up residence in her womb, so now she feels like a failure.”

“That’s insane.”

“Oh, believe me, I know! To recap: Anna and Cody have four kids. Melanie and Jeff are pregnant with their third. Jamie’s got triplets in the oven. And my mother, who I’m sure is thinking she’ll need a bigger house just for the holiday gatherings alone, gives me a sidelong glance like she’s counting my eggs and says that it would have been nice if I told her I had a boyfriend. So I’m like, ‘Boyfriend? What’s this about?’ and she said that I shouldn’t go around kissing people on TV if they’re not my boyfriend.”

“I think your mother and my mother would get along really well,” I laugh.

“Sounds that way,” she says.

“But other than that, nobody gave you a hard time about the karaoke?” I ask.

“No, but only because they expect these types of antics from me. I’ll always disappoint them, if for no other reason than I’m not racing down the aisle and popping out grandbabies. I’m pretty sure my mother looks at me and wonders, Where’d I go wrong with that one?”

“Well, happy Thanksgiving.”

“Seriously. Okay, so now you’ve heard my saga. Tell me about this brick wall you’re about to crash into.”

“Fine.” I sigh. “Here goes. First of all, we really shouldn’t even be talking on the phone.”

“What? Why?”

“You know the email from Dillon?”

“Yeah.”

“It sounded very much like he was insinuating that I was about to get charged with sexual harassment or something. So I looked in the personnel handbook for Matthias University, just to see if my job is in danger. Unfortunately, it turns out that yes, I am absolutely going to be fired.”

“Stop it. No, you’re not.”

“Hang on. I’m texting you a screenshot.” I press a series of buttons and wait for her to respond.

“Got it. Sorry, my phone’s taking a sec. I’m opening it. Let me just put you on speaker. What exactly am I looking at here?”

“That’s the policy on intimate consensual relationships.”

“But we’re not in an intimate consensual relationship,” she argues.

“You’re right. Only, according to Dillon, we are. He said in his email, ‘It has been brought to my attention that you have been intimately involved with a student in the program.’”

“So I think the real question is who brought this to his attention?”

“CJ, it’s all over the internet. I’m sure Dillon Norway doesn’t live under a rock.”

“Fine. I guess that’s fair. But it was just a stupid kiss!”

“I know. And I know it wasn’t some intentional ploy to destroy my teaching career. But I’m sure Dillon’s job is to look out for the university, and if he sees me as a risk in any way, he’s definitely going to get rid of me. This has the potential to be a big scandal. Teacher-student interrelations have a terrible connotation attached to them—even if the student is basically the same age as the teacher and they’re both in their thirties.”

“I’m still twenty-nine,” she corrects me. “At least for a few more weeks.”

“Still. This is the age of Me Too, and believe me, I’m the last person who would intentionally get caught up in anything that could be misperceived. People know me. I’m sure there are people out there who would love to see me suffer. You get that, right?”

She sighs, and I find myself feeling bad for her, even though I’m the one who’s going to get canned come Monday at noon. “Like that awful bitch, Professor Devereaux,” she says.

“Exactly.”

“So let me get this straight. Not only are we concerned about your job, but we’re also concerned about what this could do to your writing career because even just the word scandal is basically a quick way to get you canceled.”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

Here, she stills for a beat. Finally, she whispers, “Damn.”

We’re both quiet on the line now. Images of Block Island run through my mind. I enjoyed it there, I think. It really jump-started my writing again.

I’ll be sad to lose it.

“You still there?” she asks.

“I’m here. Sorry. I was just thinking.”

“Thinking what?”

I inhale deeply. “When I took the job at Matthias, it was just so I could hide out, you know? Run from my deadline and all that. But it really helped me, being on the island. I started writing again. It just sucks. I’ll have to resign. And I should probably give my agent a call. Figure out how to minimize the fallout from all this.”

“Wait.”

“My editor is going to be so pissed. You know, it’s funny. I’m actually kind of surprised I haven’t heard from either of them about this yet.”

“Nate.”

“Especially my publicist, Marissa. She’s so tapped into social media and anything that could ultimately be turned into a GIF, it’s insane.”

“Nate!”

I stop. “What?”

“I think I have a solution.”

“CJ, I wish there was a solution, but it’s pretty obvious that at this point, I need to pivot to damage control.”

“No! You’re wrong. Hear me out.”

“Okay,” I say, sensing a combination of urgency, guilt, and sadness in her voice. “Go ahead.”

“I think we should get married.”

“What? Are you nuts?” Did she really just say that?

