When she came back, she said she was going to have to take some time off. That we’d work on the rest of the story when she was back.
She knew I wouldn’t press her about it. I was in no shape to press anyone about anything. And anyway, we didn’t even have seats together on the plane. I barely even saw her when we finally landed back at Logan, and the truth is, I felt strangely abandoned. Who else could I talk to about what happened, after all?
No one, that’s who. Salem’s the only other witness to what happened on that houseboat, the only other person who knows what led up to it, and I know it’d feel like a betrayal of Jess to tell anyone else. Three nights ago I looked up teletherapy services—just to get some of thisweightoff my chest—but then I realized I probably couldn’t even bring myself to tell a professional.
It’s too private.
“Pitches tomorrow,” says Emma, wrapping up the meeting, which means I missed the last round of trends. She gives everyone one of her meaningful looks, which is her way of calmly telling everyone to get to fucking work on finding something that’ll hit one of the trends we just finished talking about. “Looking forward to that!”
I stand from my chair, joints popping. I move slowly out the conference room door, dreading the next couple of hours of work at my desk. Back at my cube, my laptop has a folder named “Cope” with ten documents inside. One half-done pitch for every day I’ve been back. Not a single one is worth a damn.
You have a huge opportunity, I remember Jess saying.You know it’s important.
It’s an awful feeling, not to be able to work on it. Every time I try and fail—my head too full of Jess to focus—I get angry at myself. Thisisa huge opportunity, one that I’ve been working toward for years now. This is a tribute to my best friend; this is something that could help people. Two weeks with a woman who doesn’t even want me with her, a woman who is always going to see me only as the man who turned the life she worked so hard for upside down, and I’m going to throw it all away?
Then, usually, I get a little angry at her, too.
Though that never feels right for long.
I’m not really mad at her. I miss her. I fucking love her. I never even got to say it.
I pass colleagues tapping away at sleek laptops, earbuds in, expressions of deep concentration on their faces. Maybe I should have taken some days off, too. I could’ve gone back to the farm, hid out with Beth and Mace and the girls. I could’ve avoided my dad’stold you solooks, but then again, I guess I couldn’t have avoided the fact that the farm is where everything changed for me and Jess; the farm is where I first—
I stop at the entry to my cube, see the familiar mop of gray-brown curls. She’s sitting in my desk chair, legs crossed, hands clasped. Like she would’ve waited all day.
She looks me over and wrinkles her nose once, as though she’s smelled something bad, which seems pretty unfair. I may not remember when I ate last, but I know for sure I showered this morning.
Still, when she finally speaks, it’s a relief to hear her voice again.
“Hawk, I’m back. And you, unfortunately, look like absolute shit.”
* * *
SALEMand I don’t have to discuss the fact that we’re not going to talk inside the office. Basically, I see her sitting there, I shove my shit in my bag, and we walk together out of the office and into the hot summer air. We go three blocks, past all the closest coffee shops our coworkers frequent, and settle on a café where Salem orders a full meal and stares at me in judgment when I say I’m not hungry.
Two weeks on a road trip will make you incredibly skilled at nonverbal communication with someone, I guess.
We’re sitting close together at a cramped sidewalk table, which is probably a so-I-can-see-every-microexpression-on-his-face strategy on Salem’s part. In contrast to me, she looks good: rested and polished, and her energy seems pretty much back to normal. She’s lost the subdued mien from the airport, and definitely hasn’t returned to the cutting, impatient intensity she showed up with in New Mexico.
She’s pretty close to the Salem I started with. Maybe she’s even a little more relaxed.
“Pen’s doing good?” I ask, trying to get ahead of her.
She can see that, obviously. But she doesn’t call me on it.
“Very good. Pat and I took her to Rhode Island, got a seaside cottage for a few days. I don’t know if I mentioned.”
I hope my face looks like that emoji with a straight line for a mouth. She knows she didn’t mention. Also, she’s been at a seaside cottage while I’ve been here in this hot, weird city that I still don’t really understand unless I’m constantly looking at a map on my phone, licking my wounds and not getting any work done.
“I’m sure that was good for her,” I say blandly.
“I can tell you’re upset with me.”
“I’m not.”
“You have a terrible poker face.”
“That’s not the worst thing anyone’s ever said about me.”
