Asking For a Friend

by Lauren Blakely

  I read the synonyms out loud. “‘Lucky chance. Happy break. Accidental discovery.’ I like those too.”

  Then I strip her naked, and I spell “serendipity” with my tongue till she cries out my name, and there’s nothing accidental about that.

  The weekend goes by and we spend it all together. On Monday morning I say goodbye and tell her I’ll see her at work, and then I go for a morning run before I head into the office.

  I tackle some edits, but before I get far, Baldwin raps on my door. “One, you still owe me an update and many nuggets of info. I’m practically starving. And two, the VPs just called an unplanned morning editorial meeting.”

  When I enter the conference room a few minutes later, one editor in particular looks at me as if all my secrets are written on the whiteboard.

  22

  Amy

  My pitch is polished.

  My editorial letter is scrubbed, glossed, and primped.

  I’m walking on sunshine as I head to the subway on Monday morning after dropping off my dog at Fluffy and Fabulous.

  I catch the train early because I’m proving to myself that my office romance won’t slow me down. If anything, it’ll speed me up. Make me better. Hell, I feel bionic.

  I could lift a taxi, I tell myself when I exit the subway. I could leap across the block in one big jump.

  Apparently, falling like crazy can fuel your creativity.

  As I turn onto the block for Bailey & Brooks, I spot a familiar face leaving the building.

  Walking in my direction.

  Smiling.

  Freaking smiling.

  My heart pinches, and my smile erases itself. But I do my best to be friendly. “Hi, Madison,” I say when she’s a few feet away from me.

  She flicks her chestnut-brown hair off her shoulder. “Hey, Amy. How are you?”

  Is it me or does she sound as awkward as I feel?

  I keep on the chipper path. “Great. How are you?”

  “Oh, good. I had a meeting this morning with some of the VPs. They invited me back to do a pitch. I’m excited.”

  I slap on a smile. “I’m excited for you.”

  She sets a hand on my arm. “I’ll be happy for you if you get the job. I just want you to know that.”

  I laugh it off, ready to say I won’t get it, you will.

  But that’s what the old me would say.

  That was how I felt in An Open Book when I told Josh about all the books I didn’t nab.

  Only, that was before I realized I had it in me to climb a mountain.

  It had been there; I simply had to look under the surface. I had to see inside myself and find my skills, with a nudge here and there from people I’ve known my whole life and people I’ve known a short time.

  And I see it now.

  I’m all about confidence. I won’t doubt myself anymore. I’ve done all I can to nab the job.

  Let the best editor win.

  “I’ll be happy for you too,” I say, then I laugh to defuse the air of awkward. “But let’s be honest—we both want the job.”

  Her laughter is full of relief too. “I’m so glad you said that. I do want it. Gah. I just felt a little bad for wanting it. It’s so hard as a woman. We’re trained to be a certain way. To not always say what we want.” She squares her shoulders, her brown eyes vulnerable.

  “Then let me go first. We shouldn’t feel bad for wanting things,” I say, and holy hell, I am a motivational speaker right now.

  Madison grins. “You’re right. We shouldn’t. And here’s the full truth: I admire the hell out of you. I think you’re a total badass. And yet, I still want the job you’re going after.”

  I beam at the compliments. “I admire the world out of you, and I’m also convinced you have a magical lasso.”

  She cracks up, then acts indignant. “Please. It’s a cape.”

  “Women who wear capes,” I declare.

  She offers a fist for knocking. “Cape power.”

  “Let’s agree that it’s cape power for us to want things for ourselves, and to want the best for each other.”

  “That’s absolutely cape power, isn’t it?” she asks, swishing an imaginary cloak around her.

  “Yes. It definitely is.” I don my virtual superhero accessory too, and like that, any latent jealousy, any ancient anxiety, dissipates.

  I’m left only with what matters: my faith in myself, my certainty that I’ve done all I can, and an iron-clad belief that women can support each other even when they compete.