“I’m serious. Read the thing! It says, ‘If a faculty member is married to a student, this relationship must be disclosed to the Director of the program in which the faculty member works. The Director may use his/her discretion to determine if the married student can participate in the program; however, under no circumstances will the student be permitted to be placed in a grade-bearing workshop/class or receive formal mentorship from his/her spouse. These special circumstances are evaluated on a case-by-case basis.’ So all we have to do is get married and then beg Dillon Norway to let you stay!”

“Do you hear yourself right now? All we have to do is get married?” She’s crazy. I mean, it’s sweet, but also definitely not a choice.

“I mean, I don’t know your stance on marriage, but I can tell you that I personally don’t really care all that much. My goals include getting an agent and publishing a book. I want to be an author. I’m sure I’ll have relationships, and one day I might wind up married, but that’s not my number-one priority right now. So it really wouldn’t be any skin off my back.”

“CJ, I have never met a woman who didn’t at least secretly fantasize about a big wedding with a fancy white dress like what you read about in fairy tales.”

“Well, now you have,” she retorts. “What about you? Are you one of those horse-and-carriage white-knight Cinderella grooms?”

“Um, no. But I’d be lying if I said I’ve never thought about getting married.”

“And?”

“And nothing. I really don’t care much about the wedding itself; I care about the woman and the whole idea of, you know, forever. But yeah, I’d say it’s on my in-my-lifetime to-do list.”

“Just not right now.”

“Exactly.”

“So then it wouldn’t massively alter the trajectory of your future either if you think about it. Figure we can at least try. Worse comes to worst, we can get it annulled.”

I take a breath. She’s serious. She would actually do this.

“Okay, let’s say we were crazy enough to go down this road. What would be the brilliant story we’d tell? Because once we disclose it to Dillon, we’ll have to disclose to the entire school.”

“First of all, I don’t think the whole school is going to really care about the particulars of the story. But fine. We are creative writers, correct?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“So let’s create ourselves a story.”

“Like once upon a time?”

“Exactly. I’ll start.” She clears her throat. “Once upon a time, there was a girl who wanted to write books. She was a children’s librarian and wanted nothing more than to become a real-life author. Your turn.”

I can’t help but smile. “This is ridiculous.”

“I know. But play with me anyway. Go ahead.”

“Fine. Let’s see.” I think for a few seconds. “The girl was fascinated by the literary world, so she…” My voice trails off.

“So she read everything. If it was critically acclaimed, she read it. If it won a Pushcart Prize or a PEN Award, she read it.”

“One day, she met this guy in a bar. He said he wrote a book that was going to be published, but—”

“But she thought he was full of it, like, that he had zero game and was just trying to flirt with her—badly.”

“Wow. Why does he have to have no game?” I ask.

“Just trust me. It’s more believable this way.”

“We’re only a minute into this exercise, and already it’s becoming hurtful,” I laugh.

“Focus up. Okay. So even though she doesn’t believe that he’s got this book coming out or whatever, she still lets him take her on a few dates. They hit it off surprisingly well. But then…”

“Oh! That’s easy. Then the book does come out, and the girl’s eating her words realizing that this guy’s the real deal, and then the whole world gets shut down because of COVID.”

“Yesss! She comes from this big family in Queens, and they won’t let her out of their quarantine pod.”

“And he’s stuck in Manhattan, where no one wants to be.”

“Did you actually live in Manhattan during quarantine?”

“I did,” I say. “But that was before I had any money. I was sharing a rental with two other guys in East Harlem. It wasn’t terrible, because when COVID hit, one of them went home to live with his parents in Connecticut, and the other one moved in with his girlfriend in Dumbo. So I was there by myself for the most part. But once the book blew up, I moved to my current apartment on the West Side, which I got for way cheaper than it’s worth because everyone wanted to escape the city.”

“Weren’t you lonely?”

“Yeah, I was. But I worked from home. And I read a lot. Oh! And I taught myself how to cook.”

“Really?”

“Uh-huh. I was very taken by the whole bread-baking thing.”

“That’s funny. I can’t picture that.”

“Well, maybe someday I’ll let you try my rosemary-garlic bread. It’s killer.” We pause, and I’m dumbfounded by how easy it is to talk to her. I wonder if she’s thinking the same thing.

“Okay,” she continues. “Where were we?”

“COVID quarantines.”

“Right. So yeah. They can’t see each other because of quarantine.”

“He wants to see her though.”

“Of course he does. She wants to see him too, but her family is overbearing and won’t allow someone who lives in Manhattan to come in their house.”

“Before too long, he gets really busy because of the book, so they lose touch.”

“Yes,” she agrees. “And then he gets all famous, so the girl assumes that he’ll never want to speak to her again. That ship has sailed, she decides.”

“But she’s wrong. He’s just so busy. And then, too much time passes, and he feels weird reaching back out to her.”

“But then she starts her master’s program.”

“Exactly.”

“And they can’t help but rekindle what they once had.”

