“You’re all here?” Emily said. “For me?” Her voice cracked and she lapsed, unconsciously perhaps, into her natural lower-class accent. “I thought for sure you all were just going to let me . . .” She broke off, her neck and cheeks reddened, her eyes filled with tears. She covered her face with her hands.
“Never,” I said, going to her. “I was just on my way to turn myself in.” I folded my arms around her, squeezing so hard I thought for sure she’d complain, but she didn’t.
Wendi, Ginger, and Lily huddled around us, clinging, howling, crying. My upstairs neighbors might have thought someone had died, because when you get right down to it, there’s such an indistinguishable line between crying out for dear life and crying out for dear death.
I always wondered what the sensation was like, to win. The lottery, the Super Bowl, a gold medal—to win anything, really. To want something so much, and to get it. Now I knew.
Beneath all the tears, I was saying thank you, thankyouthankyouthankyou, to God, the Universe, Buddha, Oprah, anyone and everyone who’d helped out with this in any way. And then I made a silent promise to pay my good fortune forward, because suddenly I had something to pay forward. I was supposed to be an island, and hell might be other people, but what I had there at that moment in my overfull kitchen—well, it was something.
—
LATER THAT NIGHT, Emily and I drank champagne in our pajamas. Me in my leisurely stripes, she in her lace two-piece. It was just the two of us again, lounging on my bed. Ginger, Wendi, and Lily had gone home; the news that Emily was free had quieted the chatter on the Internet, and we could take a deep breath and relax back into our old selves—or, the newly updated versions of our old selves.
“So, how exactly did you manage to get me out of jail?” Emily asked while uncorking our second bottle of Asti Spumante.
“Long story. I sort of had Robert by the balls.” I held out my glass to be refilled. “The cojones.”
Emily set the bottle onto my nightstand and scrolled through a few new messages on her phone. She was already being bombarded with calls and e-mails. Everyone wanted to know what had happened. Why was she held in custody? Why wasn’t she charged with anything? People wanted answers. Emily didn’t have any of those answers, but she was still enjoying the attention nonetheless.
“You’re going to have to be a little more specific,” she said. “I have to have a good story to tell my fans; that’s what they want from me now.” As she was scrolling, her phone chimed again.
I checked my own phone, not for messages—which was good because there weren’t any—but for the time.
It was only a little after eight p.m. Not so late as to make it entirely insane for me to forgo my champagne flute, lift myself from the bed, throw on some clothes, and make my way uptown. Kevin had to have heard the news by now that Emily and I had come out okay. I liked to imagine that he’d been closely monitoring my situation on the sly since we broke up; I pictured him peeping around Titan corners, eavesdropping on conversations, worrying over Emily’s arrest, and even cheering on the snowballing success of our website from his too-small couch in his too-small apartment.
Of course I understood that in real life Kevin was still angry. And that even now, my being exonerated didn’t un-betray him. I’d still lied to him over the course of many days and nights and hamburgers—and that was unforgivable. But I wanted to go to him, tonight, immediately, unforgivable or not.
“I’m running out of battery.” Emily poked at her phone without looking up. “Have you seen my charger?”
I wheeled around to the side of my bed, put my feet on the floor, and stood up. By the time Emily realized I wasn’t searching the room for her phone charger, I was already pulling my pea coat out of the closet.
“What the hell are you doing?” she asked, suddenly aware of me. “Where are you going? Out to sea?”
I buttoned my pea coat closed. “I won’t be gone long.”
“Where could you possibly have to go? I just got out of prison, I’m an ex-con, the least you could do is drink with me all night.”
I leaned over her and gave her a kiss on the forehead just as her phone chimed again—but this time she ignored it.
“Hey,” she said, making her eyes big. “Fontana. I know where you’re going.”
Heating up quickly in my heavy wool sailor’s coat, I vacillated between dashing out the door and disrobing.
