And what the heck did I want to do? I didn’t have a clue.
I took a long sip of my wine, needing to soothe the ache in my belly.
Watching my mom flit through life after my dad passed, unable to move on while only obsessing more over me, that was no life. Hearing her talk about life before my dad—the bands, the excitement, and her fellow groupies—that was her passion, her mission, a manifesto of sorts that she abandoned when she fell for my dad. To me, that life seemed so strange, to flit and float around after musicians, but it was still her life.
Then I found myself in a front-row seat, watching her after my dad passed. Her life before, during, and after him was like scattered pieces from random puzzles, none of them fitting with one another.
But me, I wanted something different. Not her before or after or anything like her life as I ever knew it.
“Please. I haven’t hooked up since months ago, and that guy wanted to use a butt plug on the first date. No, thank you.”
Janie took a seductive sip of her drink through the stirrer straw and waggled her eyebrows. “Seriously, Char, you may like a butt plug. With the perfect guy.”
“Maybe . . . after I know a man for more than a dinner.”
“Eh, knowing a guy is overrated.”
“So, what’s going on with you?” I quickly changed the subject, steering it far away from butt plugs.
“Well, my boss is a dick but this job pays well, so fuck it. He’s got me running all over town for some traveling-dinner thing he wants to sponsor as part of New York Restaurant Week. He’s practically salivating to be the sponsor hotel. I’m going to blow up like the Goodyear blimp with all the places he has me eating.”
“Aw, poor baby. Did you have to shove down brunch at Balthazar and burgers at Minetta?”
“As a matter of fact, I did. And I haven’t gotten laid in weeks. Must be all the extra pounds.”
“La-la-la, I’m not listening. You’re a beanpole, and I have to work the spinner bike like it’s a stripper pole. Although I lost some weight last week when I was home.”
Janie brought her thumb to my cheek and caressed my skin, her demeanor immediately changing. That was the thing about her—she was bitchy and bossy and self-centered, and dramatic. Maybe some would say narcissistic, but she was good to the core.
“How are you with all of that? I should be checking in more, but last week when you first got home, you seemed cool. Should I be bringing soup or whatever? Matzah ball? Mishmash? I’ll call my bubbe and ask where to get the best.”
Her soft, shiny, poker-straight black hair (thanks to the salon and those foul-smelling chemicals) whisked around my face as she came in to hug me tight, squeezing the ever-loving life out of me. I shoved her off after allowing her to hold on to me for an extra second.
“Gram was ninety-two,” I said, “and I’m fine. She lived a big, long, full life. And no, don’t bother your bubbe. She’s probably involved in a week-long Mahj tournament, and doesn’t need to worry about soup.”
“By the way, if I start to play Mah-jongg, call the loony bin.” Janie constantly worried she would turn into the stereotypical Upper-East New Yorker like her mom.
“Of course. But seriously, last week it was my mom making me nuts, and she’s still at it. Can you believe she’s still trying to fix me up with Garrett, my half-Asian distant cousin? She’s so obsessed with me making a life, settling down. I think she forgets what it was like when she did it. She’s like a heat-seeking missile when it comes to marrying me off. Sometimes I’m afraid to go home for fear he’s hanging around on my stoop, waiting for me.”
Janie lifted an eyebrow. “Maybe you should move?”
I burst out laughing. Hiccups ensued and happy tears rolled from my eyes.
“Move? No way! I would never leave my rent-controlled place. Ever. But this is just so strange with my mom. She lived a nomad’s life before my dad, and now she’s so determined to see me settled . . . with your type of guy. Are you two talking? Working together?”
The thought of moving was laughable enough, let alone doing it for a guy like Garrett, and Janie knew it. I’d fought like a bride in Filene’s Basement to get that condo. I would die there.
Alone—probably.
And that was pretty much how the rest of the evening went. Laughs, Janie rubbing up against multiple men, and more laughs.