“Not right away though,” I add. “Because that would get me in trouble.”

“Right. So no, not right away. The girl is surprised to see that he’s a professor at her school and even more surprised to see that he’s her professor for workshop.”

“Yes, yes. They haven’t seen each other in years, and it’s weird, them being in the same workshop.”

“It’s also like fate.”

“Ooh. I like that.”

“And fate again when they end up stuck in the hallway together at the infirmary,” CJ adds.

“Yup,” I agree.

There’s another break in the action. I can’t help but notice my pulse racing. It must be adrenaline. This is a lot to take in. Also, what if we get caught? I consider this. The thing is, it doesn’t feel like we could really get caught. It sounds like an extremely believable story. “So the girl pursues the guy, because she doesn’t know about the rules as they are clearly stated in the university’s personnel handbook—but since he knows, he decides to propose to her.”

“Why would he propose though? That seems extreme,” she says.

“Maybe he doesn’t want to risk losing her again.”

“Hm. That could be.”

“And he knows he’s not allowed to just date her.”

“And he doesn’t want to waste two more years waiting.”

“That’s right,” I say. “He loves this job, but he also loves this girl, so he wants to have his cake and eat it too, and this is the only way to do it.”

“Assuming his director approves.”

“Correct.”

“Why wouldn’t he just ask first then?”

I toss her question around in my mind. “Because if the pandemic has taught him anything, it’s that life is meant to be lived. And she’s important to him. Definitely as important as the job, but if he’s willing to marry her, you’d think more.”

“So when do they actually tie the knot?”

“I’m not sure.”

“I think maybe they do it over Thanksgiving weekend,” she says.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. Think about it. Maybe he asks on Thanksgiving Eve, which is why they’re out celebrating, and then on Thanksgiving Day, they tell their families, and on Black Friday, they get the marriage license, and the wedding is Saturday.”

“CJ. Are you listening to yourself?”

“What?”

“That’s this weekend.”

“I know,” she says, only her voice sounds quieter now, as if maybe she didn’t actually realize what she was suggesting.

“So to be clear, you’re saying we should get married this weekend.” My chest is pounding saying these words aloud. I sound like such an idiot right now.

She says nothing for a beat. Then she clears her throat and speaks. “Uh-huh. There’s just one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“You didn’t ask.”

“Huh?”

“Well, I think if we both agree to all this, then step one is you have to ask me.”

“You mean you want me to propose to you? Right now?” I cough in disbelief. “Over the phone?”

“Only if you think it’s a good idea,” she posits.

“And if I do, you’re saying we should go get a marriage license tomorrow?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Are they even open on Black Friday?”

“Everything’s open on Black Friday! Biggest shopping day of the year,” she exclaims.

“Who shops for a marriage license?” I ask. My voice sounds hysterical.

“It’s a joke, Pen. Relax,” she says. “Hang on one sec while I find out.” I wait as she types. “Snap,” she says. “It’s better than you’d think. They do it online now. It’s called NYC Project Cupid—and how’s this for irony? They’re offering it online because of the pandemic. It says that the project was created during COVID-19 so that people who still wished to get married could do so without endangering their own health or the health of others.”

“So doing it online—what does that entail?”

“You just fill out an application and they meet with you over the internet. Probably Zoom,” she says.

“That sounds remarkably simple.”

“See? It’s fate,” she says. “Just like in the story.”

“Huh,” I say, rendered basically speechless.

“I mean, unless you have other plans this weekend.”

“I don’t,” I admit. “Although getting married is not something you do because you don’t have other plans.”

“Typically,” she concedes. “But this is not a typical situation.”

“True,” I say.

“So…” The sound of CJ’s voice lingers in my ear. The muscles in my stomach clench tightly.

“So,” I reply. It’s a means to an end, Nate. She’s trying to help you, to give you an out. It’s really generous of her. And she’s owning the fact that the little stunt she pulled could destroy your reputation. She wants to fix it.

Let her fix it.

It’s all just fake anyway.

Plus, it’s not like you have any other options.

It’s just one little white lie.

Just take a deep breath and do it, Nate. You’re fine. You got this.

I inhale. “Are you sure about this?” I ask.

“I think so. I mean, I don’t really see any other way to make this whole thing go away. Also, I feel terrible. I never meant to do anything that could potentially hurt you. You and Dillon Norway are the only two people in the program who I actually like.”

“Okay.” I wipe my sweaty hands on my pants and take a deep breath. I blow it out, hard, and the question follows. “CJ Allerton, will you marry me?”

I feel like a complete tool. Those words sound ridiculous coming out of my mouth to this girl who, in reality, I barely even know.

But then she says, “I’d love to, Pen.”

And somehow, I instantly feel better.