44
Valentine’s Day was coming around again. It had been nearly twelve months since the random phone encounter with the Mystery Man had turned Callie’s otherwise organized life upside down. She finally believed she had put him in her rearview mirror. She and Jess went out often with friends and she poured herself into her writing, all the while getting great advice and support from her writing group.
She completed her final draft of The Fussy Virgin Guide and had started sending out query letters to publishers and literary agents. Some of her most trusted friends, including Jess, as well as the people in her writing group had been her first readers. Other than a few constructive comments, everyone had been very positive and thought she had a winner. In order to finish all the revisions of her sixth draft, Callie put socializing on hold so she could streak to the literary finish line.
When she finally typed “The End,” she FaceTimed with Jess and shared the good news.
“You finished it?” screamed Jess. “No more rewrites? I don’t have to read it again?”
“Done. Finito! I feel like I just gave birth. Let’s go out and celebrate.”
That night they met up with a bunch of friends at O’Toole’s. The place was a madhouse. Feeling happy and wearing a body-hugging black sweater, red mini-skirt, black tights and leather boots with four-inch heels, Callie was undeniably dressed to kill. After months of toiling over typing and correcting, she was now light and happy. She had completed what she had set out to do and practically glowed. As she sauntered through the main room of the pub heads turned.
“Girl, you are on fire tonight,” said Jess, shaking her head, noticing all the attention Callie was getting.
“You think?”
“Look at all of them,” said Jess under her breath, nodding in the direction of a group of young men. “Look how thirsty they look.”
Callie looked over and saw several of them had their eyes on her and she smiled.
“Somebody’s gonna get lucky tonight,” said Jess, teasing her friend.
“I’m totally open to meeting someone nice,” said Callie as the two women found seats at the bar. Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’” was playing in the background though the noisy chatter in the room nearly drowned it out. Callie sipped on a glass of white wine while Jess described the sexy eyes of a handsome man standing twenty feet behind her.
“He’s looking over here,” Jess said without moving her lips. “Don’t turn around. Oh my God, he’s gorgeous. He’s tall with dark wavy hair, kind of on the long side and he has these big sensuous eyes with thick, curly lashes.”
Callie started to turn her head.
“Don’t turn around,” said Jess a second time through clenched teeth. “Oh my God, he’s coming over.”
A tanned masculine hand with manicured nails placed a beer bottle down on the bar next to Callie. She kept her head down for a moment and then coyly looked up at him. He smiled at her with his perfect white teeth. She grinned causing her dimples to deepen. He pointed at the empty bar stool next to her.
“This seat taken?” he asked, shouting over the noise.
“I don’t think so,” said Callie, smiling again.
“I’ve got to sit down. I’m here with friends from work. I hurt my knee in a pickup basketball game last night. I can’t stand on it anymore,” he said as he hoisted himself into the seat. “I don’t think I’ve seen you two in here before. I come here a lot. It’s kind of my home away from home when I’m in New York because it’s right around the corner from our Manhattan office.”
“You don’t live in New York,” said Callie, a little disappointed.
“I’m based in DC.”
“What kind of work do you do?” she asked.
“I’m a lobbyist for the petroleum industry.”
“A lobbyist?” said Callie, sitting up straight. “You’re the people who try to get environmental regulations rolled back.”
“Sometimes, if they’re excessive and impact petroleum industry growth.”
“Regardless of the effects it may have on the water supply and the wildlife?”
“I didn’t come over here to fight with you. I came over here to flirt with you. I get enough vitriol in DC.”
“You are destroying our planet,” said Callie with a superior nod of her head.
“You need to lighten up,” the man said as he got up and limped away.
“You need to develop a conscience,” shouted Callie after him, “and a moral compass!”
The two women sat in silence for a moment as Jess took a sip of her beer.
“That went well,” said Jess.
“He kills sea lions.”
“You’re being a Fussy Virgin right now,” said Jess. “And he was so hot, too.
“But I’m right about the sea lions.”
“Okay.”
“Wait a second,” said Callie, narrowing her eyes. “Do you really think I’m right or did you agree with me to change the subject?”
“I agreed with you to change the subject.”
“That’s exactly what the Mystery Man said,” Callie said, her eyes opening wide.
“Not him again,” Jess groaned while putting her hands over her face.
“See, I know he and I are supposed to be together.”
Jess sighed. “You’re right.”
“Are you fake agreeing with me again?”
“Yes.”
45
March 2018
Callie’s writing group had recently moved locations and now met at a diner on Fifth Avenue. After the hotel manager got wise to them, they had to find a new meeting place. As long as it wasn’t peak hours and everyone bought something, the diner’s manager said they could stay.
It was a blustery day when Callie pushed open the door to the eatery and looked over towards the corner usually occupied by her group. Seven people were already seated and a few of them including Fiona, waved. She had grown fond of all the members and enjoyed the camaraderie and writing support. The group had workshopped many of her chapters for The Fussy Virgin and helped her finish it.
