Then, the very next day, it did.
Vivian had gone home at six thirty, her new normal. Jules was almost used to it now and told herself that she did not miss having Vivian’s company until ten thirty, when they would go down to the car and ride together to Vivian’s place without even talking to each other. It was much better for Vivian to be at home resting, as Dr. Viswanathan had said. God knew she kept busy enough during the day.
It was quieter now, though, at nearly seven p.m. Jules had finished making tomorrow’s to-do list and decided to check her personal inbox before heading out the door. And there it was: an email notifying her that her column for The Cut had been published.
She squealed aloud and then looked around, her face heating. Thank God nobody was here to hear that. But nobody was here to share her triumph either, except…
My column’s in The Cut today!!!!
Moments later, Simon texted back.
Cool, looking now
Jules looked too, taking in every word as greedily as if she’d never seen them before. She kept going back to her name at the top. Julia Moretti. It had seemed appropriate somehow to use her full first name. In Jules’s imagination, Vivian murmured her approval.
Dammit. Jules’s cheeks were heating again.
Fifteen minutes later, Simon strode into the office, phone in hand and eyebrows raised. “Nice job.”
Yes! “You think it’s good? It doesn’t suck?”
“Don’t fish for compliments. No, it doesn’t suck. I like how you point out that Melanie Griffith ends up being just another cog in the machine.” He gave Jules a wry look. “Like all the rest of us.”
“Don’t get cynical on me, now.” She rested her elbows on her desk, propped her chin in her palms, and gave a happy sigh. “Look at me. I’m going to win a Pulitzer.”
“Your delusions are adorable.”
Jules laughed. She might be a little punchy. “The New Yorker will call me tomorrow. You’ll see.”
“Would you settle for Salon in the meantime?”
“Ha! Sure, why not?”
It took her a full five seconds to realize Simon wasn’t kidding. She slowly raised her chin from her palms while he smirked down at her.
“Simon?” she asked.
He waved his phone. “This isn’t substantial, but it’s fun. Put it on your résumé and cook up something meatier. I’ll wave it under the nose of a starving Salon editor, and we’ll see what happens.”
Simon had never offered her a favor like this before, even when she was working for him. Why now?
Her question must have shown in her eyes because he said, “Maybe I was just waiting for you to show me what you’ve got.”
“You said it wasn’t substantial,” Jules pointed out. “I’ve written better stuff that—”
“Never got published. Do you want this or not?”
It wasn’t the time to be suspicious. Simon was dropping a golden opportunity in her lap, and he was her friend.
She nodded hard. “Of course. What are they looking for right now?”
“A friend over there tells me their culture section wants new blood. Look at the website, see what they publish, and come up with something good.”
“By when?”
“Do I work at Salon? As soon as possible, obviously. I told you to always have something on the hop.”
“I will.” Her head was already spinning. “I’ll have it done in just a couple of days. Thank you, Simon. I owe you one.”
“Yes”—he folded his arms—“you do.”
It seemed an awfully serious response to abject gratitude, but Jules pushed the thought aside while she packed up to leave. She had a lot of research to do tonight.
* * *
She didn’t go home. Instead, she headed straight to her favorite coffee shop so she could work surrounded by the comforting scents of roasting beans and baked goods. A caffeine boost could only help.
One espresso and a half hour later, though, Jules was still dry of ideas. None of the potential topics she’d been playing with were suitable for the culture section. Now she was uninspired and jittery.
It was just past eight and cold. Her apartment called seductively to her, but she wouldn’t find anything in there. Jules recognized this itch. She needed to walk.
Good thing she was wearing low-heeled boots. Jules slung her bag over her shoulder and headed out into the night.
New York wasn’t as dangerous as people liked to say, but a woman still had to be careful by herself at night. She needed somewhere with plenty of people but with enough space that she could think.
Brooklyn’s Domino Park was well out of her way—a half hour by subway. It was one of her favorite places, though, and tonight it was worth the trip and the chill.
