Chapter XIV #2
“I know you are, and believe me when I tell you I am working on this. But you know I wouldn’t be encouraging it if I didn’t think it would open you up to an entirely new audience, and push you creatively. It’s the kind of work you actually want to be doing, if I can be so bold.”
Hayes is one of my staunchest supporters, but over the past few months, he has been subtly pushing me to expand beyond my artistic comfort zone—hence putting me forward for this gig without my knowledge, let alone my express permission.
And he’s right: This job would solve the problem of my next long-term project, and it would allow me to access the type of photography I haven’t gotten to tackle, in earnest, for years.
“That aside.” My mind drifts to the Jeff Buckley selects I did this morning, the delight of seeing moments in the photos I didn’t even register in person.
“Why do they want me to do this? Aren’t I too old to go on tour?
Aren’t there thousands of wildly talented twenty-year-olds who should be doing this instead? ”
“Well, if you don’t take it, then a twenty-year-old will take your place.
But they want you because you have style, you have experience, and you’ll lend an air of legitimacy to this publication.
And we know they sorely need to reclaim that after their .
. . TikTok-ification. Which is what you get when you hire a toddler to do a grown-up’s job. ”
He’s referring to the newly minted twenty-eight-year-old editor-in-chief, who was until recently the magazine’s social media director.
The brand had been languishing in respected near-obscurity for a decade—whatever is the equivalent of an elderly animal retiring to the woods to die in peace, as Hayes put it—until her social strategy revived the brand, introduced it to a new generation of readers, and returned it to profitability through a smart combination of influencer marketing and good old-fashioned targeted ads.
“Well, I do want to join the fight against the TikTok-ification of legacy publications,” I say. “But you know that’s not the most important factor here. I can’t leave Emme for three months.”
“Well, thank goodness this aligns with her summer break, give or take a couple weeks in September.”
“Yes, but I can’t have her gallivanting around the city unsupervised all summer long.”
“I’m sorry to share this news with you, sweetheart, but she does have another parent.”
“Who has a terrible track record with honoring his personal commitments.”
“Lili, you have never asked that man for anything. Just force him to take on some of the child-rearing responsibilities for once in his life.”
I have to admit that the risk-taking part of me, the part I’ve kept under lock and key for so long, is begging me to do this. And James and I—I wouldn’t call it a breakthrough, but he did just demonstrate something in communicating with our daughter.
The thought occurs to me that Reid would be a good person to talk to about this.
I blow out a breath and get up from the bench. We need to leave soon if we want to make it to the show.
“Give me a little more time to consider this,” I say.
“Of course. Until Tuesday at three,” Hayes says.
Then he hangs up, and I stand there with my phone in my hand. I flip back to my text conversation with Reid. Our exchange is short, but I scan over it again and again, and each reread gives me another delicious hit of possibility.
I type out a text, delete it, type it out again.
How was the Met?
I hit send.
Then I drop my phone on the bed like it’s a live bomb and escape into the shower.
When I come back into the bedroom after I’m dressed, I gingerly pick it up, afraid of what I might not find.
Gracie lasted about three minutes. Must be a record for least time spent at any single museum.
This time, I don’t hesitate before texting him back.
You could’ve redeemed yourself with a trip to the Natural History Museum. Everyone loves the gem hall.
I allow myself a moment to dwell on the memory of the two of us making out in one of the dark, sheltered corners, so far away from the throngs of visitors that we felt as if we were in a private room. Then again, we always felt that way.
Why are these rocks making me want to fuck you so badly? Reid had whispered, coming up for air.
Everything makes me want to fuck you so badly, I’d responded.
Now I feel my face flush, remembering how bold I once was with him. How could that have ever been me? Where did that version of myself go?
And how can I be that free, that brave, again?
Well, you and I loved the gem hall, Reid texts.
I startle when I hear a knock on my door, more of a warning than a request for permission.
Emme comes in a half second later, wearing one of my velvet skater dresses from the nineties and a pair of high-top sneakers, her space buns freshly wound and spritzed with a fine sheen of pink glitter.
She plops down next to me on the bed and leans her head on my shoulder.
“Who are you talking to?”
I turn my phone over in my hand. My first instinct is to deflect, tell her it’s no one. And then I remember I resolved not to do that anymore.
“Reid,” I say, feeling a little like a caught teenager.
“Mm-hmm.” She gives me an honest-to-god knowing smile. “Thought so.”
I laugh. “Why is that?”
“You’re doing a . . . thing. With your face.” She taps the back of my phone with an iridescent blue nail. “And you hid your phone, which makes me think something is going on here.”
“OK, Sherlock.” I stand and toss my phone in my bag. “Let’s go.”
At the show, my attention keeps faltering from the stage.
I try to remain present, to appreciate the bombastic pop covers and the cotton-candy set, but my mind keeps doling out snatches of Reid.
The way his breath felt against my throat.
The buttery-smooth sensation that slid over my skin when I got him to laugh.
The uncontrolled, helpless sound he made when he slipped his fingers into me, somewhere between a groan and a sigh.
Intermission offers a gust of relief from the fantasies unfolding in my head.
I’m finally able to wrangle my focus during the second act, but then it’s like the memories animate my physical form: My knee bounces, my fingers fidget.
By the time Juliet bursts into a power-ballad rendition of “. . . Baby One More Time” after finding Romeo dead, I’m restless with unspent energy.
I pull out my phone to check my texts as soon as the curtains close. When we rise for a standing ovation, Emme shifts her hip to press against my leg.
“Mom,” she says, “you’re insufferable. Just go see him.”
From the set of her mouth, I know she means it.
I really do want to see him, but the concept of going on what would amount to a booty call feels truly preposterous.
“It’s late,” I say.
“It’s nine twenty-seven,” Emme responds.
“I don’t even know if he wants to see me.”
Emme looks at me like I’m truly missing the point. I don’t blame her—I can hear what I sound like as I give these petty excuses, but I can’t seem to stop myself from rattling them off.
After we’re herded out of the theater, we head east to avoid the cab-seeking crowds. We’re just about to cross Park when Emme stops me and takes out her phone. To my surprise, she actually puts it to her ear to call someone.
“What’s your dad doing right now?” she asks into it.
A garbled response on the other end. I am paralyzed by shock. And a little bit of fear. And then, an awed respect.
“Yeah, she definitely does.”
Another unintelligible response.
“OK, she can be there in fifteen minutes.”
Then Emme takes my hand, leans out into the street, and promptly hails a cab. She opens the door for me and nudges me into the backseat.
“You’re going to meet Reid at the bar at the Mark Hotel. Have fun, be safe, bye!”
Before I can say a word, she slams the door shut. The taxi peels away from the curb, hurtling uptown. I barely have a moment to react to what just happened when my phone buzzes in my hand.
Reid: Emme asked you to meet me at the bar, right?
Lili: She didn’t ask me. She ordered me.
Reid: Don’t go to the bar. Come to my room.
Reid: 318
Twenty minutes later, my heeled mules press into cream-colored carpet, muffling my approach. The hush of the gardenia-scented hall makes me feel as if I’m sneaking off to an assignation—which, I suppose, I am.
I pause in front of the door. I am keenly aware that this moment represents a distinct before and after: I can still turn heel, jump in a cab, head home, and be in bed before eleven, like nothing ever happened.
But then, maybe we’re already in the after. Maybe Reid and I have always been in the after.
I force myself to stop thinking and knock on the door.