  That wasn’t a piece of wisdom I thought I needed. It wasn’t something I was looking for, but along the way I found it, and I like it. It matters to me.

  Inside the building, I stop by my office, drop off my bag, and then, as I start to slide my phone in my pocket, I spot a new notification.

  An all-hands editorial meeting.

  Huh. That’s odd. We don’t usually have those first thing Monday morning.

  I head into the conference room and find the VPs—Rainey, Tiffany, and Raphael—and the senior editors too, like Baldwin, Linc, and Juanita. Junior editors and assistant editors are here as well.

  When I sit, my skin crawls. Someone’s staring at me.

  It’s odd.

  I pretend I don’t notice as Rainey clears her throat, works her way down some agenda items, then takes a beat.

  “And at our retreat last week, we kept returning to a nagging issue.”

  I swallow roughly, wondering what it could be.

  Raphael chimes in with his explanation. “Because it seems as if the lines of editors here don’t really intersect. We have VPs working with junior editors, but the senior editors understandably do their own thing.”

  Tiffany bats next. “And we want to align the editorial departments more tightly. Make sure we’re instilling a true mentorship atmosphere at Bailey & Brooks.” She takes a deep breath. “That’s why we’re rejiggering things a little bit, and we’d like all editors, junior editors, and assistant editors to work in tandem with a senior editor.”

  A stone lodges in my throat. My head starts to buzz with a swarm of impending bad news as Tiffany continues, outlining who Juanita’s working with, then Baldwin, before she turns to the guy I’ve spent the last several nights with.

  “And Linc, we’d love for you to work more closely with Amy Summers on her books.”

  A cough nearly bursts from my chest. My stomach pitches, and I briefly wonder how the conference table will look covered in the yogurt I ate for breakfast.

  But I keep it together.

  “How does that sound?” Tiffany asks the group.

  But Linc’s not the first one to answer. Nor is Baldwin. Nor am I.

  Antonia is.

  The very editor who gave me the odd I know what you did last night look when I walked in.

  She chirps, “Oh, that’s so perfect. Especially Linc and Amy, since they’re an item. They’ll work together so well.” She gasps, then her mouth forms an O. “Oh, but I just realized, that’s against the rules now.”

  She doesn’t have to quote from the employee handbook for me to know what she’s referring to.

  No romances with a direct report.

  23

  Linc

  Turns out it’s Baldwin who’s Superman.

  The second Antonia pastes on her clearly fake smile, my friend chuckles.

  His laughter cuts the tension, and in a perfect kill-her-with-kindness tone, he says, “Antonia, I’m pretty sure what’s also against the rules of decorum is dropping inappropriate rumors like that at an all-hands meeting.”

  “What?” she asks, her blue eyes wide.

  He stares at her with the biggest let me help you grin ever grinned. “As your newly assigned mentor, I just wanted to share that bit of feedback. I’m sure you didn’t mean to do that now, did you?”

  “Um . . .” She gulps, her face flushing red, and she shakes her head. “No. Sorry.”

  “Exactly.” He takes a conversation-clearing breath, the
n says to the group, “Now, shall we move on? All this mentorship sounds great. What else is on the agenda?”

  And like that, he pushes us past that fraught moment. Even though Tiffany’s eyes register surprise and Raphael’s show a bit of shock, none of the VPs mention Antonia’s bombshell.

  I flash back to my first debrief with Baldwin when he told me that Antonia is a new editor but she’ll help with anything.

  Yeah, if anything includes revealing your personal life in a corporate setting.

  This wasn’t how I wanted to alert my new bosses to the situation.

  And this wasn’t how the rules were supposed to work. Rules were supposed to prevent awkwardness.

  But this is a pothole on the street to office romance that I didn’t see coming.

  Baldwin’s words from one of our afternoon chats echo ominously in my ears. No romances with a direct report, but others are fine. The only rule is thou shalt disclose office romances to the HR manager.

