I think of running. A rental car, my hastily packed bag. Some way to simply . . . go. To get away from this awful exposure, this hidden thing I don’t want to face. Every time I try to move, though, something—something—makes me stay.
The television lights up the darkening room, and I flip through the channels until I find it, coverage of the Coster arrest. The story seems to repeat at regular intervals, on a rotation with the day’s other biggest news stories. When I see it for the fifth time—the room around me totally dark now—I very nearly have the visuals memorized. First, Coster himself, being led out of the building, his eyes cast down, his gray hair mussed. Then, stills of him in happier, more successful times—shaking hands with the mayor, smiling on the red carpet on the night of a New York City ballet opening, posed with his wife on the steps of the Met. Next comes his mug shot, then a clip from outside his Upper East Side home, which was apparently also raided this afternoon.
And then comes Reid.
There’s a single clip of him, and I can only guess it’s played on every local station. For this one, the chyron is dark blue, and the lettering identifying Reid is slim, all caps, white. it reads, and I’m relieved, at least, that the television media isn’t going with blaring, base “scorned fiancé” headlines.
But nothing else about this clip is relieving. There’s so little to see of him in it: He’s surrounded by people in dark suits, one on either side of him and two at his back, one who moves in front, arm outstretched to block the crush of people who are holding cameras and video equipment. On my third time seeing this clip, I notice that the two men on either side of Reid—their faces set in frustrated impatience at the click-clamor surrounding him—have a length of clear, curling wire descending behind their ears. Security. For Reid.
It doesn’t take me three times to notice every single thing about him, though. Pale, stoic, stern, his blue eyes blank when they—for the briefest of seconds—flicker upward to the camera lenses. Dark blue suit, white shirt, his gray tie straight, tight against his collar. In the very last seconds of this clip, when two of the photographers stumble over each other, jostling their surrounding colleagues and putting the men around Reid on high, tense alert, Reid raises his hand to his hair, and the very worst thing is revealed for the most fleeting of seconds. A flaring patch of skin that peeks from beneath the cuff of his shirt.
My heart breaks every time, and I think if I was left in charge of myself, I might wait for this clip to replay all night, just to let it break over and over again. Just to feel close to him in this small, unsatisfying way.
But I’m not left in charge of myself. Because this time, as soon as the clip is over, I hear the lock on my door turn.
And when I look up, I’m staring into the sympathetic eyes of my very best friend.
Chapter 19
I wake up knowing Sibby is still in the apartment.
My bedroom door is mostly closed, a sliver-crack of light peeking along its length. But through it, I can hear her in the kitchen, dishes clinking lightly in that particular way that suggests someone is trying to be quiet. When I take a deep inhale, I can smell the heady aroma of her favorite strong coffee. It sounds and smells like so many other mornings I’ve had in this apartment—Sibby up early for work, me sleeping off a late night of sketching.
But of course it’s not like other mornings.
At first, I give in to the disappointment—the realization that I haven’t woken up to find that yesterday was all a terrible dream. I burrow deep into my covers, briefly indulging in my desire to hide away from all the ways last night had gotten unaccountably worse—still no word from Reid, but lots of words from other people. Reporters who’d flooded my voice mail and my inbox. Clients who’d done the same, apparently scanning their planners for hidden messages, finding things I’d certainly never hidden. One had been convinced that I’d written He’s cheating among the letters in her June spread. The truth is, I didn’t even know she was seeing anyone. Another thought I’d hidden Botox, and wanted to know whether I was making an accusation or a suggestion. “That’s a good one,” Sibby had said, as she’d scrolled through the phone she’d commandeered from me shortly after her arrival. But I’d never hidden that word, either.
Still, I have a lot to answer for. And also, I want a lot of answers.
Slowly, I uncurl my body from the ball I’ve tucked myself into, tossing off the covers. I know I can’t hide from this forever, and anyway, Sibby being here last night let me do a lot of hiding already.
