37

After our long separation, my dream of being reunited with my cherished mattress fell mighty short in reality.

Instead of sprawling out and reveling in the gloriousness and support, I spent the night lying there, wide awake, alternating between bursts of incoherent rage and inconsolable sobbing.

Neither made me feel particularly proud.

I watched the sun rise and never managed to fall asleep, which is especially unfortunate, given the rest of my day is to be spent helping CiCi pack her apartment and start hauling things up here.

Finally, just after eight, I decide to give up on the quest for even a single Z and get up.

I open a box of clothes that’s been locked in my storage unit for weeks and feel a real shot of happiness when I pull out my Wonder Woman graphic tee and a pair of well-worn and distressed jeans. There’s nothing particularly special about either item, but they’re here. In a place that’s mine.

After getting dressed and ignoring that sort of hollow, musty storage unit scent that seems to have infiltrated my boxes of clothes, I head to the still-empty living room and grab my coat. In the absence of sleep, the best course of action seems to be schlepping down to the bodega across the street and buying the absolute largest coffees they sell for both CiCi and me.

I shoot her a text. Are you awake? I’m going for coffee.

A second after I hit Send, the apartment door swings open, and I yelp.

“Of course I’m up,” CiCi says, strolling in carrying a tray with two giant coffees and a bag that I am hoping contains some kind of chocolate-based baked goods.

“You scared the hell out of me, lady.”

CiCi plops the tray down on the counter, turns to me, and puts her hands on her hips, glaring.

“Uh. What’s wrong? You’re giving me your scold face.”

“You didn’t even let him explain? Are you freaking serious?”

I gape. “How, how could you possibly know about that?”

She flails her arms out wide and shouts, “Who the fuck do you think told him everything in the first place!”

“CiCi! What!?”

“Cupcake, I called in every favor I had and then some to get the invoice from TMZ showing it was the junkyard guy who sold it and not you. And you didn’t even let him tell you!”

I close my eyes and shake my head. I think my synapses have ruptured. “Okay. Slow down. One, what do you mean, you got the invoice? And two, how do you even know I didn’t let him explain?”

“Because he told me!”

“He wh—”

“Look, I spent the whole day playing email and phone Tetris until I managed to get ahold of someone who sent me a copy of the receipt of payment to the guy.” She takes out her phone, scrolls quickly, and holds it up for me to see a picture of a piece of paper.

It’s a copy of the contract for the Cranson story from TMZ, complete with the name of the person who sold it.

Chris Brunman.

“How in the fuck?” I gasp.

“I didn’t get it until late last night, so I dug Caspian’s number out of our old texts from the night I sent it to you, and texted him the picture. I didn’t hear back right away, so I called him over and over until I got the bastard to pick up.”

“Oh my god, you’re who he was talking to?”

“Yes! I called that motherfucker a good ten times in a row before he answered, but he finally did, and I explained everything. He was really upset and kept apologizing and said he was going to tell you everything and promised he wasn’t going to do the breaking-up-with-you thing.”

My legs feel gelatinous, so I lean against the counter. “I can’t believe this.”

“And when I didn’t hear from you, I figured you guys had been talking or doing it or something, so I didn’t bother you.”

“CiCi!”

“I was on my way back from grabbing the coffee and I got this,” she says, poking at her phone again. She holds it up once more.

I look from CiCi to the phone and back again.

“Why didn’t you tell me!?”

She looks half past exasperated. “Because he was supposed to tell you! And then I would get to hear the sordid makeup details from you over packing today!” She shifts into soothing best-friend mode. “What the hell happened last night?”

I poke at the cardboard coffee tray with my finger. “We spent the whole night on edge, and I waited for him to do the thing, and then he got your call and it all shifted, but we were at the stupid party, so it’s not like we could talk, you know?”

“Okay, so what about after the party?”

“I don’t know!” I wail, feeling a little desperate. “We rode in, like, absolute silence all the way here, and then he asked to talk and explain and I just sort of...lost it. I shouted, I screamed, I cried, and I walked away, and that was the end of it.”

“Clara, come on.”

My cheeks are burning. “No! Come on, nothing! Okay, fine, so he finally realized what actually happened, but that doesn’t change any of the things he did! He still tortured me for days, and he freaked the hell out of me in that hotel room! I’ve never seen someone so angry! This man has been responsible for the complete and total fuckification of my life since I met him! Am I just supposed to forget everything he said to me because he finally listened to you?”

“No, not at all! He had some major ass-kissing to do after all of that.”

“Goddamn right, he did.”

“So why didn’t you give him the chance to do it!?”

I huff. “Look, I get that you want to look after me, but this is not that big a deal. So we don’t end up pen pals. It’s not the end of the world.”

She furrows her brow at me. “I can’t tell if you’re being deliberately dense, or if you’re just really that good at lying to yourself.”

I blanch. “What the hell does that mean?”

“He has feelings for you, you dork!”

“No, he doesn’t!”

“Lying it is.” She shakes her head at me. “Okay, so, setting aside the kissing and the bonding and the fact that you were having googly eyes when you got his texts before the senator thing happened—tell me how he reacted when you shut him down last night.”

I stare at her, mouth open a little, but I can’t seem to make any words come out.

