Chapter Thirty-Eight
Three months later
“Estelle, I’m sending you another round of pitches.
We should narrow down our contributors by next week at the very latest.” My fingers move over the trackpad, clicking out of my inbox and back to the ongoing Zoom call.
The face on full screen makes me nearly jump out of my seat once I register that my boss is quite obviously glaring at me. “Is now not a good time?”
“You’re on holiday,” says Estelle sharply. She leans back into her leather upholstered chair, giving me room to breathe again. “You’re not supposed to be working.”
“I didn’t take PTO, so technically, I’m still on the clock, just three hours behind you.”
“When you asked to go home, I assumed you were taking time off. That’s why I approved it.” Red coffin nails tap irritably against the edge of her desk. “It certainly wasn’t an invitation to move your mad twelve-hour shifts from the office to your childhood bedroom.”
I throw an abashed glance at the Slam Dunk poster in plain view and the stuffed bear—a prize from the town fair eons ago—sitting prominently at the foot of my bed. Perhaps not the most professional setup, but I can’t use Dad’s home office while he’s also working.
“We just dropped our debut last week,” I remind Estelle. “We have momentum that we should be carrying into the next issue.”
“Do you know what I did after the launch party? I went home and spent two days catching up on Love Island and drinking a criminal amount of wine.” With a pensive look, she adds, “Working during leave is a violation of company policy. Must I write you up with HR?”
“Sure, you can address that to me, and I’ll handle it this afternoon,” I return with a grin. “Until you hire an HR department, Estelle, I’m your HR.”
For the last three months, I’ve devoted every conscious moment to the From Venus launch.
The team Estelle put together consisted of the two of us, Alfreda, a couple of staff writers, an art director, and an intern.
This meant I was editing and writing articles during the day and chasing down contributors at night, all while wearing the hats of an underqualified ad rep and office manager.
At some point, the days began to blur as I drifted from task to task.
I spent mornings in and out of meetings, skipped lunches to write in my office, and went to bed with my laptop fused to my wrists.
The next day, I’d wake up and start the same routine all over again.
Being busy is good, I’ve learned. It’s my preferred state. Once I lose myself in a creative flow, I don’t have time to waste refreshing my Instagram feed or wondering what’s going on in San Francisco. I’m far too occupied to spare a thought for all the things that lie beyond my control.
Not to mention, I like my job. I’m good at it.
Being thrust into a high-pressure, fast-paced role forced me to grow alongside the chaos.
Once our first issue went to the printer, I knew all the late nights had paid off and we had something to be proud of.
Hard to believe that half a year ago, I was almost willing to work for a pair of douchebags if it meant they’d fly me around Asia.
The other day, I picked up a copy of From Venus at a newsstand on Union Square just so I could see my name on the masthead.
That was far more rewarding than any paid vacation.
“I know you’re invaluable to the team. I’m not sure that Venus would’ve launched on time without you. But I draw the line at working on holiday.” Estelle is still glowering, eyes locking on the camera as if daring me to respond. “I’m not a monster. I’m not Alfreda.”
“But—”
“I won’t hear it.” She brushes me off with a flick off her wrist. “Before I forget, your friends from Adagio had a launch gift delivered to your office, a curious-looking plant, like a little palm tree with a braided trunk.”
“Must be a Pachira plant. They’re called money trees. They’re supposed to be lucky.” Tae-woo had one on his work desk. It makes me wonder if he had any part in picking out the gift, and the thought instantly makes my forehead crease. Maybe absence really does make the heart grow fonder.
“This as well.” Estelle reaches into the bottom drawer of her desk.
An elegant, dark green bottle with a ribbon around its neck comes into frame, supported by both her hands.
“Didn’t think it wise to leave a bottle of vintage Dom Pérignon unattended in your office, lest a sneaky intern or Alfreda find it. ”
I scratch at my chin. “Who would send me five-hundred-dollar champagne?”
She flips the card attached to the ribbon. “Parker Tran. Isn’t that your friend from the basketball game? Why would he send this here and not directly to you?”
“It’s been a couple weeks since we last spoke,” I admit. “He doesn’t know I’m not in New York.”
Something shifts in Estelle’s expression, a thought aligning.
The corner of her mouth dips ever so slightly.
“You know, Dani, I had my most productive year at Dénouement around the time I got divorced. I was promoted to senior editor by the spring and wrote an award-winning piece on gender politics.” She pauses and then says gently, “It won’t make you feel better to drown yourself in work. ”
I see where she’s going with this but refuse to bite. “Is it really drowning if you enjoy what you do?”
“Darling, it’s drowning if you don’t come up for air.” She lets that one marinate for a beat. “Right, then, you’re taking the rest of the week off. That’s an order.”
“You can’t do that.”
“I can do what I like. I’m your boss.”
“Alright, let me ask what HR thinks of that.” I suck in a breath, pretending to think. “They say no.”
“Dani, much as I adore you, you’re going to burn out at this rate, and I need you in one piece for the next issue,” she warns, her voice clipped, leaving no room for compromise.
“Be a dear and take a proper holiday, would you? I don’t know what one does in the Pacific Northwest, but having a good cry would be a start. God knows it helped me.”
Estelle crosses her arms, waiting for me to agree with her.
If I’ve learned anything from every heated exchange that ended with Alfreda storming out the office, it’s that Estelle Pearson gets what she wants.
I concede with a promise that I won’t touch work as long as I’m in Silverpine.
After I end the call, I make a list of all the tasks I’ll have to jump on next Monday and then find my phone underneath a stack of Post-it notes.
One missed call while I was talking to Estelle. From Parker. I quickly tap his name to call back, but my attempt goes to voicemail.
“Hey, you’ve reached Parker. Sorry I missed your call . . .”
The last time I caught him between meetings, he’d said April would be particularly packed, with the NBA playoffs starting and the NFL draft at the end of the month. I thought he’d finally get some downtime with the Super Bowl out of the way, but he hasn’t shown any signs of slowing down.
Either way, this game of phone tag has been going on for some time. Since when did it become so hard to check in with one another? Why are we so out of sync? We’d established such an easy rhythm in New York. Making time for one another felt so effortless because we both wanted it so badly.
Suddenly, I recall the conversation on our drive to the gorge, the methodical way Parker explained his past relationships: They all started the same way: I’d have feelings, until I didn’t.
Nothing seemed to last longer than the initial spark.
My pragmatic side is telling me that if the pattern remains true, then Parker’s feelings are already fading.
How long can you keep a spark alive when you can’t see and touch each other?
Does that mean when Parker left for San Francisco, he’d already accepted this would end?
I hang up without leaving a message. Instead, I text him a quick thank-you for the champagne and toss my phone on the bed, where it’s out of sight.