Because I know that this shift is, at least in part, about me. About us.
“I have to see this through,” he tells me, late at night, holding me close. “And then . . .”
But he always trails off, the game still in play. It’s just that now, the game seems more serious between us than ever.
“Hey, ladies,” Lachelle says, coming into the back room and setting her bag on the chair next to me. That must mean it’s close to Lachelle’s four o’clock client meeting, and also close to when I need to get on the subway.
“Look what Meg finished,” Lark says, turning the planner toward Lachelle. They’re kind of an odd pair, Lark and Lachelle, but each time Lark comes to the shop, Lachelle always gives her a warm, teasing welcome—calling her princess and asking her about her throwing arm.
“Ooooh,” Lachelle says, leaning down. “This is so you!”
“That’s what I said, too!” Lark says, delighted. “Meg, I want you to do one of these for my sister. She—”
“Nuh-uh,” says Lachelle. She hooks a thumb at me as though she’s my first base coach. “This woman has avery importantdeadline in two days. Nothing until that’s over.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Lark says, because now she knows about my deadline, too. “Well, after—”
“Actually,” I say proudly, “I’m finished. I scanned all the sketches this morning. They’re ready to go.”
It’s so hard to believe my pitch is almost here. When I think about where I was this spring, how utterly blocked I was, how different things were—it’s a miracle I’ve actually got something to present. Something I’m so proud of. Like Reid, I’ve been working hard, too, more determined than ever to succeed at this pitch, as though getting it is somehow just as important for him, for us, to stay.
“Cough ’em up,” says Lachelle, holding out a palm. “I want to see what you decided about the colors for the tree stuff.”
I wave a hand. “They’re back at home. I want you to see it all together. We’re still on for the run-through tomorrow?”
“For sure,” Lachelle says. “You should come, princess. Cecy and I are going to set it up back here like a conference room. Meg’s going to do the whole thing.”
“Really?” Lark looks back and forth between us. “That would be okay?”
“Absolutely,” I say, still struck by Lark’s insecurity, the way she’s always worried about her welcome somewhere. “The more the merrier.”
“Bring your boyfriend,” Lachelle says, nudging my shoulder with her hip. “I’m dying to meet him. I’m definitely going to ask him about the marginal tax rate.”
I laugh, but feel a thread of discomfort. I need to tell Cecelia and Lachelle about Reid, about how I met him. But I’ve been putting it off, and whether that’s because I’m still ashamed about what I’d done that had brought him back in here, or because I’m worried that Reid and I won’t make it past this summer—that’s a mystery that’s hidden even from me.
“He’ll probably have to work.” And anyway, he’s seen them all already. When we’re together, I show him the latest. When we’re not, I snap photos and send them to his phone. No matter how busy he gets, he’s always interested.
“Capitalism,” Lachelle says, shaking her head. Then she peeks out to the front of the store, spotting her clients talking with Cecelia. “All right, get out, you two. I have money to make.”
Lark and I both laugh, scrambling dramatically to pick up our things. On our way out, I wave at Cecelia, who’s still chatting with Lachelle’s clients, but she pauses long enough to mouth,Tomorrow?at me, and she gives me a thumbs-up when I nod.
“They’re so nice,” Lark says, when we’re out on the sidewalk. I open my mouth to agree, but she speaks again. “I’ve been wondering if I should think about going back to work, you know?”
“Yeah?” I know my eyebrows are probably halfway up my head. Larknevertalks about working as though it’s something she’s planning to do again. It’s always about past projects, past goals she’s set aside. Scripts Cameron doesn’t like for her.
“I used to love being on set. I loved being around people.”
“I think you should go back, too, if you want to. You’re so talented.”
She gives me her closemouthed smile. “You think?”
“Please. It wasn’t our favorite movie for nothing,” I say, ignoring the twinge I feel at having repeated Sibby’s words. “Why not call your agent?”
“Maybe,” she says, but she looks unsure.
On impulse, I reach a hand out, palm up, same as Lachelle. I look meaningfully at the planner Lark’s still holding against her chest. When she hands it over, I shove a hand in my bag, come up with one of the Microns littering the bottom. I flip open the cover, page to tomorrow’s spread.Call agent, I write, then hand it back to her.
“Great,” she says, in that sarcastic way she sometimes has. “My handwriting is going to look like garbage in here now.”
