by Kira Blakely
Maggie tittered nervously, stepping beside him in the elevator and standing several inches too close, her fingers jittering nervously near his. Quentin couldn’t imagine taking her hand. He hoped, abstractly, that someone on the planet would take her hand someday, keep her safe, assure her she was worthwhile. It couldn’t be him.
They sat across from each other at a Greenwich Village bar, the only two people ordering cocktails before three in the afternoon. Maggie stabbed the small straw onto her tongue, sipping too quickly, her eyes bright. “What did you want to talk about? I’ve been editing the first features from Mark and Thomas… Let me tell you, Mark’s sucks, Thomas’ is great. As usual. Maybe we should do something about that.”
“How much longer is Mark’s contract?” Quentin asked, slipping into old habits.
“Maybe four more months?” Maggie answered.
Silence hung between them, then. Quentin’s throat burned as his mind revved, glossing over all the things he needed to say. He sipped half of his cocktail, giving the air a violent sigh.
“Listen, Mags,” he said. “I’ve known you a long, long time. And I don’t think, during that entire time, you’ve known me to be happy.”
Maggie’s lips parted. She eyed him curiously, obviously unsure of where the conversation was leading. “I don’t know if I thought that…”
“Well, I’m telling you, here. Besides the birth of my daughter, my adult life has been pretty dark, tinged with too much partying, too many women, too many drugs. And I’m sorry if you were affected in any way. I was a foolish, selfish man. It’s probably something I should go to someone to discuss. Someone professional.”
Maggie nodded, almost imperceptibly. “You’ve seemed good since you started as editor,” she murmured. “More stable. Less like the Quentin I first met.” She reached forward, then, trying to grab his hand. But he snaked it away. She scowled. “Why am I here, Quentin?”
Quentin hung his head. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
The air around them grew even fierier, more taut. He needed to find release. He continued, forcing himself forward. “It’s just—I made a huge mistake. A mistake that could, potentially, ruin the professional lives of two people. But I think if I explain it to you, you’ll know what to do. You have such a balanced head on those shoulders. You’ve been my guide.”
Maggie’s face looked more strained now. She forced a slight smile, realizing, now, that she wasn’t necessarily in Quentin’s presence because he wanted to commune with her, and certainly not because he wanted to bang her. No. He needed her help.
It was clear, already, that this wasn’t cool with her.
“What did you do, Quentin?” she asked, sighing.
“It’s the girl,” Quentin said. “Charlotte.”
Maggie blinked several times. “She hasn’t been at the office in days.”
“It’s because we’ve been found out.”
Her face looked scrunched now. “You’ve been fucking each other.”
“I think I’m falling in love with her.”
“Love. Huh. What a fucking concept.” Maggie tossed the rest of her drink down her throat, looking as if she might storm from the premises. Her knees twitched beneath the table. “You’ve got to be kidding. You’re the one always on and on about the no-fraternization clause in the fucking contract. You’re the one who says we have to uphold it.”
“I know what I said,” Quentin said firmly. “And I know what I did.”
Maggie burst from her seat, glaring at him. “She’ll be fired, you know.”
“That’s why I brought you here,” Quentin said. “I wanted to get out in front of it. I wanted to make sure she wasn’t. She’s worked damn hard for this position.”
“And she’s writing this fucking feature, just because she’s fucking you,” Maggie whispered harshly, her face growing aghast. “This is the top feature of next week’s magazine. This is something that should have gone to someone who’s been writing there for years, Quentin. Someone like me. You literally robbed me of a potential rise in the ranks…” Her nostrils flared. “I’ve worked my ass off for you, for years. And this is how you repay me?”
Quentin rose up, trying to stop her unnecessary outbursts. He swept his hand forward, trying to grip her forearm, talk her down. But she ripped her arm out of reach, visibly shaking. “I could sue you, you know,” she whispered. “I could sue you for thousands of dollars for busting your contractual agreement. And I’d win. You know that.”
“I do,” Quentin murmured. “Of course, I do. And I’m asking you not to do that.”
“Just because you think I’m in love with you or something?” Maggie howled, smacking her glass onto the table. “Just because you assume I have this unending love for you, you think that I’ll hide your big mistakes?”
“No,” Quentin said quietly, still trying to stay calm. “I think you’ll help me figure out this problem because you’re my friend. And you’ve been my friend for years.”
Maggie’s nostrils flared. She was acting unrealistic, wild, the very portrait of a crazed woman, obsessed with his band in the 2000s. “I just don’t know what to think of this right now. I respected you,” she said, gathering her coat. She flung her arms deep within it, tossing her red hair back.
“Then I’ll leave,” Quentin said suddenly. “After the next issue, I’ll leave the magazine. Someone else will become editor. Just allow Charlotte to stay. Don’t fucking sue me. I’ll be out of your life for good. All right?”
Maggie looked defeated. She spun swiftly from the bar, her coat twirling behind her, and then sped into the rainy streets. She hailed a cab with a flail of her arm and then was gone, rushing back to whichever corner of the universe she normally existed in. Quentin still felt her shadowy anger, lurking on his shoulders.
Fuck.
He ordered another drink, and then another, feeling the Friday after-work crew join around him, laughing raucously, their eyes wide with joy for the end of the workweek. But Quentin felt nothing but gloom.
Charlotte wouldn’t talk to him, needing her space. His daughter was at a friend’s birthday party for the night, stuffing herself with too much candy and cake, probably on a path toward passing out in a soda coma. And his ex-wife was probably entwined in the arms of that new Wall Street asshole, Jason.