My body feels achy with fatigue as I pull on a light wrap over my pajamas, and my eyes are swollen and stuck-together-feeling. I don’t know when I finally fell asleep last night, but I do know that I’d been crying—steady streams of tears as Sibby and I had lain next to each other in the dark, the saddest version of our old sleepovers. In a cracking, barely whispered voice, I’d told her everything. About Reid and Avery and the program, about Reid and me and the walks. Even about that around my heart, and what it truly stands for.
She’d held my hand and listened. When I’d finished, she’d said, her voice cracking, too, “I didn’t even know you were seeing anyone.” And then she squeezed my hand tight and whispered, “I’m so sorry.”
“Hey, Sib,” I croak to her when I come out from my quick stop in the bathroom. I shuffle over to the couch and slump onto it. As progress goes, it’s minimal, but it’s better than staying in bed, at least.
She’s wearing her clothes from yesterday, her face scrubbed clean of makeup, and as soon as I’m settled she comes over, holding out a glass to me.
“Water before you’re allowed to have coffee,” she says, and I’m guessing this is the voice Sibby uses on her young charges. I can’t say I mind it at the moment. I take the glass and drink deeply, mostly because I want that coffee so bad.
“Thanks. Did you check the news?” I move to stand.
She puts a hand up, stilling me, but her eyes are still full of sympathy. “There’s nothing new. Stay where you are. I’ll get your coffee.”
She bustles away, and I lean my head back and close my eyes, listening to her move around the kitchen while I try—dimly, groggily—to come up with some kind of plan for today. The list of people I need to call—the list of people itching for a confrontation with me—seems endless, and even as I try to work through it, my mind keeps going to Reid. It’s odd, how I can hold in my looped heart such conflicting emotions: my overwhelming concern for him, my worry that he’s in trouble, hidden away somewhere and unable to be in touch. But also, my devastation over the things he’s apparently hidden from me—not the work stuff, because it’s clear he had to be secretive about that, but the personal stuff. What he must have told others about the program, about my letters. The way he left me so . . . so exposed to all these revelations.
So unprotected.
He should have warned me. Somehow, he should have warned me.
“Okay,” Sibby says, breaking into my thoughts. “Coffee. Instant oats, extra maple syrup.”
I lift my head and take it from her, notice that she’s poured me a pretty small cup. I know her well enough to know she’s still managing me here—worried about giving me too much caffeine when I’m already this anxious. In spite of all my sadness, I feel my lips twitch with a smile as I take my first sip.
“Here’s what I’m thinking,” says Sibby, sitting beside me, pulling up her feet and criss-crossing her legs. “We get you a second line for your phone today. We’ll call the people you know to give them the new number, but this way, all the random stuff will go to the old one. You can record a new voice mail for it, basically a polite fuck off. I already disabled the comments on your social media, but I think if we . . .”
She rattles off the rest of her ideas, and every single one of them is good. It’s the same way she’d handled things in the first hour or so after she’d come last night—a force of nature with my phone, answering calls and providing the briefest of responses, depending on who was on the line. For clie
nts, a simple “I’m taking messages for her.” For reporters or bloggers or other randoms, a curt “No comment,” followed by her speedy blocking of the number. She’d even called both of my parents, though thankfully, it seems pretty clear my part in this scandal is going to stay local. She’d swept in like a superhero, my most devoted champion.
I’d been grateful and comforted. But now, uneasiness sweeps through me as I listen to her talk. Maybe it’s taking me a while to work up to the worst of my to-do list, but right now, sitting here with Sibby, one of the items on it becomes crystal clear.
“Sib,” I say.
“Yeah?” Her wingless eyes are guileless as she looks at me, maybe some slight surprise that I’ve interrupted her. This morning, and last night, too, she’s the old Sibby. Not distant, not polite. Vibrant and bold and big-talking, ready for anything, as though the last few months never happened.
I clear my raspy throat.
“Do you think it’s easier to . . . to be friends with me, when it’s this way? When I need you more, I mean. Do you think . . .” I stir listlessly at my oatmeal, trying to think of the right way to put this. “Do you think we maybe learned to be friends this way, and then when it wasn’t so . . .”