The subway ride proved similarly uninspiring, and when Jules set foot onto the park paths, she sighed. She tightened her wool scarf, tugged her beanie down farther over her ears, and stuck her gloved hands into her coat pockets. Her breath misted the air.
“Let’s see how this goes,” she muttered.
She walked briskly, staying to the most populated paths, checking out people as she passed. A young man rollerbladed around a fountain, heedless of the cold. A father told two kids in puffy coats that it was time to go home. Jules overheard three women planning to go for a drink. Everyone seemed to be in motion with not a second to hold still.
Except two people on a bench. As she approached, Jules saw they were middle-aged women who were holding hands. Clearly a couple.
The warmth in her cheeks was a welcome relief from the chill. She tried not to stare—rude and uncool—but for some reason, she couldn’t help it.
One of them was a stocky woman with short hair wearing a leather bomber jacket covered with patches for different bands. Her partner wore the brightest pink lipstick Jules had ever seen. Their smiles to each other were unforced, their intimacy easy and familiar.
Jules’s chest ached. What would it be like to sit next to Vivian on a park bench, holding her hand and talking about something that made them both smile?
Not in this life.
She couldn’t help it. They were pulling her toward them, but she couldn’t be that weirdo who approached strangers out of nowhere. Feeling absurd, Jules wandered closer to them, pretending to look at the East River.
“We’ve got to get out of town for a while,” the femme woman—Jules dubbed her Pink Lipstick—was saying. “You promised.”
“I know,” Bomber Jacket replied, “but if you want to take your road trip, January isn’t the time.”
“I don’t think I can wait much longer. My job’s going to make me lose it.”
“You said you wanted to see Montana. It’ll be even colder there!”
Jules smiled. They were bickering, but there was no real anger in it. It was how you argued with someone you knew well, cared for, enjoyed having in your life.
Must be nice.
Unable to help it, she turned and looked at them again. What a striking picture. Enough to start wheels turning in her head.
Leather bomber jacket…pinkest lipstick I ever saw…two women who love each other…
“Fashion is about two things,” Vivian murmured in Jules’s memory. “Expression and context.”
Jules’s eyes widened. There it was. Her topic.
The butch woman glanced over and saw Jules looking. The lively smile on her face vanished. Her partner followed her gaze.
“See something you like?” Pink Lipstick asked.
Dammit. Caught. “Sorry,” she said sheepishly. “I was just…just…” She looked at their hands, still entwined, and something in her said: “Tell them.”
Okay. Why not? What did she have to lose?
“I’m a writer,” she said. “I write about fashion. I didn’t mean to stare. It’s just that you two are such a striking picture—your styles look amazing together.”
They must have heard the sincerity in her voice. Bomber Jacket inclined her head with a smile. “Well, thanks.”
“So are we gonna get hired for the runway?” Pink Lipstick asked dryly, snuggling closer to her partner.
“I wish. That’s…what I want to write about.”
“It is?”
“Yeah.” Jules pressed her lips together and took a risk: “I don’t want to sound weird, but can I take your picture?”
A few minutes later, after showing them her business card and promising she wasn’t a conservative in deep cover, Jules was walking away with a spring in her step and a new photo on her phone. For inspiration. For her work.
The thought wasn’t fully formed. She didn’t know where it would take her. But that was her topic: queer representation in fashion. Specifically, the lack of it.
The fashion industry was full of gay designers, but you could look through mainstream magazines and blogs for days and not find anything that looked like those two women and their lived experiences.
In spite of the cold, she looked at the photo as she walked back to the nearest subway station. Once they’d realized her intentions, the women had given her sunny smiles as they held hands and leaned into one another. She didn’t know their names, probably never would, but the image of them would stay with her for a long time.
They just looked so…happy together.
I wish I had someone to show this to.
The thought was absurd—Jules had plenty of people she could show this to—but she was only thinking about the one person to whom she couldn’t.
What are you going to do? Show Vivian this photo, melt her icy heart, and sweep her into your arms? Time to stop dreaming and start doing.
Jules could do that. She would do that.
Now she just needed to start writing.