Chapter Thirty-Seven
Me: Mario Kart?
Parker: Sorry, not tonight. Gotta get these press releases for SB in ASAP.
Parker: Can you do tomorrow?
Me: Can’t, Marisa is starting to pack up her place, and I promised to help.
Me: Friday?
Parker: Meeting with the Warriors team, but I’ll lyk if something changes.
I set my phone down on the kitchen counter and flip open my laptop twenty minutes after powering it down.
It wasn’t an exaggeration when I told Marisa there was no good time to have a talk with Parker.
From the second he set foot back on the West Coast, Venture had thrown him straight into the Super Bowl rush.
His name was already attached to several ad campaigns, and he was spending the better part of his days in meetings with brand executives.
I thought it’d be wise to make use of all the free time I suddenly had to ask Lindsay for more assignments.
Spending long hours editing someone else’s writing has the advantage of distracting me from writing something of my own, namely, a long and revealing text message that I’d most certainly regret.
The time-zone difference hasn’t been forgiving either; more than once, I’ve knocked out on the couch with my laptop open, only to wake the next morning to a missed call from Parker.
But sometimes, if time permits, I’ll boot up Mario Kart and find an invitation from him to meet in a lobby.
Not the gilded, marble-floored one of the St. Regis, but online.
In our last phone call, Parker had mentioned offhandedly that Venture wanted him back on the Warriors campaign now that he’s built a repertoire.
If it runs the duration of the NBA postseason, it will have him committed until summer.
And if, by some miracle, I get the editor position at Estelle’s new publication, then I’ll have to stay in New York for the launch, at the very least.
I want to be optimistic, but my programmed cynicism doesn’t make it easy.
It’s not as if I could ask him to give long distance a try.
If I bring it up and he doesn’t feel the same, then that’ll put a decisive end to any shot at a relationship.
Contrary to what Marisa believes, talking about it might not be the fix to all this.
The way things are now, all I have to worry about is ambiguity.
Well, at least we’ll always have Mario Kart.
As I’m checking my phone for the time—nine p.m. here, six in California—the screen flashes with an incoming call, and I accept right away.
“Hey,” comes Parker’s low and gruff voice. “I have some time before I have to jump on another call and wanted to check in.”
Now, three weeks isn’t a life-altering amount of time to be apart, but when you’re used to talking to someone every day, you become sharp to even the tiniest change. The first thing I notice is how tired he sounds. It tugs at my heart, but I make myself say, “Hey.”
“Have you heard from Estelle?”
“Two weeks without word.” I let out a long breath. “I think it’s safe to call it?”
“Don’t put that into the universe. You’re going to get the job.”
“So, I’m leaving it up to kismet now?”
“Don’t have to. Like I said, you’re going to get it.”
There’s that unshakable confidence again. It’s enough to tide me over, and for once, I don’t have that gut drop when I think about my interview with Alfreda. Over the line, I can hear Parker typing, but he pauses to stifle a yawn.
“Are you still at the office?”
“I am,” he says. “You’ll be pleased to know I got an air purifier here too.”
“Ah, a Gilbert Jr.”
“Let’s not call it that,” he returns, flatly. “Shit, sorry, Dani. I gotta go. My boss is already calling, and he needs to approve these press releases by tonight.”
Before Parker hangs up, he makes me swear to a Mario Kart session next weekend.
I remind him to sleep at a reasonable hour, aware that he’ll do exactly the opposite and that I won’t be taking my own advice either.
I finish the article Lindsay assigned me last Monday and open my emails to locate a fresh assignment.
It’s nearly two a.m. when I finally wash up and take my laptop to bed with me.
Waking the device, I type my password into the lock screen.
A single unread email is sitting in my inbox.
Dani,
Hope you’ve been keeping well. It’s seven in the morning in London, and I can’t stop thinking about the carne asada I had last time I was in New York. Once I’m back over there (won’t be long now), I’ll have to take another gander at your Excel sheet (you ought to get that copyrighted).
Alfreda had a chance to read your portfolio, and we had a proper chat about you.
She was especially touched by your article about being brought up by TV mums. I didn’t think it was possible, but you managed to squeeze a tear out of her soulless puppet shell!
Well done, love. You’ve absolutely smashed it!
With that said, I’d like to formally offer you the role of Associate Editor at From Venus.
That’s the name we’ve settled on—you know how it goes, men are from Mars and all that.
Let’s touch base next week. We’d love to have you on board by February so we can start putting our heads together for the debut issue.
Cheers, Estelle
The words don’t immediately sink in, but when they do, my heart races with excitement. I fumble around the bed for my phone, pulling up my call log to find the first person I want to share the good news with.
It rings and rings, but he doesn’t pick up.
Right, he said he’d be busy all night. I can wait until the morning to tell him.
I try not to feel disheartened as my eyes trace the empty space next to me.
Our sleepovers hadn’t lasted very long, but I’d grown used to Parker’s presence beside me in the middle of the night.
It’s strange that I hadn’t realized it before, but being with him felt a lot like being in his house in Silverpine. It felt like home.
Now I have to get used to life without him all over again.
Aware that I won’t be falling asleep soon, I swipe to the LINE app. Taiwan is thirteen hours ahead, so it’s not an inconvenient time to try calling. Plus, I’m still buzzing from Estelle’s email and need to talk to someone about it.
It rings twice before Mom’s face fills up the screen. “Dani!”
Her eyes glimmer under the sun. They’re still sharp and watchful like a cat’s, but time has etched fine lines at the corners, softening what I’d once found intimidating about her.
When I was a kid, everyone would tell me I had my mom’s eyes.
I used to think I resembled her, but looking at her now, I see someone I don’t really recognize. “Hi, Mom.”
“How is New York?” she asks in Mandarin.
“Good. Cold.” I’d say more, but my Chinese is rusty. Mom turns to speak to someone out of frame, and when she shifts the camera, I notice the terrain around her: jagged rock faces and dramatic cliffs, with endless blue ocean beyond them. “Where are you?”
“Amalfi!” Bursting into a spiel about beaches and fishes, she tells me animatedly about her desire to paint it all. I can’t understand much but draw context from the words I can pick out. Then, with a steadying breath, she shouts back in English, “I’m on my honeymoon!”
A lump forms in my throat. “You got married?”
She seems to read my shock and adds mercifully, “It was very sudden. We didn’t even have a real ceremony! Just dinner with friends after we signed the papers.”
“Wow. Even so, congratulations, Mom.”
“It’s no big deal. I didn’t want you to feel like you had to come all the way here,” she replies, waving a hand in the air. A diamond sparkles where the sun hits her ring finger. “Anyways, what did you call for?”
“It’s nothing,” I mutter so quietly, I can hardly hear myself. “It’s just been a while since we talked.”
“I miss you too, honey.” Joy breaks across her face in a wide, radiant smile just as the wind sweeps through her dark hair. It’s not a smile I’ve seen on her before, and all of it feels so foreign to me—the woman on my screen a familiar stranger.
I try to smile back, but it falters halfway. “I’ll let you go, then. Enjoy your honeymoon, Mom.”