Later, I crawled into bed, fluffed my pillows, and turned on Lucy.
I scanned my in-box for work stuff. Warm weather was quickly approaching, so the next few months would be a flurry of articles and features on flat stomachs, staying hydrated during outdoor summer exercise routines, and staying bikini-ready.
My team was champing at the bit to get a feature story. Poor Maggie, my newest intern, had sent me twelve pitches, not one of them original. The subject lines ranged from Legs and Lunges in Central Park to Staying Swimsuit Fab on the High Line. We’d done those articles every summer. They were filler, stuffed onto the pages of BubblePOP when we didn’t have anything better—which was less and less often with me. I was upping my game.
I wrote back to Maggie, encouraging her to think outside the box, check out new trends, and come up with something fresher, hinting at a few untapped topics. Something that would get eyeballs on our site, lots of them.
I ignored the e-mail from my mom with nothing in the subject line. I knew it was a Garrett-fueled message.
The next e-mail was from my boss, Larissa. There was a staff meeting later this week, and I was expected to have a full report.
I clicked into my spam folder; I checked it once a day. I’d learned my lesson the hard way when Brooke Burke was trying to get a hold of me and her message went to spam. For some unknown reason, I decided to check the folder and there it was, luckily only a day after she sent it. That feature went wild; every woman over thirty who wanted to look like Burke clicked on it.
Of course, there wasn’t much tonight. I tossed a bunch of sale e-mails from J. Crew, Athleta, and Amazon into the trash folder until only one was left.
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Apology
Dear Charleston –
Before you wonder, yes, I stalked you and found you, but only to say I’m sorry. I swear! Although there aren’t too many fitness editors named Charleston around, so you’re a pretty easy target.
Peggy over at BubblePOP was kind enough to give me your e-mail (I sort of lied and said I had a big Hollywood pitch and then offered movie passes to Katie’s film).
Well, I’m rambling like I did on the plane, and I by no means meant to offend you when I said “Merry Mary” or admitted to being lucky. I also would have much rather spent the flight chatting with you than looking at Katie.
I guess it was for the best because you had a lot to catch up on. Again, I’m sorry about your grandma. And my actions.
I had a good time in New York, but I kept thinking it would have been better if you were able to connect for a drink. I held back in writing until I left.
Look me up if you ever get to LA.
Good luck in all you do—
Wow, an editor. You should be proud, but don’t sacrifice what you really want.
—Lay(ton) Griffin
Holy shit! What the heck is this?
I slapped Lucy closed and turned out my light, curled under my down comforter (perfectly purple, more lavender actually), and closed my eyes.
“Lay” had written to me after I’d been such a bitch, and I’d slammed my laptop closed without so much as a reply. What was with him? We sat next to each other on a plane, his forehead shiny and his thigh touching mine, and not in a sexual way.
Fuckity-fuck. Why did I have to go and give him my name? Now he’s freaking finding me and acting all nice when I don’t deserve it.
I sat up, clicked the light back on, and grabbed my remote. No way was I going to sleep now. I turned on my TV that sits on top of my antique white chiffonier a
nd scrolled through the movies. How to Win a Guy in a Month came on the screen.
Double what the fuck? Katie was everywhere I turned.
Of course, I fluffed my lilac pillows and settled in to watch. After all, this was my specialty . . . losing a guy. If I could even get a guy, other than Layton, clearly a big Star Wars fan . . .
Dark Side Music? Ha. Please.
I’m a twenty-eight-year-old editor in the Big Apple with everything going for me. I’m a catch, right?
Then why did this stranger make my spine tingle and my heart warm?
I didn’t know him from the next guy, and he wasn’t close to my type. Yet his eyes made me want to ditch my stilettos and jump in, feet first.
When my alarm went off, I rolled out of bed and checked my phone for the temperature outside. After pulling on my favorite burgundy lululemon leggings and a Nike fleece jersey, I quickly put on socks and shoes, grabbed my headphones, and ran out the door. On the elevator to the lobby, I hit the button for my grunge playlist and secured my phone in my armband. As soon as the doors opened, I jogged to the front door and out into the chilly early spring weather.
