The next morning, I head to my interview with Fogler Publishing, a gray cloud of misery hanging over me. Tom and Trina both know something is wrong, but I’m so despondent that they’ve just tiptoed around me and left me to my wallowing. For that, I am grateful. If they were to press me to find out the source of my mood, I wouldn’t have the strength to keep up the facade anymore. I know the whole nightmare would come tumbling out, and I’d stand there, watching any respect my little brother ever had for me fall away right before my eyes.
When I get to Fogler, I’m taken with the office right away. Everything is a hodgepodge of mismatched office furniture and ancient bookshelves crammed to bursting with books. Everything is beautiful, well-worn oak and weirdly thick gray carpet that seems like it would be better suited to someone’s living room than an office. It radiates comfort and warmth under my sensible heels as I walk through.
Everything feels genuine and inviting, and the people working away in their cubicles seem calm and focused and driven. It almost feels like walking into my favorite library, filled with people who care as much about the books crammed on those shelves as I do.
I’m led by Trey, my original interviewer, through the maze of cubes and toward the office of the president. After a quick knock, he opens the door and sticks his head in.
“Your ten o’clock is here, Joan,” he says casually.
“Yes, thank you,” she says without looking up from whatever she’s typing on the laptop at her desk.
Trey motions me inside. “Have a seat.”
“Thank you so much, Trey. And it’s nice to see you again.”
“You, too,” he says with a friendly smile. He’s all business, but not in a sycophantic or contents-under-pressure way. I like this about him.
I walk into the office, letting the door close behind me, and take a seat in one of the smooshy chairs located in front of Joan McInerney’s desk.
In person, she looks absolutely nothing like her reputation would suggest. She’s known in the industry as a lioness, and with good reason. She fights hard for the books she wants to acquire, and has on more than several occasions beaten out the biggest houses who have far more money to offer in auctions.
People want to work with her because they know she’ll fight to the death to see a book sent on its most successful journey. She leads one of the only midsize houses that consistently sees books on the bestseller lists, and she somehow manages to do it without the resources of the Top Five houses.
When I hear tales of her escapades, I’ve always pictured various forms of some polished, cliché businesswoman in power pantsuits.
But the woman in front of me looks like someone’s gray-haired Catholic auntie, complete with an elaborate rosary around her neck. She sports nothing resembling a power suit, and instead wears a comfortable-looking floral dress with a blazer over it. This is not a woman who wastes time on some performative outward appearance, and instead spends that time focusing on her authors and her team.
She’s a formidable woman who gives off the vibe that she’s made entirely of salt and bourbon, even as she sits here and types, completely ignoring the fact that I’m sitting in front of her.
Eventually, Joan finishes whatever she was working on and turns to me. I instinctively sit up straighter in my chair.
“So,” she says, her voice exactly that of salty bourbon. “You’re Clara Montgomery.”
It’s not a question. “Yes, hi. It’s such a pleasure to meet you. It’s an honor, really.”
“Well, I can see I’m bribing the right people to keep my reputation intact,” she deadpans. “Trey filled me in on your first interview, and he seems to think you’re worth considering for our open associate editor spot. Do you agree?”
Wow. She cuts right to the chase. “I do, actually. I think I’d be a great fit here, and I feel like my tastes match up really well with the projects your house puts out. I think I could bring a lot to the table, and I know I could learn an awful lot working here.”
“Confidence without pretending to know everything,” she says. “I admire that.”
“I admire your take-no-shit approach to publishing,” I say bluntly. “I’ve never known anyone to advocate for their authors the way you’re known for doing, and I can’t think of a better sign of a solid house to be a part of.”
She leans back in her chair. “And you think you can maintain that standard?”
I grin. “What’s the point of doing the job if you’re not willing to fight hard for the people you work for?”
“Trey wasn’t wrong,” she says, tapping her fingers on the arm of her mahogany-and-leather chair. “You do seem like you’d fit in here.”
My first impulse is to be impossibly flattered, but a nagging thought pulls at me, and I can’t shake it loose.
“I’m sorry, but I have to ask,” I say, without giving my mouth permission to do so. “Did you bring me in here because of Caspian Tiddleswich?”
She frowns. “What the hell is a Caspian Tiddleswich?”
My eyes go wide. “He’s this actor I’m...seeing. Several houses have seemed more interested in trying to lock him down as an author than in what I’m capable of bringing to the table as an editor.”
Joan leans forward and stares me down. “I don’t give a damn who you’re dating. I can’t imagine why that would be relevant here in the slightest.”
My hands feel suddenly icy, and I know I’ve made a horrible mistake. “I apologize,” I say with maybe more intensity than is advisable. “I just want to be considered on my merits alone.”
“Trust me when I say I don’t ever do anything but that,” she says, leaning back again.
“Which I really appreciate,” I say uncomfortably.
She raises an eyebrow. “I’m certainly not doing it for your benefit,” she says plainly. “I do it because it’s how a business should be run. And I run this business my way. You were brought in because you have a solid résumé and had an admirable list of authors at your former house. That’s it.”
I swallow a little too hard. “That’s high praise coming from someone with your standards. I would be honored to be considered for a place here.”
She glances over at the clock hanging on her wall. It’s made of a mahogany that perfectly matches her chair, surrounded by a selection of framed covers of the many successful books she’s been responsible for championing.