“Lay it on me, Clara. How did he react?”

“He was...fine.”

“Cupcake.”

I shake my head again. “He cried, okay?”

“FEELINGS.”

“Hey, if someone was calling me on all my bullshit, I would cry, too! I wouldn’t read anything into it.”

CiCi sighs dramatically. “Look, he’s probably not on his plane yet. Why don’t you call him and see if he can take a later flight, so you guys can actually freaking talk.”

“No way!” I cry. “Absolutely not. I’m not going to be the girl who goes racing through the airport to chase down some guy who was horrible to her. I’ve made an ass of myself in his presence too many times to count as it is. If someone was going to make a grand gesture and risk humiliation and rejection, it sure as shit deserves to be him.” I drag the toe of my sneaker across the wood floor. “Besides, even if we had talked, and I’d swallowed the one shred of dignity I have left and forgave him, he’d still be leaving today. I’d still be here, and we wouldn’t have ever seen each other again, anyway. This way, I keep that dignity sliver, and maybe the next time he gets the urge to go all Shouty McPrimadonna at someone, he’ll walk it off instead.”

“Clara.”

“What?”

“I’m not an idiot. You think you did some great job hiding the fact that you’ve been head over heels for the guy, but I have eyes, and you’re a shitty actress. You liked him. You still like him. It’s okay to admit you have feelings for the guy.”

I shake my head and feel tears welling up. With a shrug and a pathetic attempt at a smile, I say, “It doesn’t matter either way. It’s done.”

CiCi reaches out and takes my hand, giving it a squeeze. “It doesn’t necessarily have to be.”

I sniff, take a deep breath, and give her hand a return squeeze before letting go and picking up one of the coffees she brought. “So, what’s in that bag? Please tell me it’s chocolate croissants.”

“Clara, come on.”

“Hey, man, if you still want me to help you pack up today, I’m going to need the fuel.”

She opens her mouth, I assume determined to argue further, but my phone rings on the counter.

“Oh my god, is it—”

I roll my eyes and grab it to answer. “Even without looking, I can assure you it’s not.” I hit Answer. “Hello?”

“Is this Clara?” an unfamiliar voice asks.

“This is she,” I say, stifling a yawn and reaching again for the coffee.

“Am I interrupting something?” the voice asks, a take-no-shit cadence coming through clear as day.

Oh my god. It’s salt and bourbon.

“Uh, not at all, Ms. McInerney,” I say, setting the coffee back down and flailing my arm wildly at CiCi. “I’m glad to be hearing from you.”

“You should be,” she says with what I assume, for her, is a modest chuckle. “I’m officially offering you the associate editor position on our kidlit imprint.”

A thousand inappropriate things play on the tip of my tongue. Squeeing. Bursting into tears. Shrieking, “Are you fucking serious OH MY GAWD.”

Instead, I calmly but enthusiastically say, “That’s wonderful! Thank you!”

Nailed it.

She goes into details about the position, hours expected (long ones), a work-from-home day each week, pay, a quick overview of benefits, etc., etc. She also promises that while I will have a comfortable level of freedom over my list, she insists on working as a tight-knit group, and she thinks I’ll be a quality team player.

All the while, CiCi stands in front of me, desperately trying to hear anything.

“From what I hear,” Joan adds, “you’ve got quite a few offers on your plate, and from houses that are likely offering you more money than I am. You gotta do what’s best for you, so no hard feelings if you turn me down. But I will say, I was impressed with the list you’d curated at your old house, and I think you’d fit in well here. And I can promise I will do my best to help ensure you’re able to keep growing with the kind of titles you have an obvious talent for nurturing. I would look forward to the chance to build that list together. Anyway, you take the time you need to make your decision, and I hope you find a good home, even if it’s not with us.”

I clutch my hand to my heart so hard it starts to hurt. “Ms. McInerney, I don’t need the time. Yes, a couple of the other offers might have more money attached to them, but I know I would never have the opportunity at those houses to learn the things I could learn working with you. I’m incredibly flattered you see the value in my work, and I’d be honored to join Fogler Publishing. I accept your offer.”

“Good,” she says, and I can hear her typing in the background. She can’t be contained, this woman. “Those other houses are shit, anyway.” I laugh hard. “Glad to have you on board, Clara Montgomery. I’ll have Trey send over all the details, and you can look over the contract. If you have any questions, let one of us know.”

“I’ll do that, Ms. McInerney. Thank you.”

“It’s Joan,” she clarifies. “Welcome to the team.”

“Thank you, Joan,” I say.

The line goes dead, and I stand there for a second, just staring at my phone.

“You got the job?”

“I got the job!” I squeal. “Based on my actual skills and merit and everything!”

We mutually devolve into excited shrieks and jumping up and down and hugging.

“I’m so happy for you!”

“Oh my god, now I don’t have to admit to my mom that she was right about me being a big failure and go get my teaching certification and move home to Buffalo and have my uncle Jack as a boss and purposely drink myself into an early death!”

CiCi stops jumping. “Was...was that an option?”

“Not a good one,” I admit, picking up my coffee again. “All right, lady. Let’s get your shit packed up and let the roommate adventure begin!”