by Lucy Score
“Katherine called me a few days ago and asked if I had any shirtless pictures of him or his brothers. I thought she was fucking joking!”
“Obviously she wasn’t fucking joking!”
“Did you read the whole thing?”
“There’s only like three paragraphs.”
“Read it.”
“‘Struggling with PTSD, we think this sexy vet could use some comfort—’ I’m going to be sick. I’m going to be sick and murder someone. Oh God, Niko. They sent him copies. I know they sent him copies. I have to go. I have to call him.”
She cut off Niko’s reply and dialed Carter’s cellphone. There was no answer. She tried the house phone and again there was no answer.
She tossed her phone on her desk and made her decision.
She snatched up the magazine and stalked out of her cubicle. Katherine’s office was one floor up, and Summer fumed the entire way there.
She breezed past Katherine’s unsmiling assistant, a six-foot tall waif with hair the color of midnight.
Katherine was on the phone. She laughed, a silvery little tinkle. “I’m sure I can put you in touch with them. As far as I know they have no representation yet… Yes, it’s like finding oil in the last place you would expect it.”
Summer tossed her copy of the magazine onto Katherine’s glass desk and crossed her arms.
“Felipe, I must go. I’ll have my assistant give you the information… You too, darling.” She hung up the receiver and steepled her manicured hands. Last winter’s nip and tuck was tastefully done, leaving her face looking refreshed and youthful. The rich red of her lipstick never smudged. Summer often wondered if it was tattooed on.
“What can I do for you, Summer?”
“You can explain why you took a piece that was about something deep and meaningful and turned it into this trash,” she said, drilling her finger into the open page.
“Excuse me?” Katherine’s frosty tone was meant to stop perceived insolence in its tracks. But it had the opposite effect on Summer.
“You heard me. Where is the story I wrote, and why did you slap my name on this bullshit?”
“Darling, I don’t think you understand how things work here. Need I remind you that you are an associate.” She enunciated the word as if speaking to a toddler. “You work for me. I have the final say in what goes into this ‘bullshit,’ as you so eloquently call it. You turned in a weighty piece that would have readers tossing it in the recycling bin. You’ve been in production meetings. Advertisers want sex. What you wrote was a boring ode to an obsolete way of life.”
“What about the readers?”
“The readers want what the advertisers tell them to want. They don’t want some sappy love story about a simpler way of life. No one wants that. They want bigger, shinier, more.” Her voice was as sharp as the corners of her desk. “They want this,” her finger tapped Carter’s bare chest.
“You made what they do into a joke.”
“No, I made their lives.” Katherine brought her purple tips to the glass top as she rose. Her wrap dress hugged a trim figure made possible by the finest plastic surgeons in Manhattan. “I’ve been fielding calls all morning from agents wanting to represent them and designers wanting to use them. There’s no more playing in the dirt for these men. We just made them famous.”
“There was no ‘we’ in this. And there is so much more to life than chasing fame.”
“That’s right. There’s documenting it. That is what we do. We hand these people the American dream and watch what they do with it. Do you know what we love more than America’s sweetheart? America’s sweetheart on a very public downward spiral.” She held up the magazine. “It’s vicious. I’ll be the first to say it. But in order to thrive in this business, you have to have the stomach for it.”
“You put my name on this.” Summer glared at her over the desk.
“And you should be thanking me. The digital piece has been getting more hits than the cover story. This could be the fast track to getting what you want, my dear, so be very careful how you proceed. You can either give my assistant Carter’s contact information while I talk to a few select people about a new senior editor position, or you can think about how it would feel to go back to copy editing.”
Summer leaned over the desk, her fingers leaving smudges on the glass. “Actually, there’s a third option that I feel really good about. You can take your sexy advertising and your emergency moisturizers and your constant need for ass kissing and shove it. I quit!”
She turned on her Manolos and stormed out, past the assistant, past the creative department, past Quincy calling her name in the hallway.
She took the stairs back to her floor. In her cubicle, she shoved her laptop and phone in her bag. There was nothing else there. No personal mementos, no trinkets. Just an empty desk. It had been on purpose. No personal items until she was in an office. And then it would be carefully chosen pieces that reflected the importance of the position and the responsibilities she would carry. She snorted.
Summer put the bag on her shoulder and marched to the elevator. Phones started ringing, and heads were popping out of cubicles.
“She’s at the elevator,” someone whispered loudly into their phone.
It was the Indulgence version of Blue Moon’s online gossip group. And it made her smile.
She was still smiling when the doors closed on the floor of gawkers.
She pulled her phone out of the bag and dialed Murray, part of Indulgence’s elite legal team.
“Hey there, Summer. I just heard.”
“Good, then I’ll keep this quick. My blog, is that mine or does it belong to Indulgence?”
“You started it before you had the job. It’s yours.”
“How about an article that I wrote for Indulgence that they chose not to use.”
“I’d double check your contract on that, but if they chose not to exercise their rights to it, then it’s possible you could resell it.”
