“What are you going to do?” she said.
“I have no idea.”
Lola blew out a breath. I downed another gulp, and for a minute, we simply passed the bottle back and forth. Eventually, she broke the silence.
“I mean, in defense of teenage you, he’s objectively gorgeous.”
“Yeah.” I yanked a scrap of gold foil off the bottle’s neck, then wiped the tears off my face. “I’m aware.”
I didn’t sleep much that night.
It was hot. Not even June, and already, thick and breathless summer slipped through the cracked-open windows of our apartment. Above me, twinkle lights flickered like dusty old stars, dotting the borders of a tulle canopy I’d had since college. Cars rolled by, but really, it was almost quiet. It was Eightieth and York, after all, and three in the morning.
The room divider that bisected our studio was suggestive only. A random sidewalk find: bamboo and rattan, potentially vintage, but probably from World Market. Every time Lola tossed or turned or got up to pee, I closed my eyes and lay very still. But for the most part, she snoozed peacefully; her breathing, a metronome.
I reached for my glowing phone.
Selma again. She was on Pacific Time. I was Selma’s most cherished ghostwriter, and it wasn’t particularly close. Probably because I was the only one she’d ever hired who didn’t actively want to publish under my own name. It kept me focused—and it kept my best work on Meredith’s page.
How’s my favorite insomniac? What did you think of Tyler? He’s adorable, right? In that brooding, tortured way? Anyway, can you two get me an outline in a week? Meredith’s being more insane than usual, and her publisher isn’t happy, so the sooner, the better.
I inhaled.
I exhaled.
I tried to be a big girl.
When that didn’t work, I hurled my phone—anthropomorphic Care Bear case and all—across my half of the room. It landed on a sequin leotard abandoned atop an inflatable chair.
2
Tyler
Arthur took a drag of his cigarette.
“You should’ve turned down that job, kid. That was a mistake, showing up there. That’s not what we do.”
I hung my head, pulling a Marlboro Red out of his soft pack and rolling it between my still-shaking fingers. I could barely feel its seam or the rough, blunt edge of its filter. Arthur raised an eyebrow but said nothing. I hadn’t smoked in three years.
“I didn’t know it was her,” I said. “I wouldn’t have gone. I wouldn’t have said yes.”
“How could you not know? Did this agent lady really not give you her name?”
I flicked his lighter a couple of times but left the cigarette unlit. We were sitting on the stoop of a church tucked off Lexington, unpacking every detail of my very bad day. Bad enough, apparently, that we were skipping Chinese food a few blocks over with Pedro, Cal, and whoever else felt like joining us that particular Friday night. My life, you’ll see, was kind of unusual for a twenty-seven-year-old.
“No, she did, but it was just her email address. I barely looked at it. It said Katie May, and...”
“May?”
“I don’t know, man. It’s her middle name. I didn’t put any of it together. I just got this email from the agent out of nowhere, andthen we had a quick call, and that was that. The whole thing was a blur. I just signed a contract and got on the train.”
Arthur leaned against the wrought iron and smirked.
“What?” I said.
“You’re lucky you’re so pretty, McNally. Because you sure are dumb as rocks.”
“Fuck you! You can’t use email either! You’re, like, a hundred years old! You tried to fax me once!”