I trail off again, but I’m not trying to be indirect. I just know that Sibby’s thinking of all the same things I am, all the ways our friendship was formed and forged according to who we were when we were so, so young. Me on that bus with my Pepto-Bismol, nervous to be away from home, and her at a new school, ready to assert herself as strong and in control. Me on the threshold of an apartment in Hell’s Kitchen, needing a new home, and her settling into one, eager to be the city expert to one person, at least.
Me now, and her now.
There’s a long pause.
“I don’t know, Meg. Maybe.”
I nod. It isn’t a definitive answer, but it’s an honest one. For both of us, probably.
“But if it is true,” she says, “then we ought to change it. We ought to learn to be friends a different way. Because I love you, and I miss you so much.”
My eyes well with tears. “Me too, Sib.”
Sibby scoots closer to me and for a while we sit quietly, her side pressed up against mine while I force myself to eat. The to-do list looms, and my heart is still broken. But maybe a tiny bit less so now. Maybe Sibby and I are strong enough to form and forge something new. To change.
“Okay, though,” she says. “The second phone line was a good idea.”
I snort. “It was. I’ll call after I’m finished eating.”
And I think we both feel pretty glad that we don’t have to do all the changing today.
A few hours later, I’m hugging Cecelia goodbye in the small entryway of her townhouse, still sniffling in spite of my best efforts. By this point, my eyelids probably resemble throw pillows, but at least some of the tears I’ve shed over the last hour have been tears of relief, because Cecelia—generous, wonderful person that she is—has forgiven me.
After I’d finished my breakfast, I’d gotten serious about dealing with the things I’m actually in control of in this awful situation, and this confrontation with Cecelia had been right at the top. Thankfully, she wasn’t working today, and had eagerly agreed to my request to meet, offering up her own place—as though she could sense that I was cautious about being out.
It hadn’t been easy, apologizing to Cecelia—no excuses, and only explanations insofar as they helped her to understand how all this had happened. I’d told her that I would do whatever I could to help her repair any fallout for the shop; I’d reassured her that I would answer for any work I had done while I’d been working for her. I would accept if she never wanted me in the shop again.
And I’d thanked her for all that she’d done for me, for trusting and believing in me. I’d told her I was sorry to have let her down so completely.
“Oh, Meg,” she’d said, her eyes soft and mischievous. “I don’t mean to be ironic, but . . . listen, you made a mistake.”
Still, Cecelia has a business to run, and together we make some decisions about how best to minimize the damage. As awful as it is to consider, I’ll avoid the shop for a while, at the very least until the dust settles, and maybe for longer. If Cecelia gets calls from past clients, she will gently remind them that I was employed as an independent contractor and have sole responsibility for the work I produced. She will send them to the contact form on my website, and when she can, she’ll give me a heads-up about anyone who she thinks might be particularly irate, though thankfully, there’s been nothing that extreme as of yet.
“This doesn’t mean we won’t see each other,” Cecelia says, squeezing me one more time before pulling back. “Come over next week, and we’ll all have dinner.”
“Oh, you don’t have to—”
“Meg,” she says firmly. “You’re more to me than the letters, okay?”
I swallow back fresh tears at this kindness, barely managing a genuine nod and smile.
When I step out onto the street, I pull out my phone, sending a quick text to Sibby to let her know I’m on my way. She’s still back at the apartment, and has insisted on staying for a couple of days to help out, asking Elijah to drop off a weekend bag for her. While I’ve been at Cecelia’s, she’s been doing some preliminary handling of my e-mail backlog, deleting anything from reporters and flagging messages from clients that I’ll need to reply to soon. After I get home, my plan is to reach out to Lark, bumped up in the confrontation-priority queue after I spoke to Lachelle on the way over to Cecelia’s. “What do I have to be mad about?” she’d said. She’d encouraged me to remind Cecelia that all publicity is good publicity before telling me I owed her my whole sob story over vegan cocktails.