  Guilt churns inside me. I could have said something sooner. I should have gotten ahead of the situation. Now I’m playing catch up, and I hate this feeling.

  The rules didn’t change, but the players did. And now, suddenly, Amy’s my direct report.

  This is another reason why I should have stuck to my first rule—no workplace romance.

  Because when you start making provisions and exceptions, you set yourself up for trouble. Real trouble.

  I had enough trouble when I worked on a book with Karina, thank you very much. I spent the better part of a year miserable.

  And when I got out of that bad situation, what did I do?

  In less than three weeks on the job, I bent the rules, then I broke them and stomped all over them.

  When the meeting ends, I don’t have the chance to talk to Amy, because Rainey calls her aside and asks her to meet in Rainey’s office shortly.

  I know what’s coming. I’m next. There’s no doubt in my mind, especially when Raphael asks me to see him in ten minutes.

  A dark gray storm cloud rolls over the building, splits open, and rains down only on me.

  I’m so screwed.

  And I don’t even have the excuse of being a Casanova.

  I’m just a regular guy. A Dax Powers. A book-loving nerd who fell hard for a girl.

  At the wrong time. In the wrong place.

  Hell, maybe I should have been a Casanova. He was a wily one. He’d know what to do. He’d finesse the situation like only he could.

  But that’s not the character I call on. In a crisis, I have no other choice but to channel Jason Bourne.

  This situation calls for triage, nothing but triage. This is where the hero, stranded in the jungle, has to remove a bullet from his shoulder using his own teeth.

  I head to my office, shut the door, grab my phone, and call Amy.

  I will her to answer.

  One ring.

  Two.

  Three.

  “Hello?” Her voice is strained.

  “Hey.” Mine is stretched like a high-tension wire. “Antonia doesn’t know anything,” I hiss. “How could she?”

  “I don’t know.” She whispers too. “We never kissed or even said anything inappropriate at the office. Maybe she made a lucky guess?”

  I scrub a hand across my jaw, my bones tight. “Maybe. Maybe she walked by the other day when you were in my office and leaped to her own conclusions.”

  “Possibly. I didn’t realize she was so catty. So underhanded. Maybe she overheard me talking to Lola in the break room. I never used your name, though, or gave specifics. It was just general he’s a keeper stuff.”

  Her words—sweet, fantastic words—barely register because I’m Jason Bourne and I have to extract the bullet before infection spreads.

  I grit my teeth, pour some peroxide on, and yank it out.

  “So we deny it. When you see Rainey and I see Raphael, we deny it,” I say, decisive as an antihero.

  “Sure,” she says tentatively. “We can do that.”

  “Because it’s against the rules now.”

  “That much is clear.” She takes a deep breath. “But do we keep denying it and see each other on the down low . . .” She pauses like the next words taste bitter. “Or do we cool it?”

  Cool it. Put us on ice.

  I’d rather eat razors.

  “I don’t want to cool it, but . . .” I don’t know how the hell Bourne does it. “Let’s figure it out later.”

  Amy’s voice is businesslike, but a little sad, as she says, “If we have to cool it, I get it. I know you didn’t want to get involved in the first place.”

  “You didn’t either,” I point out, my tone harsher than I intended.

  But I have to focus on fixing this problem. I look at my watch. I’m due in Raphael’s office any minute.

  “Amy, let’s talk later.”

  “Bye, Linc,” she says, and it sounds permanent.

  It feels permanent.

  So I hang up.

  If I stay on the phone, I’ll become another character. The guy who grovels. The guy who begs the girl.

  Those guys never get the woman they want.

  And apparently this guy doesn’t either.

  24

  Amy

  Antonia doesn’t look up, just stares at her screen like it’s the most fascinating damn thing in the universe.

  But I’m not letting her win.

  I saw how the supposed good girl cowered when Baldwin called her out. She’s meek.

