“Why’d you want to do this here, anyway?”
She sets her phone facedown on the arm of the chair I usually sit in to read. She looks absurdly small in it. She has to sit way forward so her feet reach the floor.
“Where else am I going to do it, the office?”
Fair enough. Salem and I haven’t told anyone at Broadside yet about this piece of the story, on her request. She wanted to make sure this interview went okay first, and I’m sure when I’m able to take a step back from my worries over the poisonous cloud thing, I’ll be able to see more clearly that it went better than okay. I’m pretty sure Salem did great.
“We could’ve done it at your house.”
Salem snorts. “Listen, Patrick and I are doing pretty well these days. But do I think he wants me to talk on the record in our family home about that time ten years ago when I basically had an emotional affair with Lynton Baltimore? Not really.”
Right. Patrick works from home, too. It would’ve been awkward.
Poisonous, if you will.
“Anyway, this worked out perfect!” she says, weirdly chipper.
Maybe she’s feeling some kind of euphoria now that it’s done. She must’ve been nervous, even though she didn’t seem so.
“Your apartment is fine!” She picks up her phone, checks it again. “It’s a little spartan, though. What do men your age have against hanging art on the walls?”
Jesus Christ. Since our lunch that day she first came back, I’ve gotten used to the fact that my relationship with Salem has slipped into a friendship, even though it’s a friendship that’s obviously been conditioned by our work together. And the experience of prepping for this interview—this interview that’s about something so personal to her—has meant spending even more time together outside of the office, talking about things we never would have otherwise, probably.
But that still doesn’t mean I want her commentary on the state of my apartment.
“I haven’t lived here that long.”
She makes an annoyed face. “You didn’t even put out any snacks.”
I stare at her. “We were recording.”
She shrugs. Am I going to have to . . . get her a snack? I can’t remember the last time I went to the grocery store. My eating habits since getting back from Olympia have been uneven at best. The truth is, I thought Salem would want to go right after we wrapped. I thought she’d want to be alone.
Iwant to be alone.
Still, I get up from the couch and make my way to the kitchen. I think there’s an unopened bag of corn chips in the pantry. They’re a generic brand and I don’t have any salsa, so maybe when it’s all I have to offer she’ll decide to go. When she does, I wonder if she’ll call Jess and Tegan, or if she’ll wait a little longer.
I wonder what they’ll say.
I don’t know if I’m dreading or anticipating hearing.
The way I miss Jess—it isn’t like missing someone I knew for a little more than two weeks.
It’s missing someone I knew forever. Every day that passes, it gets harder to imagine waiting for her for much longer. I know I can’t push her, but also—also, who’s looking out for her? Who’s helping her get through this?
I swallow, shove my hand in the pantry for the corn chips. Even better, theyhavebeen opened. They’re almost certainly stale. Surely with this offering, Salem will be out of here in five minutes, max.
Except when I turn back to the living room, she’s got her laptop out. Tapping away.
What the fuck.
“Okay, so I’ve been going over your latest edits on the pitch,” she says. “Strong, but I think we can still improve this last part, about the joy of sport. It’s not hitting yet.”
I stay where I am for a few seconds, stale chips in hand. Breathe through the frustration of this. I can’t be annoyed, because the pitch is maybe the one thing that’s kept me from doing something asinine like buying a plane ticket to Ohio and flattening my way back into Jess’s life. In the last week, I’ve made a lot of progress on the pitch, and a good deal of that is down to Salem. She seems excited about it, supportive about it, but she’s also exacting. She presses me on the story structure, presses me to make it bigger, sends me links to more and more research she thinks I should read. I’m grateful for the distraction—for the way I’m pretty sure she’s propping me up through a tough time—but I’m also grateful for how good the pitch is getting.
Much as I hate to admit it, I can see how much I’ve learned from the Baltimore story.
How much better of a job I’ll do for Cope because of it.