“Good for you,” Emily said, full of pride. “Go to him.”
“Fuck off,” I said to sabotage the moment, and then left the apartment before the vulnerability and my wooly sweat could really seep in.
Go to him.
Who did Emily think I was, pre-op Meg Ryan?
You know what Robert would say to that? Hogwash. What a buncha hokum. Grow a set.
Once outside I became acutely aware of my light-headedness, the wobbliness in my knees. In a split-second decision I called a cab. And, no, it wasn’t because I was going to start living like a spoiled rich girl who took cars everywhere now that I was all out of debt and not a criminal. It was that it was post–rush hour—the trains would take forever and traffic would be light. I also wanted to give myself the least opportunity to change my mind and turn back. The investment of a $30 cab ride was as good a deterrent as I could think of.
Plus, cab rides are awesome. Except for the slight carsickness and occasional fear for your life, there is nothing like zipping through nighttime New York in a foul-smelling automobile. To get to the Upper East Side from Williamsburg, you have to go over the Williamsburg Bridge, which isn’t quite the Brooklyn Bridge, but it’s no scrub either. Crossing it, the view of the Manhattan skyline always made my chest feel too full, like my heart had suddenly swelled in the way of the Grinch who stole Christmas the moment he went soft. I was a real sucker for shiny lights and tall buildings. Tonight the sky was so black and clear, the skyscrapers looked Photoshopped against it—it was truly beautiful, and I thought to myself, This is going to be horrible, what I’m about to do. This was going to make me feel like I wanted to die, but once it was over, I could move on. I’d continue with my life knowing that at least I tried. At least I fought for him. That Tina Fontana—island unto herself—was willing to do everything in her power to keep someone in her life.
My cabdriver carried on a conversation in a foreign tongue as he negotiated the FDR Drive and it dawned on me gradually: this would make two people now that I didn’t just wave off with a see ya before closing the door and plopping down in bed with Netflix and some cookies.
“Ana baneek omak!” my driver shouted, but he was addressing someone else.
When we finally turned onto Kevin’s block, it was the strangest thing—Kevin was right there, trudging alongside us up the sidewalk, with his hands dug deep into his coat pockets. It was a moment I recognized from a thousand movies, starring Meg Ryan and her contemporaries. Kevin was on his way to find me just as I was on my way to find him.
“Stop the car!” I yelled to my driver. “Pull over. I want to get out here.”
He did so without hesitation or a blip in his earpiece conversation. Kevin, possibly alarmed he was about to be clipped gangster style, jumped back.
I stepped out of the cab, slammed the door, and looked at him. “Where you headed?” I asked, trying to make light of the fear in his eyes.
I was on my way to find you, I was sure he was going to say.
“I was on my way to get a slice of pizza,” he actually said.
“Oh.”
Then my driver palmed his horn and cussed at me from inside the car. I needed to pay him.
So I took care of all that and once he peeled away, I returned my attention to Kevin. It was just cold enough for condensation to blow from our mouths. He didn’t move. So I went to him.
“I won’t keep you,” I said, forcing myself to look at him, not down at the sidewalk. “I
just wanted to tell you in person how sorry I am. For everything.”
Kevin exhaled a deep breath that made it look like he’d been smoking an invisible cigarette. Then he knelt down and took a seat right there on the curb.
I didn’t wait for an invitation to sit beside him. “If you’re willing to hear me out—” I began, and then broke off.
Were there even words?
Tears welled in my eyes, so I closed them, but that only made the streams form faster down my face.
“I’m just so sorry,” I said, because it was all I could say. I reached for Kevin’s hand and he didn’t pull it away from me. Instead he wrapped his arm around my torso and drew me in.
He smelled like himself. And his shoulder was both soft and hard all at once. How I’d missed his shoulders.
“I shouldn’t have run out on you like that,” he said. “When you needed me most.” He hugged me tighter. “I won’t do that again, I promise.”
