“Alexis,” Jays said, the moment he saw her. “Call I.T. My email isn’t working.” Then he went into his office and closed the door.
Alexis knew something Jays didn’t: Empire’s I.T. guys also ran on media hours. She quickly checked her work email; it was functioning fine. This wasn’t a system-wide problem. This was just Jays’ email. Which meant that I.T. had come in early. Which meant that someone higher up had called them.
Which meant this was going to be an interesting morning.
Alexis sat down at her desk and opened Noser’s “Screw Off!” column, which she’d been constantly refreshing since last night. The conversation was heated—a mix of love and hatred for Lucas, Jays, Carmen in absentia, and even Nicholas Spragg, who had somehow won himself some admirers last night. Alexis moved her mouse cursor over to the “Log In” button and paused to consider.
Like so many of her peers, she’d come to New York and to Empire to thrive inside a glamorous bubble. Was this her dream job, doing tasks for Jays? No. But she knew that nobody succeeds sitting on the sidelines waiting for the perfect opportunity. Instead, you play every hand you have and follow the one that works out. Lucas had done this, though admittedly not well. She’d been doing it, too, moving carefully, working cautiously, making sure she played the odds. And now, it seemed, one hand she’d been playing was about to cash in.
She clicked, then signed in.
“Username: Rogue Empire
“Password: Rightnext2uJays!”
Then she posted her first message: “Has anyone tried to email Jay Jacobson this morning? You may not get through. A sign of things to come? Stay tuned.”
As soon as she submitted her comment, the Sphinxes walked past her desk, looking even grimmer than usual—as if two dead bodies could somehow be deader. Alexis saw the dominoes setting themselves up. If Jays lost his job, they lost theirs. And so did she.
“Jay Jacobson has retreated to his office,” she now wrote on Noser. At this point, she was giving her identity away: There was nobody else in the building. But who cared? It was game over. “I think he’s cowering under the desk. His formidable secretaries, the Sphinxes, are guarding the door. Shit is about to get real.”
Next, two men in security uniforms exited the elevator and walked up to Jays’ office. Alexis began typing.
Rogue Empire: “Security is facing off against the Sphinxes. ‘Mr. Jacobson isn’t available right now,’ the two of them just said in unison, like they’re the Shining twins. We have a stand-off. What’s Jays doing inside—burning thousand-dollar notebooks in the trash can?”
Rogue Empire: “More security here. Two men the size of refrigerators just literally picked the Sphinxes up like statues and moved them out of the way. The door is locked. Battering ram? Are we about to see a battering ram? Please tell me we’re about to see a battering ram.”
Rogue Empire: “This is amazing. Security just tried to unlock Jays’ door, because apparently Security has keys to everything around here, but Jays had changed the locks. Maybe we really will see a battering ram!”
Rogue Empire: “Security guy is now picking the lock. Bummer. No battering ram.”
Rogue Empire: “They’re in. There’s rustling … now arguing.”
Rogue Empire: “Jay Jacobson and the Sphinxes are being escorted to the elevator. Nobody is saying a word. Jays is wearing a coat and scarf, and holding one notebook. If I had to guess, that notebook is what the scuffle was about.”
Rogue Empire: “Elevator door closed. It’s over. Now what?”
But Alexis knew what to do now. She’d wait a few minutes for Jays, the Sphinxes, and Security to go wherever they were going, and then she’d head straight to Noser, reveal herself as Rogue Empire, and be rewarded with a staff position.
She was confident they would not turn her down.
CHAPTER 54
Lucas sat on the train as it swayed and rumbled toward Grand Central Terminal. It was his first major excursion since his knee surgery six weeks before, and he’d already been impressed with the simple charity of strangers. As soon as he began limping toward a door, someone would rush to open it. When he’d step on a subway train, people would leap out of their seats to let him sit. The rest of the country thought New Yorkers were cold and uncaring, but that simply wasn’t true. A certain amount of introversion—call it psychic breathing room—was necessary to maintain peace of mind in such a crowded city. But when a person needed help, New Yorkers noticed, and they sprang into action.