She pulled up a chair and noticed a new face across the table.
“I’m Callie,” she said to the new man.
“Eric,” he said with a wave. His ears stuck out a bit and he had a heavy smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose that made him look friendly.
“This is Eric’s first time at the group,” said Mike, the group’s leader. “He’s a copy editor at WebRx, the health site.”
“But I really want to be a novelist,” said Eric with a smile. “Right now, all I do is write medical blurbs. Pretty dull stuff.”
“At least someone’s paying you to write,” said Callie. “That’s more than I can say.”
“I’ve actually written a novel and self-published it,” said Eric, “but the few reviews I got weren’t very good. My favorite—someone called my book a ‘grubby little novel.’”
“Ouch,” said Callie. “Some reviewers can be so mean.”
“Another review said, ‘life is too short to read rubbish,’” said Eric.
“Jeez,” said Fiona, listening to their conversation. “That’s harsh.”
“Hey, people,” said Mike. “If you are going to write and put your stuff out there, better be prepared for criticisms because they will come. Writers can’t be thin-skinned.”
“Believe me, my skin has thickened up. Now, it’s back to the drawing board,” said Eric. “I’ve started a new manuscript and thought maybe this time a writing critique group would be the way to go.”
The group got started and each member took their turn reading their passage. Everyone was impressed with Eric’s astute observations on each person’s writing. When Callie read a couple of pages from the first chapter of her new romantic comedy novel, In My Opinion, Eric made some insightful comments.
“You have a really clear and strong voice in that section,” said Eric, “but you might want to offer up more descriptors so that the
reader can feel, see and taste the surroundings.”
“You’re absolutely right,” said Callie, marveling at how spot-on his review had been. “I’ll try that out this week.”
The rest of the meeting was more of the same and by the end, everyone was glad Eric had joined. When they left the diner and said their goodbyes outside, some turned south while Callie, Eric and Mike walked north.
“How did you like the meeting?” Mike asked Eric as they crossed a street.
“It was great,” Eric replied. “Nice people and some of the writing was very good. Seems like you have all different levels. I’m inspired.”
“Callie recently finished her Fussy Virgin manuscript,” said Mike. “I like to think that we helped her.”
“Oh my God, the group has been a lifesaver. I couldn’t have finished it without you,” said Callie, jumping in. “I’m still polishing it, but I’ve already sent out query letters to publishers and agents. Fingers crossed.”
“Any luck?” asked Mike.
“A few form letter rejections,” said Callie.
“I think you’ll have to wait at least six weeks or more before you’ll hear from most of them,” said Eric. “Hang in there.”
Thirty minutes later when Callie got to her desk, she overheard Jess doing a survey about laundry detergent. Thank God they don’t give me the household product surveys anymore, those are the worst. She banged on the partition to let Jess know she was there.
Wearing a signature seasonal headband topped with squiggly, sparkly green shamrocks, Jess pushed her chair back from her desk to eyeball Callie while continuing her call.
“And what do you love most about Tide detergent, sir? The smell? Many people say that,” Jess said as she crossed her eyes for Callie’s benefit. She held up two fingers to let her friend know the call would be ending shortly while simultaneously handing Callie a St. Patrick’s Day headband. Callie placed the headband on her head and checked her email. Two more form letter rejections of The Fussy Virgin were waiting in her inbox. She felt a lump form in her throat as Jess, in her festive green splendor, stuck her head around the partition.
“What’s the matter,” said Jess, peering at her friend.
“I got two more rejection letters.”
“They don’t know what they’re talking about. They haven’t even read your manuscript. They rejected your letter not your book. Remember, who you are. You…are the Fussy Virgin.”
46
April 2018
The first day of April in New York was often dreary and this one was no exception. At her work station, wearing her headset, Callie checked her email between calls. If it had been any other day of the year, she would have opened one particular email immediately. But it was April Fool’s Day and she only made an irritated face when she saw the subject line and assumed one of her friends was playing a joke. She never opened it. Three days later, a second identical email appeared in her inbox with the same subject line—NYT Modern Love Essay. This time, she opened it.
Dear Ms. Swan,
The New York Times receives thousands of submissions for our very popular Modern Love column. Sometimes it takes us months or even years to find the right time and place for the many essays we love. When we received your submission last year, our panel of editors reviewed it and decided it met the quality level that we look for. Your story about connecting with the “Mystery Man” and then losing him during a power outage was both charming and a quintessential New York City tale. That’s exactly the kind of story we like.
It gives me great pleasure to inform you that we would like to run your essay in next Sunday’s edition. A release form is attached. Please be kind enough to initial and return. Someone from my office will call you about the other details later today. Congratulations.
Sincerely,
Jill Chaifetz
Assistant Editor, The New York Times—Modern Love
“Oh, my God! Jess!” shrieked Callie as she banged on the wall between them.