I let myself lean into him. There was so much I needed to say, but unlike the inappropriate moment I had chosen to blurt out that I loved him, I recognized now wasn’t the time. “Does this mean you’re willing to give me another chance?” I asked.
He kept holding me, letting his authoritative grasp speak for him. It said: a man of such decency and intelligence would never clutch so tightly to anything without value.
“If you’ll give me another chance,” he said.
I really let loose then with the crying. I couldn’t help it. I was a girl sobbing into her boyfriend’s sleeve on a public street. But only for like a minute, and then I got my shit together.
“I’ll explain the whole story from the beginning,” I said, wiping my face dry. “But please believe me when I tell you, I never intended to do anything so incredibly illegal.”
Kevin exhaled another long smoky breath. “I think I understand why you did what you did,” he said. “Don’t forget, I know what goes on at Titan and what Robert’s like. You think I haven’t had any revenge fantasies of my own?”
“No. I don’t.”
“Well don’t be so sure. I’m not as wholesome as you think.”
“Yes you are, and that’s what I love best about you.” I moved in for a kiss, but he pulled back.
“That is so not what you love best about me.”
“It is.” I placed my hands on both sides of his handsome face. “It just took losing you to make me realize it.”
Then he let me kiss him, kissing me back tenderly enough for my whole body to loosen.
After a moment, he paused and said, “I have something to tell you.”
Immediately my mind went to: He slept with some other girl while we were broken up. Already I was deliberating whether I was going to be okay with it, or if I was only going to pretend to be okay with it. Before I could decide, he said, “I quit my job today.”
“What? You quit Titan?”
He nodded. “I think I’m ready to move into public service. The nonprofit sector. Maybe I can come work for you, if you’re hiring.”
I loved this man, I truly did. And he loved me, all of me, the real me.
There was a December chill in the air, but I felt warm. Look at where I was. Look at who I’d become.
I rested my forehead on Kevin’s. “Funny enough,” I said, “I am looking for an assistant.”
afterword
IT’S BEEN about six months now and people are still talking about the Assistance. The site has more followers than Taylor Swift’s Twitter feed, and we’ve given away nearly three million dollars in donations. Three million dollars of student-loan debt, obliterated. We did that.
Our humble DUMBO office space is small, but it does have hardwood floors and one exposed-brick wall. It’s no Titan building, but it’s ours, and I even have an office with a view. The Realtor referred to it as an “urban view”—it’s basically just a bunch of decrepit buildings and what I’m pretty sure is a water tower, but who needs to stare at the Brooklyn Bridge all day anyway?
Our staff is where we really excel.
Kevin oversees all things legal. He still wears a necktie to work every day, but only because that’s how he’s comfortable. And, yes, we did do it in my office one day after everyone else had gone home and that is totally in accordance with our sexual harassment policy.
Lily manages our accounting. She’s chilled out a bit. Sometimes she even forgoes her Lean Cuisine meals and joins the rest of us for lunch at AlMar or Superfine. Her cardigan with giraffes on it is still in common rotation and that is totally in accordance with our dress code.
Wendi is in charge of digital everything and anything that has to do with a computer. A video of her band’s most recent single, “Kiss Your Stock Options Good-bye, I’m Going to Set You on Fire Now,” has developed a cult following among a newly forming anarchist subset of Assistance members, a fierce and loyal superfan group who call themselves the WendiChanimals. You can recognize them by the two pink horns dyed into their bangs.
Ginger runs PR, which suits her much better than being a legal assistant pursued on the regular by an in-heat Glen Wiles. It’s incredible how no longer having to worry about getting your ass grabbed can really free up a girl’s mind. Ginger transformed herself into a self-taught public relations maven faster than you can say end-user deliverables. She regularly lectures the rest of us on the importance of our horizontals and verticals (insert sex joke here) and our target media. I used to think Ginger was just a mean girl all grown up; now I know it for a fact—but mean girls make excellent publicists, especially when they’re smarter and more determined than any mean man you’ve ever met.