I lived in an old warehouse in the Meatpacking District that had been converted into condos, and I’d been there since the revitalization started. It wasn’t the Village but it was loud and vibrant, the place to live if you were young and on the up-and-up. I loved it. My condo was close to the High Line, and all mine. My first place was nothing more than a glorified closet with a bathroom, but now I had a one-bedroom with high factory ceilings and exposed brick-and-metal walls in the middle of the coolest neighborhood in New York.
I picked up speed as my feet struck the pavement, making my way to the Line without even having to think about it. I did this four or five days a week, usually Monday through Wednesday, Friday and Sunday, with yoga on Thursday and Saturday. If I wasn’t running, I went spinning.
Hey, I was a fitness editor. Practice what you preach and all that. Plus, my sanity depended on it. It was the only way to mentally run away from the demons that haunted me. My fitness schedule was like a salve for my broken soul.
This morning I tried to stay focused on my music, but my mind kept wandering to a pair of rich brown eyes, compassionate and considerate. I wondered where he was from. Not New York or LA for sure, not with his kind manner.
Layton.
All night I’d felt compelled to answer his message, but had resisted the urge.
Why should I? I was never going to see him again.
At the end of the day, I slumped at my desk, staring at my steaming large coffee from Dean and DeLuca and the half-eaten bran muffin discarded next to it. My body spent, I was desperate to go home and slip into lounge pants.
Except I still had one more unpleasant task to handle, a part of my job I didn’t necessarily like and often felt I was too young to do, but that was just an excuse. Sadly, it came with the territory, so I pulled on my big-girl undies and picked up the phone.
“Maggie, can you come here?”
My intern flitted in like she was the boss, confident her ideas were the best I’d ever heard.
“Sit down, Maggie.”
She plopped down in the chair across from my desk like we were colleagues, flipping her bright red shawl of hair over her shoulder as she said, “What’s up?”
She really said it just like that. Seriously. Like we were happy-hour buddies.
“Maggie, it’s come to my attention you’ve been pitching ideas to our main competitor as well as a bunch of other Internet outlets while interning here.” When she opened her mouth to protest, I held up a hand to shush her. “Yes, if you were freelance, that would be okay. But you have a non-compete during the term of your internship.”
It was a mouthful made in corporate speak, another part of the job I despised. The lingo sucked every last creative cell from my body.
“I wasn’t trading secrets or anything, just trying to get an article, Charl-eee.” She sounded like my mom did lately, whiny and malcontent.
I didn’t mind being on a first-name basis with my intern, but the way my name rolled off her tongue like we were BFFs irked me. I mentally chastised myself for only being twenty-eight and not worthy of respect, as if it were my fault.
In a surprising and unwanted train of thought, my mind drifted to Layton and his reaction to my position as an editor. He’d practically laughed when I said I was an editor. Or did he?
“Maggie, listen, I don’t make the policies, and I know you desperately want to get your name out there, but this isn’t how to do it. You’re bright, but I think you’re trying too hard. I’m not entirely certain you’re not pitching the entire island of Manhattan. Maybe spreading yourself too thin?”
“Char, seriously, I’m cool. I’ll stop.” Maggie’s blue eyes were wide and innocent, sparkling even, not concerned and contrite like they should have been for a lowly intern being chastised as she was.
Time to put the hammer down.
“I have to let you go, Maggie. I’m sorry. It’s been a pleasure mentoring you while you were here, but now it’s time for you to go. I wish it were different, but you violated our agreement and the lawyers upstairs have a zero-tolerance policy.”
More corporate babble from me, and yet not a shred of humility on her part.
“That’s bull—” she spat out, then cooled her jets a little. “I’m a damn good intern, Charli.” Refusing to stand, she braced her hands on the armrest as she argued with me.