“What if I don’t want to sell it?”
“You want to keep it for personal use? That’s probably a little less murky. Read the fine print and text me if you need clarification.”
“Thanks, Murray. It was nice working with you.”
“You, too, Summer. Good luck.”
She was halfway home when her phone rang in her bag. Nikolai. She silenced it and let her momentum carry her the rest of the way home.
She burst through the door of the apartment she could no longer afford and dumped her laptop on her coffee table. She would fix this. All of it.
Summer wrote from the heart, letting the words flow.
I’ve spent my years since college mapping out a career path that would bring me the trappings of success that I so desperately wanted.
An apartment with a view…
A collection of shoes that makes other women sigh with envy…
A wardrobe by all the right designers…
The right circle of interesting friends…
My name on insightful articles perfectly crafted to tell you the stories that deserve your attention…
I sit here in my apartment with its charming bay window that overlooks a neighborhood grocery store and barbershop in my Manhattan-approved this-season’s-hottest outfit with my barely worn Manolo Blahniks sitting on the floor next to me. My circle of “friends” consists of advertisers, designers, and industry insiders who are all very busy and terribly important.
Many of you have probably seen the “Hot for Farmer” piece under my byline in a magazine that, from now on, shall remain nameless. It’s getting big hits online. Enough attention that maybe a new position could open up for me.
By all previous measures, I’ve made it. I am a success. I have everything I ever wanted.
So what if my “friends” are advertisers that require schmoozing, designers who can’t remember my first name, and a handful of acquaintances who know nothing more about me other than where I bought my last pair of shoes? Who cares
that I spend every minute of every day trying to write things that will make you buy something? A magazine, a beauty product, a fabulous winter parka. Does it matter that the shoes hurt my feet? Or that I haven’t spent a Saturday night doing what I wanted to do since college? It’s fine. Right? I have everything I want.
I also have cancer. One year ago, I was diagnosed with adult Hodgkin lymphoma. I spent weeks sneaking off for treatments and hiding my reactions to them. If work found out, paid medical leave could have been the kiss of death to my senior editor aspirations. I didn’t even tell my parents. I didn’t want them to worry. But mostly, I didn’t want to be vulnerable.
But that’s what cancer makes you. Vulnerable. And scared. And I let it isolate me. After aggressive treatment through a clinical trial, I went into remission. Six months out, my tests were clean. Tomorrow, I find out if I can say “had” or “have.” Tomorrow I find out what the future holds.
Recurrence is always a concern, and so are the side effects of the treatments, including infertility. I hadn’t given kids and family much thought. At least not until I met a man with a heart as big as the blue moon. One who made me start asking myself questions instead of just firing them at other people.
If you’ve been following my blog, you know that this summer I had the pleasure of spending time in Blue Moon Bend, N.Y., on Pierce Acres, a family-owned and run organic farm.
And it was in Blue Moon that I fell in love. With the town, with the people, with the sense of belonging and community that residents there are born with. There is no jockeying for position, no backstabbing, no trying to get ahead. Just neighbors helping neighbors. People trusting each other.
I fell in love with the town and I fell in love with a man.
Those photos? They don’t do him justice. You can’t see the soul of a man through glossy pictures. You can’t see the brave heart that carries the scars of a warrior. You don’t get a hint of the noble character, the steadfast loyalty to family and country. You aren’t able to understand what happened when he discovered the healing power of a foundation of vulnerability and honesty.
So I fell in love, and I got scared. And I ran back to the city where I felt safe in my anonymity, my path.
And here I sit with a manufactured, runaway digital success. Alone.
So I quit. And I’m going to do something bigger and more beautiful than even I dreamed possible. I’m going to write about real things, about health and wellness and community. I’m going to share the stories of people who have fought and won against disease, who have created a new way, who are making a difference, of the men and women who are shaping our future. Those are the people I want in my life. The people you should want in yours.
I went to Blue Moon to write about goats and organic tomatoes. Instead, I fell in love, and everything changed. I met a pig and went vegetarian. I realized the healing nature of mother nature from the food we use to fuel our bodies to the sunshine that warms our skin and the fresh air that makes you take that first deep breath when you walk out the door in the morning. Most importantly I learned that our real strength is in vulnerability. In facing and living the truth no matter who’s watching. That is where we are strongest. I learned this from Carter, and you should have, too.
Carter, I owe you a huge apology for taking your trust and then letting someone distort your story. I owe you an even bigger apology for running away when I got scared. I never meant to hurt you. I can’t ask you to forgive me, but I can show you what I wanted everyone else to know about you. Here’s the piece I originally wrote, which was rejected by the editors who substituted it with their own content.
I’m sorry, and I love you.
Summer copied and pasted her article into the post and added some of the pictures she took during her time in Blue Moon. She headed the post with Carter’s first selfie. Two quick rounds of proofreading, and she hit Post.
She closed the lid of her laptop and sighed. It was done. She was going to put on her boots and go for a walk in the park… and then maybe panic about the future that she had just wiped clean.