Even though I should probably stash my phone and leave it alone until I get back home, I can’t help checking out the cache of newly missed calls, and as I walk I listen to—and mostly delete—voice mails. The problem with the second phone line idea, I’d realized, almost as soon as I’d gone to set it up, was that it wouldn’t relieve me of the compulsion to check constantly for something from Reid, who might be trying to reach me from a different number.
Except he hasn’t.
Maybe I could try to call . . . the FBI? I’m thinking, ridiculously, as I press delete on yet another garbage press inquiry. How does one call the FB—
I stop in my tracks when I hear the beginning of the next message, which is so entirely unexpected—not even on the confrontation list—that I don’t even pause to listen to the whole thing before dialing the number back.
“Meg!” Ivonne’s voice is high and excited when she picks up after only a half ring. “I’m so glad we were able to connect. I tried calling you yesterday from the hotel, but your phone must have been blowing up!”
She makes it sound as if this is the greatest thing, one’s phone “blowing up.” One’s life blowing up.
“Uh, yes.” I swallow, then try again, attempting to be more cheerful. I thought I was finished at Make It Happyn, and now I might need this job more than ever. If they want whimsy, I guess I’ll find a way to give them whimsy.
I offer an empty, false laugh. “Yeah, definitely! It’s been wild.”
Wildly terrible. Wildly devastating. Wildly heartbreaking.
“Listen, the team and I met last night, and you’re our top, top pick for this. We’re so excited to bring you on.”
“Wh—really?” I should leave it at that, but I don’t. Instead, I say what I’m thinking. “It seemed like the sketches I presented didn’t work for you.”
“This is a moment we need to move on,” she says, as though I haven’t spoken at all. “You’re on the verge of a brand transformation.”
“Yes, I agree, but I thought the ideas I proposed—”
“Hidden messages,” she interrupts. “It’s brilliant. We want to do a whole line. We’re thinking messages of motivation, maybe one over the course of each month? I’m sure you could work it out—I saw that program! Anyway, w
e think it could be a hit, especially if we do it quickly. Sort of a game for our consumers, you know? It’s terrific.”
A game.
That quickly, my house-of-cards confrontation schedule collapses all around me, fresh pain about Reid punching through my chest. Every game I played with him had felt so sincere, so honest, so special. And every game had led to work—and to a relationship—that was sincere, honest, special. Now all of it feels trivialized, false. My name and Reid’s tied together in some shallow, scandalous narrative, and I can’t even speak to him to find out what’s true and what’s not. All my effort and creativity for Make It Happyn reduced to this, a half-baked offer to turn my mistakes into money.
This is such a mess.
“Meg?” Ivonne says. “Are you still there?”
Part of me wants to give her a hard no, to simply hang up at this ham-handed proposal, maybe even to block her number, too. But I’ve been self-employed in this city for too long to do anything that reckless, and anyway, I feel dangerously close to one of those blurting, I’ve-reached-my-limit outbursts that’s gotten me into so much trouble before.
I compose myself enough to make an apology, and a request to call her back, given what I describe as “some distraction” in my current circumstances. She laughs congenially and agrees—ha ha ha, isn’t scandal hilarious?—but asks that I call her first thing Monday.
“Sure,” I promise before hanging up, though I don’t see how I’ll have any more clarity on this issue by Monday.
It’s a slog to get home. It’s muggy and gray, my personal worst weather combination, and anyone who’s out in it seems like they don’t want to be, including me. Sure, I’m glad I got to talk to Cecelia, but maybe that’s enough for the day. Maybe I could let myself hide for a bit longer, hand over my phone to Sibby until tomorrow, while I wait and hope for Reid to call.
That hiding—it’s what I want most as I trudge up the stairs to my apartment, feeling the energy leak from my bones. When I open the door, I’m head down with headphones on, hiding, hiding, hiding, but my day of confrontation isn’t quite over yet, because when I finally pull them from my ears and look up, I see that it’s not only Sibby here in the apartment.
Love Lettering Page 27