The day after Jays’ party, a doctor informed Lucas that he’d torn his ACL. “How did this happen?” he’d asked, gently palpating Lucas’s knee. Most people probably said they were skiing. Lucas wasn’t sure how to reply. What would he say—I was attacked by my boss after exposing his dirty secrets to New York society, and you probably read about it in today’s New York Post? Instead, he simplified it: “I fell off the stage at a party.”
“Must have been a good party,” the doctor said. Lucas left it at that.
After the surgery, Tyler had taken exceptional care of him. Franklin and Alexis visited frequently, bearing food, alcohol for themselves, and constant friendly bickering, now that they worked for competing publications. In his Percocet-induced delirium, Lucas half-expected Carmen to appear as well, sidling up to his bedside with sympathy and chicken soup. Of course, she didn’t. Lucas spent a long time wondering if she’d seen his very public apology. Tyler assured him that, at this point, it was impossible to miss; the video from Jays’ party had redefined the meaning of “virality.” But Lucas knew that if she’d made up her mind to excise him from her life there was nothing he could do about it. Which sucked. Now that he was laid out at home, he had ample time to drill down into his heart and excavate his true feelings. And also to consider Carmen’s.
As the painkillers wore off and the fog lifted from his brain, he realized that his performance at Jays’, bold as it had been, was also selfish. He’d apologized to Carmen, but he didn’t do anything for her. He wasn’t there for her. The actions of that night were, frankly, all for himself and his own conscience.
He thought back to what Carmen told Tyler: I’m not the only one Lucas screwed over. At this point, Carmen was gone. He would never win her back. Still, he owed her. She deserved as much generosity from him as she’d given to him. It wasn’t a debt she expected him to repay or, frankly, would want him to repay. But he wanted to. He’d dug too many holes since moving to New York. This was one he needed to fill.
Lucas racked his brain. How could he right his wrong? And then, one day while he was on Facebook, a photo from his mother’s feed popped up in his timeline. There she stood in a row of society ladies, their gauze-brimmed hats set just so atop their heads, gin fizzes in their hands. It was, Lucas gleaned quickly, taken at Mel and Cal’s engagement party. Lucas clicked through to see Mel looking not only happy but also relaxed. And why wouldn’t she be? This time around, her groom wasn’t sidling off early. This groom had the self-awareness to know exactly what he wanted. This groom was sticking around.
Jesus, Lucas thought, what a dick I’ve been. He opened an email and began typing out an apology but stopped halfway through. All at once, a solution presented itself: a way to make things right, not just with Mel but with Carmen.
He called Mel from Tyler’s phone, guessing that she’d screen his name. He then pleaded for her not to hang up and, once that was accomplished, begged to see her and Cal. Begrudgingly, she told Lucas to meet her that Saturday morning at Grand Central, under the information booth clock. “You can say whatever it is you need to say before we catch our train. Be there at nine forty-five.” Then she hung up.
* * *
Lucas arrived early, giving himself and his busted knee ample time to reach the appointed spot. The Main Concourse was like a sanctuary, an echoing temple of stone and light. Lucas stood among the weekend travelers, tilting back his head as they did, taking in the seventy-five-foot ceilings. As the blood rushed to his brain, the sea-green sky and g
ilded constellations seemed to swim overhead. It was jarring to find majesty here, amidst such a crass, cosmopolitan city, as opposed to, say, anywhere in Europe. It reminded him of Carmen’s experience finding Starry Night not in Amsterdam, but at MOMA in New York. Which, of course, reminded him of the terrible thing he’d done to her there. Lucas felt tears rise, so he stood up straight and collected himself. He was on a mission. He must remain focused.
At exactly 9:45, the couple strode in, Mel wearing a pastel sundress and Cal in khakis and oxfords. Seeing them together made it clear to Lucas that he and Mel had never been right for each other. Or maybe they had been for a brief moment, years ago in college, before Lucas figured out who he was and how much he didn’t know. Mel spotted him and nudged Cal: Over there. Cal smirked. As he approached, Lucas felt himself being inspected. Did the crutches make him look sympathetic or weak? But Cal’s appraisal was clear: Lucas was a piece of worthless junk.