“It is what it is, Maggie. Stay in touch.”
I turned my attention to Lucy, making out like I had a million other tasks to do, but I was done. I was exhausted and my ego was bruised. Even Maggie didn’t take me seriously; she could see right through my facade. My outer shell might be New York chic, all stilettos and toughness, but inside I was trembling.
As Maggie stood in a huff and stomped out of my office, I leaned back in my chair and took a long slug of my coffee. The hot liquid made creamy with two-percent milk warmed my stomach and eased the headache that was building behind my eyes.
I was supposed to meet up with Janie again after work, but that wasn’t going to happen. I still had two stories to approve and it was late; the windows had already grown dark. Sighing, I closed out the windows on my screen, resigned to dragging Lucy home with me yet again.
Was this what I wanted? I wasn’t even writing anymore, just slashing my virtual red pen across the writing of others. My current reality seemed like a pale comparison to my old dreams.
Shoving my dissatisfaction to the back of my mind, I forged ahead with my routine. It was definitely a hail-a-cab kind of evening, and the salad bar around the corner was calling to me. They had the best tuna salad in New York.
But my hands had a mind of their own and didn’t power Lucy down. Instead, I pulled up my spam folder.
Needing to busy my hands while it loaded, I twisted my hair as best I could. It was half ponytail, half messy bun, and mostly falling out of the elastic band since my hair was shorter now.
My fingers worked over my mouse, hurriedly deleting all the sales pitches and requests for money to be sent to foreign lands, and then they began typing.
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Re: Apology
Layton –
Thank you so much for your kind words. But seriously, there was no need. We were just neighbors on a flight, and you don’t owe me anything.
Oh God. I’m hitting backspace more than actually writing.
We were airline companions, both under deadlines. I enjoyed your company while we chatted, and I wish you luck in your endeavors.
I hope the movie does awesome! Of course, I am going to try to snag a ticket to the premiere now that I met you I am going to definitely see it when it comes out and will look for your name in the credits.
Be well, and one of these days, I hope to visit LA. and will e-mail you.
Thanks again for yo
ur condolences.
Best wishes,
Charli
I hit SEND before I second-guessed what I was doing, smacked Lucy closed with gusto, and decided to order Chinese.
I was no longer in the mood to be good and eat a salad. Instead I was disgusted with myself for chasing after someone, for making a fool of myself with a man who shouldn’t matter, and I wanted to sulk in pan-fried noodles.
As I made my way out of my office, my stiletto boots beating quietly on the carpet, I saw a note taped on my assistant’s desk.
Charli –
I knew you were busy with Maggie and I didn’t want to interrupt, but this arrived for you at the end of the day.
—Cecilia
Next to the handwritten Post-it note was an enormous bouquet of flowers arranged in an oversized champagne flute.
A second handwritten note was stuck inside the pink-and-purple potpourri of wildflowers. Not trite roses or friendly carnations, something way better and unique. In the wild, they’d be considered weeds, but here in this elegant arrangement, they were groomed and gorgeous.
Charli-
Making sure you got my e-mail.
Apologies again.
Hope you’re popping bubbles . . . or whatever it is you do at work. Dotting i’s and crossing t’s, I guess.
—Layton
Like the flowers, I’d first dismissed their sender as a weed in the wild, but once I’d cut through the rough . . .
Ugh.
This wasn’t the time to get poetic. Or to mix metaphors.
I would have to add an ice cream on the street (maybe eat it first?) to my Chinese splurge.
Flowers? For me? I was the one who should be apologizing, not him.
And the champagne glass? He really seemed to know the way to my heart.
Not to mention his voice, which rang in my ear all the way home. I took the subway in an effort to drown out my imagining his sandpapery voice reading his note aloud. I stood there, clutching my floral arrangement over my bag across my chest, thinking a cab would have been better but I needed the distraction.
To See You Page 3