Chapter Two
Mal
Malcolm Waters had been described in many ways: A dynamic new voice , the New York Times had proclaimed, following the publication of his debut novel, She Blooms at Dusk . Supremely gifted , his photography professor had said. A sweet kid , his mother still liked to say, even though he was thirty-two and very much a man now— Come on, Momma, Jesus. Brimming with talent, and yet completely lacking ambition , his ex-girlfriend, Portia, had said, shortly before permanently ending their tumultuous on-again, off-again decade-long
relationship.
An incredible idiot, Kieran of Kieran and Kelechi, programmer power couple and the only friends Mal got in the divorce, typed into the group chat.
Seriously. How does one get invited to an Adelman party and NOT PREPARE?
Be nice, babe, Kelechi responded. Mal’s just not used to being a big shot.
In Kieran’s defense, it was true that Mal had not prepared for the Adelman party, which was why he’d shown up at Kieran and Kelechi’s doorstep the day before with all of the formal wear he owned hanging over his shoulder and a stream of questions about which of his pieces qualified as cocktail or black tie falling off his tongue. And in Mal’s defense, he had not been expecting an invitation. His connection with the Adelmans was tenuous at best; his mother had retired from Knydus a few years ago and, back when his photography studio was still operational, he’d done a few promotional shoots for their associated charity. When he received the email from his literary agent, Amelia, informing him that the Adelmans had requested his address, his first concern was that he was being sued.
Instead, he had received a personalized invitation to Ezra Adelman’s birthday party from the one and only Renata Kovalenko.
Even in his discomfort, Mal could recognize the gravity of this event. The wealthiest and most important people in Chicago,
all gathered in the five thousand square feet of the Adelmans’ Gold Coast penthouse. He felt like he’d crawled through a closet
to Narnia, and that everyone on the other side wore Dior.
Kelechi: By the way, Mal, your read receipts are on. Put away your phone and go rub elbows. Also, if you do manage to get
an audience with THE Renata Kovalenko, please please pretty please get her autograph for me. Thank youuuuuuuuuuu.
I’ll do my best, Mal typed dispassionately. His (Kieran’s) jacket was too tight in the shoulders, and he rolled them back, dropping his head
against the sculpted wood walls of the Adelman penthouse atrium. He did not want to rub elbows. If Renata hadn’t personally
signed his invitation with Bravo on your beautiful novel! Would love to discuss further, xoxo , he probably wouldn’t have come to this party at all. But if he hadn’t, Amelia would track him down and roast him over an open fire. (This was not an exaggeration. She’d told him as much. “With adobo seasoning.”) By Amelia’s calculations, Renata was going to offer to buy film rights to She Blooms at Dusk , and, given the newness of her production company and the depth of the Kovalenko-Adelman coffers, the offer was sure to be
fuck-everybody-else huge.
As long as he didn’t muck things up.
But one hour in and he’d seen neither hide nor hair of Renata. At some point, exasperated, he’d asked a group of unnaturally
gorgeous women whether they’d seen the hostess, and they had tittered among themselves and said with at least an ounce of
derision, “Good luck.” Apparently, an audience with Renata was hard to get.
Which was how Mal found himself at the back of the room, nursing a glass of excellent Scotch, texting his friends, and trying
to determine how much longer he had to stick around before Amelia would cut him some slack and allow him to make a graceful
exit. He could feel his skin beginning to crawl, his discomfort coming through in his jostling legs and the whirlpool forming
in his glass. Eventually, after plucking a croquette from a passing waiter’s tray, he stepped away from the wall, crossed
the room, and wandered out into the hall. God, when had he become so useless? Not so long ago, he’d taken pride in being able
to meld into any group, anywhere, to find familiar ground among Kieran’s rugby friends, in Kelechi’s slam poetry groups. He’d
been the king of diffusing tension. When had he lost that ability and become “spineless,” as Portia had once said? Renata
Kovalenko might want to make his book into a freaking movie, and he could hardly stand to stick around long enough to start
the conversations that could turn that into a reality. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and he was fumbling the bag.
“Get your shit together,” Mal said under his breath. He remembered advice his therapist had first given him, when he’d realized that maybe his aversion to public spaces was more than run-of-the-mill introversion. It’s okay to find a space if you need it , he’d said. As long as you don’t let yourself sink into it.
Space. Space was certainly not lacking in this place. He’d already traversed the crowded first floor, but there was a stairwell
near the back that he’d seen only a few people ascend since his arrival. He propelled himself off the back wall, then power
walked down the hall.
A couple of guests were milling about upstairs, peering down on the party from a mezzanine balcony, and the reduced density
made it easier for him to breathe. The hallway just beyond was lined with dark wood doors, and he lingered, waiting to see
if someone would appear before letting himself into the first room on his right.
It was a bedroom, but not one that was regularly used, judging by its lack of personal effects. Mal lingered by the door for
a second, feeling (knowing) that he was trespassing, considering how he would explain himself if someone were to walk in after
him. But just this short moment of solitude was already doing wonders for loosening the band around his chest. He snapped
the door shut. Wiped his hands down his face. Sat on the edge of the perfectly made bed and inhaled, focusing on the top of
his head, his shoulders, his palms. Calm spread down his body like cool water. The image of a person materialized behind his
closed eyelids, hazy but tall, intimidatingly beautiful, and he practiced flashing them a smile.
“Hi. I’m Malcolm,” he said out loud, and, in his mind, the person responded. Despite appearances, they were warm, much more approachable than the guests beyond this room. They introduced themselves, expressed how much they loved his novel, and asked, Has anyone talked to you about potentially bringing it to a screen?
“There’s some interest,” he responded. “But we’re still looking for the right team for it, someone who will understand the
vision—”
The door opened and closed, so gently that, given a few more minutes, Mal might have dismissed the sound as a part of the
scene he’d concocted in his mind. But then someone cleared their throat, and it became apparent that he’d been caught.
A woman stared at him from the closed door, her eyebrows raised high. She grasped the doorknob behind her, as if she were
still deciding whether she intended to make a quick escape. But of course she was. She’d just happened upon a strange man
muttering to himself in a room that was very likely off-limits. If only he could cease to exist. Better yet, if only he’d
never been born.
Then, inexplicably, things got worse.
“What,” the woman said, her lips barely moving in shock, “are you doing in my room?”