I ask Cal to meet me Tuesday after work, in neutral territory—at Cafe Select, a tiny enclave off Kenmare and Lafayette.
When the clock strikes 6:00 p.m., I immediately hightail it out of the SPP Tower, waving farewell to no one, Saffron included (I apologized for yesterday, but they left me on delivered, so the atmosphere is still tense). That’s the one nice thing about not having a boss or any sense of where your life is headed: No one can tell you where and when you can take a piss or head out for the day.
The late-November atmosphere in New York is light, brisk, and irresponsibly brimming with confidence. Sure, it gets dark now at 4:00 p.m., filling anyone working within an enclosed office space with a mild form of seasonal depression. And leaving the building to be immediately greeted by a slew of pitch-black sky before retreating to your icebox doesn’t exactly inspire or motivate you to make plans with an old friend, wait alone at a cocktail bar, or haul your ass to the gym.
But there’s something enigmatic about the holidays in New York. Maybe it lies in the distinction between loneliness and being alone. Because, although you may be feeling a bit isolated around Thanksgiving and Christmas, you are not, in fact alone. You are going through the motions in solidarity with your fellow city dwellers. Their camaraderie may not always usher in good tidings, but it can certainly fill you with joy if you know where to look.
There are very few shared experiences all New Yorkers can bond over. The beauty of this city is that every individual is so unique that we are inevitably united over so little. In other words, the one thing we have in common is that we have virtually nothing in common. All walks of life diverge drastically from one another, and yet we meld like heavy metals, all existing under a single polluted roof. When we do come together, it’s usually through the channel of hatred: a delayed subway line, a tourist who stops in the middle of the street to take a picture, a Chicago transplant complaining about the quality of the pizza. We buy into the same notion of superiority—that we rise above trivial commonalities by way of our suffering.
But then there’s that first night in November, when Madison Avenue lights its first snowflake hanging over a traffic light and an empty crosswalk, and the city suddenly feels like home. Perhaps not our home, but home to something. And that something, that sinkhole of sustenance you can’t quite place your finger on, sparks the wonder of possibility.
I arrive early at Cafe Select and take a seat at one of its three outdoor tables. The red glow of the heat lamps grazes my neck, radiating a wave of warmth throughout my body. On the other side of the glass window, I can hear the murmur of casual conversation, the clinking of wineglasses at the bar. String lights hang from the ceiling, lighting up the space with an ethereal glimmer, like a scene from Midsummer Night’s Dream. A large clock—a Rolex, no less—hangs overhead, encouraging patrons to stay out late, to refrain from heading home to their spouses and their toaster ovens. And the combination of tiny Swiss flags, the kind you only find hidden in club sandwiches, and the hot elixir of mulled wine and cheese fondue bubbling over a small portable stove, allows New Yorkers to step out of the tedious monotony of their daily lives and into the extravagance of ski chalets in the Alps.
Cafe Select has always welcomed me with open arms. Although its patrons have deeper pockets and purses than I and speak more languages combined than the entirety of the UN, it feels like a safe space. There’s always a table waiting for me as I walk in. That’s more than I can say for its upscale neighbors. It’s dependable—I always know what I’m going to get.
I wish I could say the same for Cal.
Cal (does it stand for Calvin? Short for Caleb? I guess I’ll never know…) arrives about fifteen minutes late, on the dot. He’s wearing an olive-green peacoat over a black cashmere turtleneck and looks as dashing as he did the day I met him. He’s giving me major zaddy vibes.
He takes a seat at the table across from me, sliding the sleeves of his coat down his arms and delicately tossing it over the back of his chair. He then pushes his turtleneck up his forearms, flexing his biceps with every nip and tug. When he’s made himself at home, he finally looks up at me, making glass-shattering eye contact. With one hand on his cup of water and the other reaching toward me, his face breaks into a smile, exposing his impossibly white teeth and Shirley Temple dimples.
I feel my vagina start to pulsate again. This is not going to be easy.
“I’m so glad you texted me, Little Light,” he says. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me.”
“Never.” I mean it. “You’d make that too hard. Besides, I thought this is what you wanted?”
Cal cranes his neck slightly and frowns, taking a sip of his water.
“What do you mean by that?”
“This doesn’t mean anything,” I repeat his words back to him.
He winces. “Yeah. Not my finest hour.” He offers up a sympathetic smile on a platter but no apology.
I continue in my crusade.
“I know what you did.” I lean forward in my seat, never once breaking from his gaze.
“Oh, do you now? And what’s that?”
I take a deep breath and brace myself for impact.
“You told the entire Digital team that I’m C. Bates.”
Cal lets out a chuckle, choking slightly on his last sip of water. My eyes narrow. This is no laughing matter.
“What’s so funny?” My hands are shaking. For once, I wish he’d just engage in a serious conversation with me, laying all the cards on the table.
“Correction: I did not tell the entire Digital team you were C. Bates,” he says. “I told Jade Aki.”
I begin to cough. The couple at the neighboring table looks over at us and glares.
“Why?! Why would you do that?”
Cal looks around, clearly embarrassed by my outburst. But after all he’s done to me, frankly? I couldn’t give less of a fuck about his feelings.
“Can you please keep your voice down?”
“WHY?” I scream louder. Nothing like a “hysterical female” to wake someone up and out of the alternative reality they’ve been living in.
Cal leans back in his chair and folds his arms in front of his chest. The stress lines in his forehead reappear. They look like a sidewalk crossing.
“Because she asked,” he finally says.
“That’s not good enough.”
“Because she offered to help me.”
“Try again.”