31
A low roll of thunder woke Summer the next morning, instantly reminding her of the rainy morning she had spent in bed with Carter. Her next thought—and another regret—was of the better part of the bottle of wine she had polished off before bed.
She sat up and reached for her phone.
10:20?
She had forty minutes to get dressed and cover the twenty blocks between her apartment and her oncologist’s.
Summer scrambled out of bed and dragged on a pair of jeans and a stretchy short-sleeve sweater. She was reaching for a pair of sandals when the boots caught her eye. If anything would give her luck today, Carter’s boots would.
She pulled her hair back in a low messy knot on her way out the door.
Thanks to some ill-timed, poorly placed construction, Summer had to jump out of the taxi a few blocks early and race through the misty rain before scurrying up the office stairs with a minute to spare.
“Good morning, Summer,” the receptionist greeted her warmly. “We’ve been talking about you non-stop all morning!”
Summer signed in. “Really? Why?”
“There she is!” Summer’s oncologist, Dr. Armenta, swept into reception. Tall and slim, she moved like a ballet dancer. “I’m dying to know, have you heard from Carter?” Her eyes sparkled behind her wire-rimmed glasses.
“How do you—”
“Your blog!” The receptionist chirped. “We all read it yesterday. It’s all everyone is talking about. We’re so excited for you!”
“Well, come on back, and we can talk,” Dr. Armenta said, taking Summer’s arm.
She led her back through the suite to her office. “I love your boots. Can I get you a drink?”
Summer sank down in the first visitor’s chair facing the desk. She’d sat in this exact seat for her six-month results, so she might as well continue the tradition.
“Before we begin, I have to tell you how proud I am of you,” she said, folding her hands on her desk. Her unruly red curls were escaping the braid that lay over the shoulder of her white coat. “You know that I didn’t agree with your desire to handle your diagnosis and treatment alone.”
Summer winced and nodded. Dr. Armenta had made it clear on several occasions that she thought Summer was making a mistake.
“Support plays a very important role in healing. And I was concerned by your choice to cut yourself off from that support,” the doctor continued. “So you can imagine my delight when I read your blog. The entire staff was texting back and forth last night. You went from having virtually no support network to thousands of supporters.”
“I have?” Summer frowned in confusion.
Dr. Armenta smiled. “Haven’t you been monitoring your blog?”
Summer shook her head and again thought of the Chardonnay that had gone down so smoothly last night.
“Well, then I don’t want to ruin the surprise,” Dr. Armenta said. “Let’s start with how you feel today.”
“I’m fine, thanks. I’m nervous.” She let the words tumble out of her mouth. Honesty. Vulnerability.
“There is nothing to be nervous about. We’re in this together,” Dr. Armenta said, turning her computer monitor to face Summer. “These are your white blood cells from a year ago when you were diagnosed.”
She moused over the screen showing the abnormal cells. She clicked to another image. “Now, these are your results from six months out. Clean.” She opened one more image. “And this is where you are currently.”
Summer made it down the steps of the stately brownstone and onto the sidewalk before the tears came. They warmed her cheeks just like the September sunshine that had broken through the clouds. She was crying in public, and she didn’t care.
Overwhelmed, she didn’t even care that a watery blur of a man was standing there watching her from one building down. She was overdue for this and wasn’t going to rush herself through a good cry.
“Carter?” she swiped tears from her eyes. There he was in the flesh. Wearing his trademark jeans and a t-shirt, he had a bouquet of wildflowers clutched in his hand. “Carter!”
She didn’t even realize she was running until she heard her boots on the concrete. He caught her in mid-leap, boosting her up and holding her close.
Summer brought her hands to his face.
“Hi,” she whispered.
“Hi.”
“How did you find me?”
“Nikolai snagged the name of your doctor out of a calendar appointment once in case he ever needed it.”
“Sneaky bastard.”
“Tell me everything, honey.”
She kissed him hard on the mouth. “In order of importance: I love you. I’m so sorry. And I’m cancer-free.” She punctuated each announcement with a kiss.
Carter crushed her to him, burying his face in her neck.
“I love you so much. When I read…” he stopped, trying to clear the emotion that was clogging his throat.
“Everything is going to be okay. Better than okay. I’m so sorry for not telling you. Can you ever forgive me?”
“I think I can find it in my ‘big as a blue moon’ heart to find some forgiveness. But you have to promise me you won’t ever keep something like this from me again or I’ll feed you to Clementine.”
Summer cupped his face in her hands. “I promise you, Carter Pierce, that I will trust you and love you and drive you crazy from this day forward.”
“Nothing would make me happier.” He spun her around, teasing a laugh out of her throat.
A dog walker with a Chihuahua and three Yorkies scurried past them without looking in their direction.
He grinned, big and bright. “You realize what this means to the Beautification Committee, don’t you?”
“I think we’re going to make that committee very, very happy,” she said, kissing him again. She pulled back to look into his eyes. “Carter, there’s something else you need to know. It may change how you feel.”