by Kira Blakely
“Maybe you’re right,” Quentin said, hailing the waitress. “You always know me best.”
The next night, when Morgan was no longer with him, burning curiosity sent him down the hall to Charlotte’s. He rang the bell, waiting, his heart hammering against his chest. Normally, they fucked every single day, at least once or twice, and his cock pulsed heavily against his crotch, wanting to dip within her, to fill her.
Charlotte answered the door after a long pause, her hair swept up in a ponytail and her eyes blackened, singed with tears. A pen twirled in her fingers, showing her manic anxiety. “What is it?”
“I wanted to check in on you,” Quentin said. The sadness in her eyes burned into him, making him recognize this was his fault.
“Just writing. Still,” Charlotte murmured.
“You’ve been writing since I sent you home yesterday morning?” Quentin asked, incredulous.
“Well, yes,” Charlotte said. “And I’m not going to stop until it’s perfect.”
There seemed to be a boundary between them now. Quentin tucked forward slightly, trying to bend it back, to kiss her soft, pillow-like lips. But she ducked away, stabbing panic pins into his chest. She shook her head, almost imperceptibly, like a child who refused to leap in the pool.
“I can’t. I have to get back to this,” she murmured. “I have to remember what’s important to me. And right now—this is it.”
“Charlotte,” Quentin began, shoving his hand against her door, trying to keep it open. “Let me read over what you have so far. Let me see if I can help you.”
“No,” Charlotte said, her eyes flashing. “I need to do this on my own. I got caught up in—in whatever this is, and I lost sight…” She trailed off, ducking behind the door. “I’m sorry, Quentin,” she breathed. “I’m really sorry.”
Quentin stood still as the door snipped closed in front of him, becoming a barrier between him and the girl he’d begun to allow himself to love. He scrambled his fingers through his hair, frustration brimming. Trudging back to his own apartment, his mind began to spin with the first bit of creative juices he’d felt in ages. Deep in his soundproof studio, he cranked up his guitar and blared upon it, feeling the life come back into his fingers. He howled song after song, making up various, already-forgotten lyrics along the way, and feeling his heart drip with the pain of not seeing Charlotte—and the potential of losing her forever.
Chapter 28
Charlotte wasn’t at work the next day or the next, which was Friday. Marching past several interns at the coffee machine, he heard them whispering, incredulous that Charlotte hadn’t yet made an appearance, despite Pamela “not telling Maggie yet.” He darted around the corner, his ears perking up, listening.
“Do you think she will?” Randy asked in a harsh whisper. “I mean she talks a big game. I could see her holding this over Charlotte’s head for the rest of the internship, rather than giving her name over…”
“No. I think she wants destruction,” another intern said. “She doesn’t know a ton about music, so she’s eternally on the defensive. You know, she thinks she deserves this life that Charlotte already has such a comprehension of. It’s a tragedy she ever got caught up with Quentin.”
“Yeah, but, who could resist him?” Randy whispered. “Charlotte is a little Midwestern girl from Ohio. She didn’t have a chance the minute Quentin laid eyes on her. You remember that day.”
“The tension between them was weird, wasn’t it? Like you could literally slice it with a knife.”
“Do you think the affair started immediately? Seems strange that Charlotte wouldn’t try to avoid it, given that she was so centered on her career.”
“Where is she hiding, anyway? Randy. You should call her. She trusts you.”
“Not anymore. I let Pamela toss her under the bus, and then I stomped on her,” Randy said, his voice demure. “I feel like shit about it.”
“We were all pissed, Randy.”
“But in the long run, what does it matter?” Randy asked as the interns spun back to the intern offices, away from Quentin’s prying ears. “If she’s going to make it, she’s going to make it. Regardless of who she’s sleeping with. Rock and roll isn’t about the fucking rules.”
His last words rang through Quentin’s ears. The rules had always felt far above Quentin’s head, something unseen and not felt. He’d blasted into super stardom, not caring about the rules of love, or the rules of drugs, or the rules of drink. He’d lost so many years of his twenties, giving them away to some sort of “nothingness.” And now, Charlotte was trying to make something of herself, become a prestige music writer. And he’d gotten in her way.
