Chapter Seven
Elizabeth
“Nothing can come of nothing.”
King Lear
“Once again: why don’t you just call him?” Chelsea asked, foaming milk while I sipped on the latte she’d slipped me gratis.
I glared at Chelsea, she who’d gotten me into this predicament, and considered her advice.
It wasn’t the first time she’d chided me over the past two weeks.
Whenever I complained she’d pushed me too far out of my comfort zone, leaving me pining after a ghost—a self-inflicted wound—she’d urge me to at least text.
But whenever I opened the text chain, I’d see my last message: I’d love to see you come one more time.
Then crickets.
Oh, God. Why had I sent that? Just because we’d had sex, it didn’t mean he was into dirty talk. Maybe I’d given him the ick.
If so, the ball was in his court. I didn’t want to chase after him. Hadn’t I already done that by coaxing him into my bed? It was all so mortifying.
“Well, why don’t you call Basil?” I countered, knowing she’d also heard nothing from the sexy Greek since her own romantic mishap.
“Not the same thing.” She rolled her eyes and added, “At all.”
I knew it wasn’t—for so many reasons. First of all, because she could find Basil at the organic market any day of the week, if she wanted to.
But more importantly, because she didn’t want to.
She always did this, shutting down all romantic interest, somehow thinking that by choosing to be alone, she was preempting unhappiness.
It surprised me she’d even hooked up with a guy who lived here in town.
If only our situations were reversed.
Another wave of self-pity washed over me. “What was I thinking, letting you convince me to flirt with an absolute stranger at a bar?”
Why had she let me lure him home? Why had I seduced him? These questions had plagued me from the minute Evan turned the corner and drifted out of sight.
But not out of mind.
I clearly had a void in my life if I was letting this dominate my thoughts after two weeks. Maybe I needed to join a cult—or a karate school.
Chelsea set another latte on the counter and shouted, “Candace,” before turning back to me. “Well, he knows how to contact you if he wants to. Plenty of other fish in the sea.”
I slumped. “What is wrong with me? All I want is someone to grow old with, and I keep making the same mistakes. You’re a bad influence, you know that?”
“Am not.” She reached for an empty cup with a name written in sharpie. “Besides, you had a good time.”
I groaned. “Why did I have to sleep with him?”
A college-aged boy in a rugby shirt shot me a funny look, and I scowled back. I was missing whatever gene should make me feel embarrassed in front of people I’d never see again. And this was my problem. Chelsea knew how to exploit that for her amusement.
She dumped some coffee beans into a grinder and pressed the button, talking over the din. “I’d say he was partially responsible.”
The rugby-shirted guy said, “Amen,” and I gave him a once-over. Cute. Too young. Probably feigning feminism to hit on Chelsea. Good luck, buddy.
“Changing the topic, where are you off to dressed like that? Not the library?”
Most mornings, I caught up on copy editing. I could have worked at home in the comfort of my own bed, but I loved the atmosphere deep in the university library stacks. It helped me focus. I could dress in a sweatshirt and jeans, prizing comfort over fashion.
Not today though. Today I sported my rarely worn navy blazer and matching skirt set, purchased for an ill-fated job at a bank. Oh, to find my true calling.
“Um, actually, no.” I shifted my feet, aware of the heels pinching my toes, longing for the moment I could slip on some fuzzy socks and curl up to read later.
“Mysterious.” She looked at me quizzically. “You’re obviously not going to the inn today. Are you working an early shift at the bar?”
“Nope and nope.” I’d never tended bar in anything other than the same old tired pair of black chinos and Converse sneakers. “I’ve got an interview.”
“A job interview?” She packed espresso into a metal filter.
“Well, I haven’t been invited to talk about my unpublished novel on NPR, so yes. A job interview.”
“Seriously? Do you have time for another gig?”
“I’m hoping to swap out.” If I could land a job with real hours, maybe I could quit both the bar and the inn.
At that she nodded knowingly as the machine screamed and gurgled out coffee. “You know what that means?”
“Oh!” I grabbed my phone and pulled up the list to mark a check beside Apply for a new job. “One more point for me!”
“So what’s the gig?” Chelsea asked, topping off another coffee with steamed milk and a lid, setting it on the counter. “Harold!”
I leaned against the wall, trying to stay out of the way of the increasing throng of impatient customers.
“Something Evan suggested actually. He mentioned that newsrooms are often hiring writers, and he was right. I found an opening at the station a couple of blocks from here. I was shocked when I got a call asking me to come in today.”