“No way,” screamed Jess after she had read the email. “My best friend is going to be published in The New York Times! I’m so proud of you, Chiquita! Do you know how many people would kill to get that email?”
“I can’t believe it,” said Callie in a full body flush. “I sent it in so long ago and never heard anything. I figured it was dead.”
“This is amazing. You totally deserve this.”
“Maybe he’ll see it,” said Callie. “Don’t you think it’s a sign from the universe that The New York Times is going to run my piece?”
“I guess,” said Jess, weighing her response carefully, hoping to prevent Callie from going completely over the rainbow. “You don’t even know if he reads that paper.”
“He reads it. I’m sure of it.”
Jess took a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling, searching for the magic words that would bring her friend back to reality. “I thought you had moved past that whole thing,” she said. “You keep setting yourself up for more disappointment. Aren’t you tired of it?”
“You have to admit, this came out of nowhere. I had moved on, but this is the universe at work. I can’t turn my back on the universe, Jess.”
“I guess.”
“You’ll see. You know what they say, all things come to those who wait.”
“One thing is for sure, you’ve definitely waited,” said Jess, shaking her head.
47
On a Sunday morning, with Patrick still snoring in the bedroom, Sunny sat in her modern all-white living room on Park Avenue reading The New York Times on her iPad. She and Patrick had been seeing each other for six months and while things were mostly good, their relationship had experienced some growing pains. It was to be expected, she had told herself, all couples have to work the kinks out.
She went into her gleaming white galley kitchen appointed with stainless steel appliances and put a second pod into the Keurig. She took out a KNYC mug with her picture on it, admired it and then filled it with hot black coffee and went back into the living room to continue reading. Every Sunday, she had a ritual of reading certain columns and sections in a particular order. She started with arts and fashion, then went to “Modern Love” and finished with sports and world news.
After scanning some movie and theater reviews and making a mental note of which new film she’d like to see, she moved on to her fave—“Modern Love.”
This week’s essay was called, “He Might Have Been the One” written by Caledonia Swan. Taking a sip of her coffee, Sunny leaned back on her pristine white couch. A few paragraphs in, she heard a noise in the hallway. “I was wondering when you were going to get up,” she said as the half-awake Patrick stumbled into the living room in a T-shirt and boxer shorts while scratching his head. “I was about to wake you. It’s after eleven. We’re supposed to meet everyone for brunch at one,” said Sunny.
“I know,” said Patrick groggily. “First, I need coffee.”
“I’ve been waiting for nearly two hours for you to wake up.”
Patrick groaned and muttered something she couldn’t make out and went into the kitchen while Sunny resumed reading “Modern Love.” When he came back with his coffee, he picked up a sports magazine and his phone and sat down at the dining table to check his messages. After a few minutes of complete quiet, he noticed Sunny wasn’t talking—a rarity.
“What are you reading so intently?” he asked.
“The Modern Love column in The New York Times,” said Sunny without taking her eyes off her screen.
“Sounds great,” said Patrick, rolling his eyes.
“It’s about the most primal human emotion—love,” said Sunny, looking over adoringly at him. “You should read it.”
Patrick stared at her with a look that screamed, not a chance. “I’m going to take a shower,” he said as walked back to the bedroom.
For the two weeks after the Modern Love essay was published, Callie received dozens of calls and emails from friends, colleagues and even a few peopl
e who had gone to her high school, all congratulating her on the essay and wishing her luck. She got messages on LinkedIn, Facebook, Instagram and Twitter from people she knew well, hardly knew and even strangers. Despite the column being widely read, none of the calls or emails were from the person she most wanted to hear from.
“It’s not happening,” said Callie to Jess as they left work one night and walked out onto Forty-Second Street. “I was so sure when The New York Times accepted my article, it was a sign from the universe. I’ve heard from everyone in the world, except him.”
“You’ve got to get yourself back out there,” said Jess. “You’ve been obsessing about this person for over a year. It’s not healthy.”
Ten days later, Callie received an email from a small independent publisher to whom she had sent a copy of the Fussy Virgin manuscript. They wanted to publish her book and offered her a publishing contract. She read it a second and then a third time. “Oh my God!” Callie screamed.
Everyone in the Ariom Marketing bullpen turned and looked in Callie’s direction including George. “Keep it down, Caledoni-aah.”
Jess leaned around the partition. “What’s wrong?”
“They’re going to publish The Fussy Virgin! I’m going to be a published author.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Look,” Callie said, pointing to her inbox. Jess read the email and gave her friend a hug and then stood up.
“Attention everybody, Callie sold her book!” Jess shouted. The crowded room reacted with applause and cheers as her co-workers, including crusty George now wearing a smile, came over to hug and congratulate her.
“That’s quite an accomplishment, Caledoni-aah,” said George. “Congratulations. You should be very proud of yourself.”
“I still can’t believe it,” said Callie, after everyone went back to their desks.
“When will it come out?” asked Jess.
The Fussy Virgin Page 16