“Because she’s going to introduce me to investors, okay, Noora?” he blurts out. “To grow my business. Aki was the it girl of New York media. She’s friends with the Hadids, for fuck’s sake. She sat front row at Chromeo this year! An endorsement from her would go a long way. And I’m having a lot of trouble securing funding, if you must know. What’s wrong with an educated young Black man trying to secure his bag? So, yes. I told Jade, and maybe she told the rest of her team. She wanted to know who C. Bates was! It was obviously not written by Loretta, and she was desperate to regain the upper hand. So, yeah, she hired me to break into the IP, same as Loretta. You asked me not to tell Loretta. I didn’t. And from the sound of it, you left the lid open on that yourself. But you didn’t ask me not to tell Jade. So, instead of freaking out at me in public in the middle of Soho, you can fuck right off.”
I shudder, frightened by his sudden cruelty. What he says makes sense, but it’s no excuse. I asked him to protect me, and he chose to betray my confidence for his own personal gain instead. No amount of start-ups or dimpled smiles can sully the facts.
And then something else dawns on me.
“Is this the first time?” I ask quietly.
He stops seething in his seat for a split second to look back up at me.
“First time doing what? Telling Jade that you wrote a dumbass column about shaving?”
I let his abrasive words and tone trickle off my skin like holy water.
“Your first time helping one of the higher-ups, on the heels of an empty promise?”
For the first time since taking a seat, Cal gulps, noticeably nervous. He grabs his cup of water and traces the rim with his thumb. The glass around his hand starts to fog.
“Answer the question, Cal.”
“I might have helped Loretta out with a couple of small tasks on her to-do lists. In exchange for a sizeable donation. You know, just a few basic things, like cleaning out her inbox, editing together a video, setting up security in and around her office space, and—”
“And creating a series of fake tweets then leaking them to the press?”
Cal looks down at his lap, his left knee shaking like crazy.
“Maybe something like that.”
I look at him and scowl, disgusted. His moral compass is so out of whack that he’s headed straight into the Atlantic. Was I so distracted by my horniness for him that I couldn’t see what a monumental ethical screw-up he was, is, and always has been?
Cal notices my expression and leaps up out of his seat.
“Don’t you dare look at me like that, Noora! I’m not a bad person. I voted for Hillary. I paid for my ex-girlfriend’s Plan B, not once but twice. I made you come using a fucking dildo!”
I continue to stare at him in disbelief, shaking my head. The role reversal is so comical. It’s Dalí-level surreal.
“Like you’re so perfect. I know what you did, Noora. I know everything. You abused your power as Loretta’s assistant and snooped through her email then told Jade’s perky blond assistant who the holiday cover star is. I traced your computer signal, remember? You’re the reason the Zendaya issue fell apart. You’re the reason we had to have that entire ridiculous Experiences event in the first place! You lied to your boss, betrayed your team, and played both sides like a fucking fiddle, so don’t go off on me about loyalty. Because you have none.”
He takes a second to catch his breath. I hold mine, shell-shocked. Then, without warning, he reaches across the table and frantically grabs both of my hands. He grips them so tightly, it hurts.
“Don’t you see? We’re the same, you and me. These people don’t give a damn about us, and we couldn’t care less about them. We’re looking out for number one—ourselves. We have what it takes to not only survive but thrive in this turbulent fuckmobile of an industry. That’s what brought us together in the first place, and why we can’t be kept apart for long. Don’t you feel it, Noora? This thing between us? I’ve tried to fight it. I’ve been fighting it for months! But this energy between us is inescapable. I think we might just be cut from the same cloth.”
He takes my face in his hands, clasping my cheeks in his palms. I shut my eyes tightly, refusing to look at him.
“What do you say we finally take this thing to the next level, Little Light? I want to be with you, and I know how badly you want me. So let’s do this thing. Let’s make our way through this hellhole of an industry together. Our heads combined can outsmart them all. There’s nothing we can’t accomplish. One day, they’ll all be kissing our feet and our asses. What do you say?”
My eyes fly open. I take a good, hard look at him. His nose pressed against mine, his hands cupping my chin, his breath hot against my neck. I realize I got it right that first day in the elevator. He really is a boy—a quivering, cowardly little boy.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Cal.”
As my lips move, it dawns on me how easy it would be to lean a little bit too forward and kiss him, one last time.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m thankful for a lot this year. I’m thankful for this job, which forced me to grow skin thicker than horse leather. I’m thankful for my coworkers, who taught me to trust no one but myself, as people are rarely who they appear to be on the surface. I’m thankful for my sister, who teaches me every day that there is still good in the world, people who genuinely strive to bring even the smallest sliver of kindness into each other’s days. And I’m thankful for you, for showing me that tiny little fuckboys don’t grow out of their immaturity but instead grow into fuckmen. And for reminding me of exactly who I am not. I am nothing like you, Cal. I don’t care about getting my name out there or the fame and notoriety of being a celebrity writer or influencer. I would never purposefully try to hurt anyone for personal gain. And I damn well wouldn’t sacrifice the good of the magazine in order to raise my public profile or for a few extra bucks. In layman’s terms, I may not be a good person, as you say. But I have good intentions. And you have an empty JUUL pod where your heart used to be. Never contact me again.”
I take one last swig of my glass of merlot then pick up my coat, wrapping it around me like a blanket.
Cal sinks into his chair, visibly stunned. He tries to speak—most likely a rebuttal—but finds he can only whistle. I take one last look at his beautiful face, now stoic and strained, then turn around and walk away.
There’s a street violinist playing classic versions of contemporary songs at the end of the block. As he lifts his bow, I feel overwhelmed but filled with relief. It’s finally over. For the first time in six months, I am free.
“Hey, Cal,” I call out to him, whipping my head around. “One last thing: You’re bad at sex.”