When Quentin arrived at his desk, his heartbeat ramped up, recognizing what he needed to do. Pressing his lips together, he sent Maggie a brief message, telling her he wanted to meet with her outside of the office. He needed to talk.
Maggie messaged back hurriedly, clearly anticipating some sort of business meeting, or perhaps a slightly romantic meeting between two old friends. Maggie’s seduction attempts had been rebuked for years, leaving her bruised and damaged, still working under Quentin’s shadow. Which meant she’d be the first one to bite when she heard the news.
Quentin met Maggie near the elevator just after lunch. Dressed in a dark green coat, with a dramatic length, past her knees, she looked rather sophisticated, unlike the coke-snorting, sex hound she’d been as a twenty-something, sniffing around Orpheus Arise. Had she been an aspiring writer back then, like Charlotte? Quentin didn’t know. Would it matter, anyway? Could she remember those days?
“What’s up?” she asked casually, her eyes bright. “Where do you want to go?”
“Let’s go grab a drink,” Quentin said, his voice gruff. He stabbed the down button and waited, his hands drawn at his waist. “The booze in the office isn’t cutting it for me anymore.”
Maggie tittered nervously, stepping beside him in the elevator and standing several inches too close, her fingers jittering nervously near his. Quentin couldn’t imagine taking her hand. He hoped, abstractly, that someone on the planet would take her hand someday, keep her safe, assure her she was worthwhile. It couldn’t be him.
They sat across from each other at a Greenwich Village bar, the only two people ordering cocktails before three in the afternoon. Maggie stabbed the small straw onto her tongue, sipping too quickly, her eyes bright. “What did you want to talk about? I’ve been editing the first features from Mark and Thomas… Let me tell you, Mark’s sucks, Thomas’ is great. As usual. Maybe we should do something about that.”
“How much longer is Mark’s contract?” Quentin asked, slipping into old habits.
“Maybe four more months?” Maggie answered.
Silence hung between them, then. Quentin’s throat burned as his mind revved, glossing over all the things he needed to say. He sipped half of his cocktail, giving the air a violent sigh.
“Listen, Mags,” he said. “I’ve known you a long, long time. And I don’t think, during that entire time, you’ve known me to be happy.”
Maggie’s lips parted. She eyed him curiously, obviously unsure of where the conversation was leading. “I don’t know if I thought that…”
“Well, I’m telling you, here. Besides the birth of my daughter, my adult life has been pretty dark, tinged with too much partying, too many women, too many drugs. And I’m sorry if you were affected in any way. I was a foolish, selfish man. It’s probably something I should go to someone to discuss. Someone professional.”
Maggie nodded, almost imperceptibly. “You’ve seemed good since you started as editor,” she murmured. “More stable. Less like the Quentin I first met.” She reached forward, then, trying to grab his hand. But he snaked it away. She scowled. “Why am I here, Quentin?”
Quentin hung his head. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
The air around them grew even fierier, more taut. He needed to find release. He continued, forcing himself forward. “It’s just—I made a huge mistake.
A mistake that could, potentially, ruin the professional lives of two people. But I think if I explain it to you, you’ll know what to do. You have such a balanced head on those shoulders. You’ve been my guide.”
Maggie’s face looked more strained now. She forced a slight smile, realizing, now, that she wasn’t necessarily in Quentin’s presence because he wanted to commune with her, and certainly not because he wanted to bang her. No. He needed her help.
It was clear, already, that this wasn’t cool with her.
“What did you do, Quentin?” she asked, sighing.
“It’s the girl,” Quentin said. “Charlotte.”
Maggie blinked several times. “She hasn’t been at the office in days.”
“It’s because we’ve been found out.”
Her face looked scrunched now. “You’ve been fucking each other.”
“I think I’m falling in love with her.”
