Page 42 of When There Was You
“It shows. You’re eager and talented. And it’s probably unfair I’ve kept you straddling two positions all this time, but people like you are tough to find—or replace.”
I’m still technically her assistant, but also write for the various sections, which is Eleanor’s way of keeping me incentivized. It’s worked, and in my dual role, I’ve had my fingers in all slices of the magazine pie. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed it.
I grin. “I’m almost speechless.”
“I’m going to set this in motion, but please keep it between us for now.”
“I will.”
“How far are you through the June issue?”
“Over halfway. I’ll have it on your desk by close of business.” That term is a misnomer. We may shut the doors at 5 p.m., but that rarely means our workday’s over. Publishing isa living, breathing animal, one where deadlines and emergencies rule the landscape.
“Great.”
I stand, beaming. “Thank you again.”
My boss nods, returning an uncharacteristically sentimental smile.
Stealing outside, I grant myself ten minutes to absorb this revelation. My hands press against my cheeks and that consuming smile, then I walk down the block, letting out an unbridled whoop and not caring who stares. I’m dying to tell someone. My friends and Mrs. Callahan, whose job in this very niche inspired me from the minute Mick told me she wrote for a travel publication.
Mick would be proud of me, too. Really fucking proud. But how would he feel about me moving across the country? Taking that step seals the deal for us, solidly shuts that door.
It’s shut, girl.And locked.
We’ve had no contact since our breakup—other than his graduation bouquet—and it’s clear we’re not going to. I have no clue what’s happening in his life and whether he’s still beholden to Remy or if the former Three Musketeers could ever share friendship again now that everything’s so convoluted. But Mick knows where I stand. I would have waited for him. I would have given him anything he needed—and all of me.
I’ve got to move on.
And this is a damned good way to do so.
Twenty-Six
One week later, I’m exiting through the rotating glass doors of the skyscraper housingVirginia Nowmagazine and resisting the urge to leap into the air. Excess energy ping-pongs through my system, a rightful smile belying my exhilaration. Not to jinx my luck, but that couldn’t have gone any better.
I met with Maureen, another no-nonsense managing editor (confident and fortyish), and Tyler, the Travel & Culture editor (a twenty-something dressed like he readsGQ). Our rapport was easy and effortless. Answers to their questions slid confidently from my mouth, and my enthusiasm was obvious. They praised my portfolio, which aside fromSan Francisco Lifepieces, consists of pieces fromThe Spartan Daily, the San Jose wellness publication during my internship, and a smattering of personal work.
Trees in spring bloom brighten the sidewalk in shades of deep-to-light pinks, and the sun’s rays bathe me in warmth. When I pass by an attractive bar—its plate glass windows showcasing an airy, bright interior—my legs propel me through the front door almost of their own volition. Myresponsibilities are done for the day, and this calls for a celebration. Knock on wood, I’ll get the job.
I claim a stool at the long wooden bar. A sunbeam casts a glow against the tiered liquor bottles lined up in neat rows. I’m lost in their colorful hues until a cocktail napkin placed before me ushers me back to the present. A slender woman asks for my order. She’s got a spiky pixie haircut and is clad in all-black fitted clothing. It’s not a look I could get away with, but one I strongly admire.
When my drink arrives, I take a welcome swallow of the cool Tequila Sunrise and close my eyes.Heaven.My neck is so stiff, I lean my head back, shaking my long hair off my shoulders and working out the kinks. Better. A few more sips in, I’m replaying the interview. In my heart, I know it’s right. Iwantthat job. My high heel taps against the metal footrest under the bar, and I debate ducking into the bathroom to take off these infernal nylons. That is one aspect of wearing professional attire I’m not stoked about, but it seems expected.
“You’re sending Morse Code up my leg with all that tapping.”
My head swivels to the guy three stools down. He’s staring at me with the greenest damn eyes I’ve ever seen. His eyebrows raise, and his gaze pins me before shifting to my foot.
“Oh. Sorry.” I place a hand on my thigh and stop. Offering up a sheepish smile, I make the mistake of meeting his gaze again. With his rich brunette hair and sun-kissed skin as a backdrop to those ridiculous eyes, he’s handsome as hell. Heart-stoppingly so, even for this jaded, headed-for-spinsterhood gal. A thin coat of stubble accentuates his chin and jawline.
He skewers me with an incredulous stare. “Are you the kind of person who can’t sit still?
I realize my foot is back at it, and I bring it to a halt. Azing of irritation permeates. This guy’s being a grumpy dick—immediately making him less gorgeous.Ha.“No. I’m just happy, something I have a feeling you never experience.”
His head drops, but one side of his mouth twitches as if he’s fighting a grin.
I return to my cocktail.
He mutters something indiscernible.