“I have a lunch with one of my authors to get to, so I need to get back to this if I’m going to finish in time,” she says resolutely. “Thank you for coming in, Miss Montgomery. I’m sure we’ll be in touch.”
I’m being dismissed, and I want to beg her to start over before I cocked it all up by bringing Caspian into the conversation, but I find the sense to keep my mouth shut.
I stand up and wait for an invitation to shake her hand, but I remember hearing a rumor that she doesn’t touch anyone under nearly any circumstance. Instead, I awkwardly smooth down the sides of my blazer and say, “Thank you very much for meeting with me. I genuinely look forward to hearing from you. Have a great rest of your day, Ms. McInerney.”
She gives me a solid nod before turning her attention to her laptop and diving back into something that will keep her focus long after I leave this office.
I close the door behind me and make my way back through the admirable floor plan, wondering if my feet will ever have the opportunity to walk across the inviting carpet again.
I smile at Trey, sitting at his desk hard at work, on my way out.
I finally found a house that had no knowledge of Caspian, and I somehow managed to fuck it up by inserting him into the mix, likely destroying any chance I had at being seen as a competent editor, and instead coming off as an insecure basket case with name-dropping delusions of importance.
My gray cloud of despondence returns, and I head off to catch a train to meet CiCi at her apartment.
I take the ride in absentminded silence, staring off into the distance, unable to form full thoughts beyond flashes of Joan’s frowning expression or forgotten wedding dresses or Caspian’s tear-streaked face.
When I get to CiCi’s place, she’s waiting in the lobby for me, all smiles. When she sees me, those smiles become slightly forced.
“How’d it go?” she asks carefully.
“I stupidly brought up Caspian, because I was sure they couldn’t have asked me there just because they liked what I had to offer,” I confess. “But it turns out she doesn’t even know who he is, and she seemed immediately displeased with me mentioning anything of the sort, and I’m pretty sure I sank any shot I had.”
“Oh, honey,” she says, taking my hand. “I’m so sorry.”
“Even when I’m determined not to let my Caspian mistakes mess up any more of my life, I manage to strangle any opportunities of my own in his name.”
“Maybe it wasn’t as bad as you think?”
“That’s my problem,” I say with a sigh. “I keep hoping that things won’t be as bad as I think, and I’m never prepared when they turn out to be worse.”
“That seems like a really disappointing way to look at the world, cupcake.”
“My choices recently beg to differ.”
She smiles again, sincerely, and pulls on my hand. “Come on. Today is going to get better right now.”
She leads me to the elevator, and we head to the fifth floor. Stepping out, there stands Mrs. Esposito, keys and a stack of paperwork in hand, waiting for us in front of apartment 524.
We say our hellos and head inside to do a final walkthrough. CiCi is on her game and points out all the little things scuffed up in the apartment that she wants to make sure we’re not held responsible for in the lease, and I trail behind, useless and staring at my soon-to-be new home, terrified I’m making a horrible decision that could harm one of the few great things I have left—my friendship with CiCi, who, as time goes by, I worry I don’t deserve.
After a thorough inspection, we sidle up to the kitchen counters and the lease is laid out in triplicate. I wish I could push this off until after I talk with Uncle Jack at Thanksgiving, but selfishly, I’m desperate to have a room with a door and a place to sleep that isn’t in full view of Tom and Trina while I’m sorting through the dregs of the last few days I have to deal with Caspian.
With every set of initials and every signature I scribble out, my stomach clenches more and more, the fear of a looming mistake in the form of a two-year, legally binding commitment staring me in the face.
Before I’m ready to accept the things I could lose by doing this, Mrs. Esposito hands us both a set of keys, smiles at CiCi, and says, “Congratulations! We’re happy you’ve decided to stick around.” She turns to me with the same friendly look and says, “Welcome to the building, Miss Montgomery. I hope you’ll feel at home here. Please let me know if there’s anything you need.”
I reach out and shake her hand, putting a smile on. “Thank you so very much, Mrs. Esposito. I think I’ll be very happy here.”
“I’ll leave you ladies to your new place,” she says, gathering up her copy of the lease. “CiCi, you know how to get in touch if you have any issues. We’ll do your final walkthrough downstairs when you’re all moved out this weekend. Keep me posted on things. And congratulations again.”
CiCi bounces in place and clutches her new set of keys with unbridled joy. “I will, thank you, Mrs. Esposito. Thank you so very much.” She reaches over and hugs her landlady, and I envy that kind of happiness.
Mrs. Esposito leaves us and pulls the apartment door shut behind her. As soon as she’s clear of the room, CiCi squeals and grabs me in the tightest possible bear hug and starts jumping up and down.
“We did it!” she says, still jumping. “We’re roommates! You’re no longer homeless! Things are looking up, lady. I know it’s hard to see right now, but I promise, this is the start of better things to come.”
I hug her back with sincerity. “Thank you so much for being my friend, CiCi.”
She pulls away to look at me, but keeps her arms wrapped around my waist. “Hey. I always will be. No matter what happens, Clara, no matter what he does, or what awful things he sends your way, I’m yours. And there’s not a damn thing you can do to get rid of me. You’re stuck with me, so there.”
I feel more tears working their way up. “You promise?”
“Always,” she says, and pulls me into another hug. No jumping, no squealing. Just love and support. “You’re my people, and nothing is ever going to change that.”
“Love yer face, lady,” I say, a single, grateful tear falling.
“Love yers right back, cupcake.”