  Her angel routine was just that—a performance to cover whatever cruelty lies under her “I’ll fix your printer” facade.

  But I didn’t let the mean girls win when I was younger, and I won’t now. I learned how to fight when I was a kid—I fight with words, and I use them well.

  That’s my talent.

  I don’t put people down to get ahead.

  I don’t trip them up and say Oops, did I do that?

  I use my powers for good.

  “Hi, Antonia,” I say.

  “Hi.” The single syllable wobbles from her bubblegum lips.

  She doesn’t look up, but I am undeterred. “How’s everything going?”

  “Fine.”

  Still no eye contact, but I won’t let her get away with this. “By the way, do you want to know something about girls who wear dresses with pockets?”

  She snaps up her gaze.

  I had a feeling that would get her attention. When she made the pocket comment yesterday, something about it resonated, but it’s just now clicking into place. She wants to be included. I don’t have the time or inclination to psychoanalyze her, but I think I understand now—she longs to be part of the party, so she spied on us and made a lucky guess.

  But that’s not how cape power works.

  I lay it out for her. “We talk to each other first, before we air dirty laundry. Especially before we air it in public,” I add.

  Holy smokes. Did I just say that?

  Oh yes, I did, and I continue, “What you did was hurtful, and I wish you hadn’t.”

  Her lower lip quivers. “I’m sorry.”

  I nod, accepting her apology. “Thank you.”

  There’s nothing more I can say because Rainey calls me in. And I’m ready for whatever comes my way.

  Except, as I cross the threshold to her office, I discover something else about myself.

  I don’t want to lie to get what I want.

  I don’t want to deny it either.

  That’s not why I worked on becoming better at self-promotion. I put myself out there to excel and advance, not to spin tales to keep the guy or save my hide.

  And if I’m giving Antonia a lesson in how to behave like a grown woman, I can’t turn around and spout off falsehoods like a brat.

  The trouble is, the truth isn’t mine to tell.

  It’s mine and Linc’s.

  And since it would be wrong to decide for both of us, I’m neither going to confirm nor deny. I’ll plead the Fifth on my relation
ship status when she quizzes me.

  Whatever happens, happens. If that means I’m fired, so be it. I can’t confess someone else’s actions, and I won’t misrepresent my own.

  “Thank you for agreeing to come in. Take a seat,” Rainey says.

  I sit, nerves tense as steel. “No problem. I’m ready.”

  She tips her forehead toward the conference room. “What a fascinating meeting.”

  “That’s one way to put it,” I say.

  Wait.

  It was one way to put it. She hadn’t said “interesting.” She’d used “fascinating” instead.

  And suddenly the heavens part. The skies split and sunlight illuminates another way through this swamp.

  She veered from the expected word, and it sounded like she was making light of the meeting rather than calling me out on my transgressions.

  Maybe I don’t have to deny the truth, and I don’t have to admit it. I can steer this narrative, because “fascinating” means her mind’s not locked down.

  One word, a host of different options.

  What if I ask a hypothetical question, something like, Say I were involved with someone before I became his direct report. What rules would apply there? Could I switch to another senior editor? You know . . . theoretically.

  The words are half formed on my tongue when Rainey says, “But let’s move on. I called you in here because your editorial letter was terrific.”

  “Oh,” I say, flinching at the unexpected twist in the conversational path. But I recover quickly because I vastly prefer this direction. “Thank you. I’m thrilled to hear it.”

  She reaches for a pair of purple reading glasses, slaps them on, then powers through my letter, asking questions about my proposed edits.

  With my shoulders tall and my head held high, I explain why I made each suggestion.

  I don’t say a word about hockey.

  I don’t suck up like Antonia.

  And I don’t pretend to be someone I’m not.

  I’m me, and I’m good at what I do.

  When we’re through, her lips curve into the slightest of smiles. “Very well.” She takes a deep breath, and I tense. This must be where the inquisition starts.