“I’m Lucas,” Lucas said unnecessarily, and struggled to offer his hand while balancing on one crutch.
“This better not be some kind of stunt,” Cal said after he dropped Lucas’s hand. “Like the one you pulled at that editor’s party. If we’re being filmed, I will take legal action.”
“Whoa, Cal. Hold on. Nobody’s being filmed. I’m here to make peace, and if you don’t like what I have to say, I’ll leave, and you’ll never have to hear from me again. OK?” Lucas knew how anxious he sounded, but this was his last shot.
Cal scowled, and Mel took his hand. “We have a ten-fifteen train. You have until they post the track.”
Lucas glanced at the schedule board behind Mel. He didn’t know how early tracks were posted, but he guessed he had about ten minutes. This was going to be tight. “Look, guys, I have something to offer both of you. Mel, yours is first, and it’s an explanation. We’re long past apologies. I know that. Though for what it’s worth, I am deeply sorry for how I treated you at the bar in December, where I was a real jerk, and—”
“Yes, you were,” Mel said.
“Yes, I was,” Lucas agreed. “I was feeling lonely and stupid, and I lashed out, and you didn’t deserve it. But more important, I’m sorry for everything.”
“I thought you said we were past apologies,” Mel said stonily.
“You’re right. Sorry.” He grimaced. “I mean, I’m not sorry for … wait, that came out wrong.” Lucas stopped himself. This had all sounded a lot more eloquent when he ran through it in his head. Now Cal and Mel were looking at him with a mix of contempt and pity, like how you look at a salesman who’s struggling to sell you snake oil. Lucas composed himself. “Mel, you’ve moved on and found a great man, and I don’t flatter myself to think that you’re up at night wondering how our relationship fell apart. But I know that my actions didn’t make a lot of sense back then, and if it helps you at all to know the answer, it’s this: We had a good relationship, but I had nothing to compare it to. I didn’t know if giving it up would be the worst mistake of my life, or if we would actually both be happier with other people. And I didn’t know how to know. I mean, we just didn’t have the experience. So I became paralyzed.”
Cal stretched out his arm—made a big show of it—and looked at his watch. Lucas glanced at the schedule board. Still no track. “You’re a wonderful person, Mel, and I put you in a terrible position, and you were mature enough to once suggest that we break up, and I was never mature enough to return the favor. I felt stuck, and I took advantage of you, and I’m not going to ask that you forgive me, but—”
Movement on the board caught his eye. Lucas’s stomach sank. But no, the track posting was for a different train.
“Lucas,” Mel said, stepping into the momentary silence, “you made me feel like I only cared about getting married—about some stupid wedding. You made me feel like I was shallow and boring and somehow deficient for not being this adventurous person who would drop everything and move here with you. But I’m not those things.”
“I know,” he said. “I think, deep down, I wanted our relationship to fail, but I didn’t have the guts to actually call it quits. So I just tried to poison it.”
“That’s fucked up,” Mel said.
Lucas nodded. “It was awful.”
Silence again. Both Cal and Lucas watched Mel as she took this in. Finally, she sighed. “And what do you want to offer Cal?”
At that moment, their track appeared. “Well,” Cal said, “I guess that’s that. Have a nice life, Lucas.”
Lucas looked at Mel, silently pleading with every ounce of his being, I don’t deserve your help. I’m a dick for even asking. But I can’t tell you how important this is. Please. Mel’s face was blank and Lucas understood that his time was up. He would not be able to help Carmen after all. But at least he’d made a good-faith effort with Mel.
Mel groaned. “Cal, just hear him out. Lucas, you’d better talk fast.”
Lucas swelled with gratitude and relief. “Well, I’m currently unemployed. I’m not exactly the first guy magazines are looking to hire.”
“I’d say not,” Cal said, but he was listening.
“But I do have two years of law school under my belt, and since I now have a lot of free time on my hands I would like to offer you many, many hours of totally free work.”
Cal’s eyebrows rose. Of all the things he’d anticipated Lucas saying, this clearly wasn’t one. “But why?”