“Love. Huh. What a fucking concept.” Maggie tossed the rest of her drink down her throat, looking as if she might storm from the premises. Her knees twitched beneath the table. “You’ve got to be kidding. You’re the one always on and on about the no-fraternization clause in the fucking contract. You’re the one who says we have to uphold it.”
“I know what I said,” Quentin said firmly. “And I know what I did.”
Maggie burst from her seat, glaring at him. “She’ll be fired, you know.”
“That’s why I brought you here,” Quentin said. “I wanted to get out in front of it. I wanted to make sure she wasn’t. She’s worked damn hard for this position.”
“And she’s writing this fucking feature, just because she’s fucking you,” Maggie whispered harshly, her face growing aghast. “This is the top feature of next week’s magazine. This is something that should have gone to someone who’s been writing there for years, Quentin. Someone like me. You literally robbed me of a potential rise in the ranks…” Her nostrils flared. “I’ve worked my ass off for you, for years. And this is how you repay me?”
Quentin rose up, trying to stop her unnecessary outbursts. He swept his hand forward, trying to grip her forearm, talk her down. But she ripped her arm out of reach, visibly shaking. “I could sue you, you know,” she whispered. “I could sue you for thousands of dollars for busting your contractual agreement. And I’d win. You know that.”
“I do,” Quentin murmured. “Of course, I do. And I’m asking you not to do that.”
“Just because you think I’m in love with you or something?” Maggie howled, smacking her glass onto the table. “Just because you assume I have this unending love for you, you think that I’ll hide your big mistakes?”
“No,” Quentin said quietly, still trying to stay calm. “I think you’ll help me figure out this problem because you’re my friend. And you’ve been my friend for years.”
Maggie’s nostrils flared. She was acting unrealistic, wild, the very portrait of a crazed woman, obsessed with his band in the 2000s. “I just don’t know what to think of this right now. I respected you,” she said, gathering her coat. She flung her arms deep within it, tossing her red hair back.
“Then I’ll leave,” Quentin said suddenly. “After the next issue, I’ll leave the magazine. Someone else will become editor. Just allow Charlotte to stay. Don’t fucking sue me. I’ll be out of your life for good. All right?”
Maggie looked defeated. She spun swiftly from the bar, her coat twirling behind her, and then sped into the rainy streets. She hailed a cab with a flail of her arm and then was gone, rushing back to whichever corner of the universe she normally existed in. Quentin still felt her shadowy anger, lurking on his shoulders.
Fuck.
He ordered another drink, and then another, feeling the Friday after-work crew join around him, laughing raucously, their eyes wide with joy for the end of the workweek. But Quentin felt nothing but gloom.
Charlotte wouldn’t talk to him, needing her space. His daughter was at a friend’s birthday party for the night, stuffing herself with too much candy and cake, probably on a path toward passing out in a soda coma. And his ex-wife was probably entwined in the arms of that new Wall Street asshole, Jason.
Frustrated, he returned to his apartment, stopping to buy a bottle of Jack on the way. He hunkered down in his studio, strumming together a new song throughout the night, trying to abandon his fears at the door. He hadn’t remembered—or perhaps he’d never really known—how close intense happiness was to intense love. Now that he’d allowed himself to feel anything worthwhile for Charlotte, he saw the depths of his soul.
And he didn’t necessarily like it.
But the guitar and his voice howled out a melody, one he stuck to a half-assed recording. He felt that jolt of electricity he’d once felt, as a much younger man, building songs with his once-best friends and ex-band mates.
It had been the only worthwhile thing.
Chapter 29
Charlotte busied herself with the article throughout the weekend, listening to the recordings from the band over and over again, and retyping the introduction over fifteen times, just trying to get the right emotion, to highlight the intensity of their conversation. Throughout the interview, her heart always tinged when she heard Quentin speaking, reminding her of the beauty of that, their last day together. A relationship that really couldn’t be.