Emily has done everything possible to milk her five minutes of fame. She has finally (like Diane von Furstenberg) become the woman she always knew she wanted to be. Her main responsibility is coordinating the nonprofit’s fund-raising (i.e., asking rich people for money, which she naturally rocks at). But she’s also turned herself into a much-sought-after public speaker. At the moment, she’s preparing her talk for a TEDx event, which she’s hoping to parlay into a guest spot on the Ellen show, which she’s hoping to parlay into her own show—a reboot of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous called Emily Johnson’s Champagne Wishes and Caviar Dreams. What sort of accent she would put on for such a show is still up for debate.
I mostly keep quiet, running the less glamorous behind-the-scenes aspects of the nonprofit. Holding meetings, making decisions. And I’m surprisingly good at it. After the long and complicated route to getting here, I’ve finally arrived at a place disarmingly simple: I’m happy. Because it feels good to do something positive with my days.
My assistant is a brilliant, fresh-faced young woman just out of college. After a year of her dedicated service (not to mention keeping us up-to-date on the coolest new apps, the latest bands we’ve never heard of, and the correct pronunciation of words like GIF), we’ll pay off her $72,000 student-loan debt, in full. Then we’ll promote her.
Yesterday, she buzzed me while I was going over a spreadsheet and staring out my window at the water tower.
“There’s someone here to see you,” she said. “It’s . . .” Her voice dropped off.
Fearing she’d passed out, or suddenly come down with a nasty bout of narcolepsy, I went to the doorway.
She was fine. But standing across from her, with his hands on her desk, was—I understood why her voice had dropped off.
“Robert.” His name caught in my throat, too.
“Tina,” he said. “Or should I call you Ms. Fontana now?” He pointed at the doorway I’d emerged from. “That your office?” He marched toward it.
“Yes.” I followed him inside and closed the door behind me. “Please, have a seat,” I said in the freakiest role reversal of my entire life.
I sat at my desk.
Robert was dressed in a gray Armani suit, white dress shirt, and navy-blue knit
necktie—which I recognized as his uniform for when he had a meeting with the board or a public appearance. Did he put on his best clothes just to come see me?
“It’s been some time,” he said, stretching his legs out in front of him and crossing his ankles above his freshly shined shoes.
I brought my voice down to a whisper. “If you’re here about the documents, you don’t have to worry.”
“No, no I’m not,” he said.
“Because if I were going to—”
“I know.”
He shifted in his chair, loosened his necktie. “You’ve done really well for yourself, Tina. It’s good, it’s good. I’m proud of you.”
A knot formed in my throat. As if the one he loosened from his neck had passed directly into mine.
“I never meant to hurt you,” I blurted out.
He leaned in, hands on his knees, and I became terrified in an old and familiar way.
“I’m not much of an admirer of in-your-face attitudes,” he said. “But I have to concede that y’all put a pistol ball in me. I’ve got a certain amount of respect for that.” He leaned back in his chair again.
I could tell that he was yearning to put his leg up on the desk. But he couldn’t, because it was my desk.
“Anyhow, I’d call us even. What do you say?” He extended his hand for a shake.
I took his hand firmly in mine. “Even I’m not sure about,” I said. “But you’ve got yourself a truce.”
“Well aren’t you just tough as a boiled owl!” Robert tugged hard on my hand, like he didn’t want to let it go so easily. “Is that a bottle of Herradura Añejo I’m looking at back there?” He nodded at the shelf behind me.
“It is,” I said, without having to turn around. “But it’s strictly for after five p.m.”
“Fair enough, fair enough.” He laughed and then stood up. “I suppose I should get going.”
The knot in my throat dropped with a pang to my heart. I didn’t want him to leave.
“I guess I could make an exception,” I said. “This one time.”
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