“Like I said before, we’re past apologies. But I want to do something for you—and for Mel. I know what kind of hours you must be working, and if I can help take some of the load off, and get you home to Mel earlier at the end of the day, well, that would make me happy.”
Cal looked at Mel as though to say, Is this guy for real?
“And also,” Lucas said, “to be perfectly frank, I’ve recently developed a newfound interest in real estate law.”
EPILOGUE
Lucas hurried through Union Square Park, a book-filled messenger bag over his shoulder. He was supposed to have finished reading In Cold Blood before tomorrow’s class, but he was behind—and in trying to catch up on the subway going downtown he’d missed his stop and had to double back. Just over a month in, journalism school continued to humble him. There was so much he didn’t know. He’d never covered a school-board meeting or had to turn a breaking news story around within an hour. And with every new person he met, he had to explain that, yes, he really was Nice Guy from “Screw the Critics,” and no, the experience hadn’t created the opportunities he really wanted.
After Jays was fired, Lucas found himself in occupational limbo. The Editor clearly would have shitcanned him if given the chance. Instead, Lucas had to wait a couple of weeks to receive his personal death knell. Soon enough, though, Empire hired a new editor-in-chief, some bozo who’d run a food website and whose entire vision for the magazine seemed to be “let’s make digital videos,” and that guy’s first true act was to send Lucas packing. Almost immediately, Playboy and Cosmo both offered him columns writing about his sex life, a porn studio promised a five-video series, and the website Bustle offered him the title of Guys Editor, whatever that meant. But he didn’t want to feel boxed in the way Carmen had. So he turned it all down, applied to journalism school, and hoped to hit the “reset” button on his career. Now, carrying his Capote through the mid-September dusk, he knew he’d made the right decision. He felt purposeful, happy to be a student again.
He approached the Barnes & Noble, and there was her face, printed on a poster. Lucas’s heart skipped a beat; he hadn’t seen Carmen in nearly two years. He’d expected a severe and brooding author photo, a warning to readers: Don’t mess with this bitch. Instead, Carmen Kelly, author of the new memoir Screw the Critics, wore a wide and gracious smile.
Lucas entered and walked past the “New Nonfiction” table with its phalanx of hardcovers, and felt a little queasy. Months ago, the publisher had mailed him an advance copy of Carmen’s book. He still hadn’t cracked it—not because he feared her criticism, but because he�
�d worked so hard to get over her. He worried that reading even a page of her book would be like an alcoholic having just one sip: an inevitable relapse. But then she’d invited him to the launch—the first real contact they’d had. He wanted to support her. He felt ready. So here he was.
Lucas was very late and the reading—standing room only—was well under way. He couldn’t see Carmen through the crowd, but he could hear her well enough.
“‘After all,’” she read aloud, her voice assured, “‘he hadn’t even taken his pants off yet.’”
The audience laughed.
“‘And I wasn’t going to do it myself,’” Carmen finished, and everyone laughed again. Lucas figured there was a 90 percent chance the pants in question were his.
“Thanks again for coming out tonight,” Carmen said. “I’ll take a few questions, and then would be happy to sign books.”
Someone wanted to know if she and Jays were still in touch. “Nope,” was all Carmen said. Another person asked if she still regretted losing the Netflix show. “At some point,” she answered, “you have to focus on the opportunities you have instead of the ones you don’t, or you’ll never move forward.”
A college-aged woman with pink hair raised her hand. “You say that you’re sick of writing about sex,” the woman said. “So why write this book?”
Carmen smiled and shook her head. “This book is really about desire,” she said, “and that’s far more interesting. Sure, there’s sexual desire in there, but it’s also the desire to be wanted, to be successful, to be important, to be worthy. And it’s about the trouble we have when our desires get entangled with other people’s—which is exactly what happened to me and Lucas and Jay. And also, I think it’s important to talk about how our strongest desires are rarely fulfilled. We will always want more. And like I said, that can make us forget about what we already have. The real struggle of living in this city isn’t the constant striving to get what you want—it’s being able to simply live. To be content.”
Mr. Nice Guy Page 31