Since she hadn’t been to work in days, she was curious to know what had occurred, but hadn’t yet dared ask. Had Pamela broken the spell and told Maggie about Charlotte and Quentin’s affair? Had Quentin stood up for her? Had Randy said anything—anything at all—in her favor? The world felt tumultuous, chaotic, outside of the small cavern at her computer screen. It was her final sanctuary.
But it couldn’t last forever. The article needed to go to the editor—Quentin himself—and then it needed to go to print. With the 3,000-word article trapped in her Google drive, she showered and dressed early Monday morning, conscious to choose a simple pair of black pants and a black turtleneck, her least sexual clothes, asserting the difference between her old self and her new one. She wouldn’t be sleeping with the boss anymore, if only they’d take pity on her and allow her to stay.
The article was damn good. And if they didn’t see validity in her writing, then she didn’t know how else to fix her situation.
At the office, she sent the email to Quentin, Maggie, and the other interns, including a downloadable link for her article, along with the message:
Hello all,
As you know, I’ve taken the past several days to focus on this article. I’ve put my blood and guts into it. As it’s my first feature—and perhaps my last—I’d love all your thoughts and edits. Don’t hold back.
Yours,
Charlotte
As the day crept on, the interns joined her in the intern offices, giving her only a subtle glance before draping themselves over their computers. Charlotte worked diligently on other projects, hunting down new stories to pitch and hoping her brain would stop its unnecessary, rapid, cyclical nature, which was making her feel crazy.
Randy still hadn’t looked at her.
During lunch, Charlotte passed Quentin’s office, sensing his brooding form within. As she’d drawn the line between them, she knew she shouldn’t want to go in there, to hunt him down, to admit defeat. She yearned for his body, ached for his scent. But the flashing eyes from Maggie, in the corner near the printer, shrouded her with fear. Hustling to the elevator, she burst into the crisp, late-September afternoon, understanding: Maggie knew. She was hanging on a literal thread.
Sometime at the end of the day, she received a single email regarding her submission. Just one. And it wasn’t from Quentin. It wasn’t from Maggie. And it certainly wasn’t from Pamela, who still seemed out for her blood from the other side of the intern office.
It came from Randy.
I can’t believe how well written this is. And I can sense how sad you are today. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m not brave enough to say this to your face. Mayb
e, just maybe, how good this article is will patch things up in the office. But if it doesn’t, I want you to know—you’ll make it somewhere else. The world is your fucking oyster, Charlotte.
If he’d approached me, I would have fucked him, too.
Randy
The email brought new life to Charlotte’s aching head. She excused herself from the office, bouncing down the sidewalk in the last of the fall sun, sensing that Randy’s words regarding her article described the feeling of everyone else, as well. The writing was crisp. The perspective was clear. The anecdotes were interesting, yet not distracting. And it made an up-and-coming band look timeless.
“If this is the last article I ever write,” Charlotte murmured to herself, “Then I’m proud of it.”
Tuesday, Charlotte didn’t hear anything at all, not from Quentin, nor Maggie, nor the rest of the interns, making her stomach swell with anxiety. She bit her tongue throughout the day, trying to stabilize her panic. But she soon drew blood, tasting its tangy flavor in her spit.
The magazine would be released on Friday, which was just three days away. And she hadn’t heard anything.
If the article was pulled from the issue, due to the circumstances, she felt she might kill herself. She’d strained everything for this, drained her romantic life, and lost her friends. The loss would be too great.
And not speaking with Quentin gave her an aching sadness, which seemed to grow and chill in the bottom of her stomach, replacing the incredible love that had brewed there throughout her first few weeks in New York.
That night, Charlotte sat at home, a book splayed across her lap, her eyes not reading. It was past eight, and she imagined Morgan sliding her fingers across the keys, with Quentin in the kitchen, cleaning up after dinner. Just a few apartments away, their vibrant life brewed on, while hers seemed to dwindle, grow gray.
A knock at the door caused her to burst from her chair, dropping the book to the ground. Stringing her fingers through her hair, she stretched her legs toward the door, hopeful. This had to be Quentin; he was finally there, with the right words to say.