“Ooh. Walking distance. We could commute together.” She laughed, like walking to work was anything new.
“I probably won’t get hired. I mean, look at me.” Despite the suit, I still exuded nothing more than existential dilapidation. I was made of dusty books and musty libraries, and my soul reeked of it.
She scowled at my self-deprecation. “You know what your dad would say?”
“You miss every shot you don’t take?” There wasn’t a sport my dad wasn’t a fan of.
She snorted. “That’s a good one. I was going to say, ‘You’re talented, Princess. Don’t sell yourself short.’”
I chortled. She was exaggerating but not wrong. I sometimes felt bad that I’d won the dad lottery while hers had psychologically fucked her up so hard she didn’t trust men past their usefulness in the sack. “I won’t,” I promised.
“Act like the badass you know you are.”
“Pretend you mean.” I thought back to how I’d pretended to be someone else when I met Evan, and even though that hadn’t turned out so great, it had made me braver.
“Whatever it takes. Seriously, though.” She paused in the maelstrom of the whirring coffee machines to beam at me, always making sure to give me her full attention when it mattered. “That’s excellent, E. I’m rooting for you.”
Todd, her manager, squeezed in behind her. “Chelsea, I need you to work the cash register.” He cast a glance at me with a sour expression. “Hi, Elizabeth. Maybe you two could chat later?”
The place had gotten pretty crowded. “Let me let you let me go,” I said, repeating a Pee Wee Herman line that never got old.
“Call me.” She ducked around Todd and called back. “We can get takeout from the Afghan place.”
“If I’m free.” I waved, carrying my freebie latte out the door.
I wove through the crowded pedestrian mall toward a side street where I caught a glimpse of a sandy-haired man climbing into a silver sedan. I did a double-take, but when he looked up, it wasn’t Evan. I was seeing ghosts.
My stomach twisted in knots at the unlikelihood of running into him. For the millionth time, I chided myself for being so short-sighted in the moment.
I blamed Chelsea’s list.
* * *
When I announced myself at the front desk, the secretary led me to an office with an open door. “Ms. Madison? Your ten o’clock.”
A voice called, “Come in!”
I glued on a smile and walked in, holding my hand out for a shake when the woman behind the desk stood.
“Hello, Ms. Madison. Elizabeth Wright. I’m here for the interview.
” Channeling some character from a televised crime drama, I put on a no-nonsense-I-mean-business tone with her.
It sounded like a frog high on helium to my ears.
She studied me for a moment, mouth twisted in indecision, like she could see past the crisply ironed shirt to my wrinkled interior. I withered under her scrutiny until, finally, she reached her hand out to shake mine. “Please, call me Shelby. Thank you for coming in so quickly.”
“Thank you for seeing me.”
Shelby waved at a chair, and we both sat.
“I know you applied for the news writer position, but I’m actually looking to fill a number of roles and hoped you might be amenable to something a little more challenging.
The writer job is low responsibility, and in this town, I have no doubt I can fill it. After all, writers are a dime a dozen.”
I squelched a litany of curse words at the dismissive insult, then recalled how many writers’ works I’d edited in the past few months and forced myself to smile. “Yes. That’s true.”
“But according to your résumé, you’ve been juggling several jobs.
” In order to bulk up my experience, I’d added everything I’d ever done.
My copy editing gig all by itself seemed so pathetic.
“Apart from editing, you run an inn.” Okay so I’d fudged that a little.
“And work at one of my favorite restaurants. That place is always hopping.” She peered at me over folded hands.
“You know how to prioritize tasks, get things done.”
“Yes.” If she wanted to keep talking about my nonexistent strengths, I wouldn’t interrupt.
She licked her red, glossy lips, nodding, convincing herself I was the fiction I’d created out of thin air. “That’s why I’m considering you for the role of associate news producer.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Producer?”
Had I fucked myself by impersonating someone more employable? Even I couldn’t pretend to do a job like that.
“Yes, someone else might have more experience. But you can learn fast, can’t you? And you’d work hard.”
I swallowed back my urge to self-deprecate, channeling her go-getter spunk and misguided belief in me. Sitting up taller, I said, “I would,” without stuttering. Chelsea would be so proud.
“The job does require a strong writer, but mainly you’ll help the head producer coordinate the rundown. You’ll work with the on-air personalities and write their script for the broadcast. It’s a full-time job.”
I was suddenly all ears. “By full time—”