Frustrated, he returned to his apartment, stopping to buy a bottle of Jack on the way. He hunkered down in his studio, strumming together a new song throughout the night, trying to abandon his fears at the door. He hadn’t remembered—or perhaps he’d never really known—how close intense happiness was to intense love. Now that he’d allowed himself to feel anything worthwhile for Charlotte, he saw the depths of his soul.
And he didn’t necessarily like it.
But the guitar and his voice howled out a melody, one he stuck to a half-assed recording. He felt that jolt of electricity he’d once felt, as a much younger man, building songs with his once-best friends and ex-band mates.
It had been the only worthwhile thing.
29
Charlotte busied herself with the article throughout the weekend, listening to the recordings from the band over and over again, and retyping the introduction over fifteen times, just trying to get the right emotion, to highlight the intensity of their conversation. Throughout the interview, her heart always tinged when she heard Quentin speaking, reminding her of the beauty of that, their last day together. A relationship that really couldn’t be.
Since she hadn’t been to work in days, she was curious to know what had occurred, but hadn’t yet dared ask. Had Pamela broken the spell and told Maggie about Charlotte and Quentin’s affair? Had Quentin stood up for her? Had Randy said anything—anything at all—in her favor? The world felt tumultuous, chaotic, outside of the small cavern at her computer screen. It was her final sanctuary.
But it couldn’t last forever. The article needed to go to the editor—Quentin himself—and then it needed to go to print. With the 3,000-word article trapped in he
r Google drive, she showered and dressed early Monday morning, conscious to choose a simple pair of black pants and a black turtleneck, her least sexual clothes, asserting the difference between her old self and her new one. She wouldn’t be sleeping with the boss anymore, if only they’d take pity on her and allow her to stay.
The article was damn good. And if they didn’t see validity in her writing, then she didn’t know how else to fix her situation.
At the office, she sent the email to Quentin, Maggie, and the other interns, including a downloadable link for her article, along with the message:
Hello all,
As you know, I’ve taken the past several days to focus on this article. I’ve put my blood and guts into it. As it’s my first feature—and perhaps my last—I’d love all your thoughts and edits. Don’t hold back.
Yours,
Charlotte
As the day crept on, the interns joined her in the intern offices, giving her only a subtle glance before draping themselves over their computers. Charlotte worked diligently on other projects, hunting down new stories to pitch and hoping her brain would stop its unnecessary, rapid, cyclical nature, which was making her feel crazy.
Randy still hadn’t looked at her.
During lunch, Charlotte passed Quentin’s office, sensing his brooding form within. As she’d drawn the line between them, she knew she shouldn’t want to go in there, to hunt him down, to admit defeat. She yearned for his body, ached for his scent. But the flashing eyes from Maggie, in the corner near the printer, shrouded her with fear. Hustling to the elevator, she burst into the crisp, late-September afternoon, understanding: Maggie knew. She was hanging on a literal thread.
Sometime at the end of the day, she received a single email regarding her submission. Just one. And it wasn’t from Quentin. It wasn’t from Maggie. And it certainly wasn’t from Pamela, who still seemed out for her blood from the other side of the intern office.
It came from Randy.
I can’t believe how well written this is. And I can sense how sad you are today. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m not brave enough to say this to your face. Maybe, just maybe, how good this article is will patch things up in the office. But if it doesn’t, I want you to know—you’ll make it somewhere else. The world is your fucking oyster, Charlotte.
If he’d approached me, I would have fucked him, too.
Randy
The email brought new life to Charlotte’s aching head. She excused herself from the office, bouncing down the sidewalk in the last of the fall sun, sensing that Randy’s words regarding her article described the feeling of everyone else, as well. The writing was crisp. The perspective was clear. The anecdotes were interesting, yet not distracting. And it made an up-and-coming band look timeless.
“If this is the last article I ever write,” Charlotte murmured to herself, “Then I’m proud of it.”
Tuesday, Charlotte didn’t hear anything at all, not from Quentin, nor Maggie, nor the rest of the interns, making her stomach swell with anxiety. She bit her tongue throughout the day, trying to stabilize her panic. But she soon drew blood, tasting its tangy flavor in her spit.
The magazine would be released on Friday, which was just three days away. And she hadn’t heard anything.
If the article was pulled from the issue, due to the circumstances, she felt she might kill herself. She’d strained everything for this, drained her romantic life, and lost her friends. The loss would be too great.
And not speaking with Quentin gave her an aching sadness, which seemed to grow and chill in the bottom of her stomach, replacing the incredible love that had brewed there throughout her first few weeks in New York.
That night, Charlotte sat at home, a book splayed across her lap, her eyes not reading. It was past eight, and she imagined Morgan sliding her fingers across the keys, with Quentin in the kitchen, cleaning up after dinner. Just a few apartments away, their vibrant life brewed on, while hers seemed to dwindle, grow gray.
A knock at the door caused her to burst from her chair, dropping the book to the ground. Stringing her fingers through her hair, she stretched her legs toward the door, hopeful. This had to be Quentin; he was finally there, with the right words to say.
He would finally tell her how incredible her article was—the highest compliment she could receive, from an editor.
But when she opened the door, she found little Morgan, standing with her feet shoulder-width apart, her eyes firm and stubborn. In her arms, she held a large blue plate, on which seven chocolate chip cookies were splayed.
“Charlotte,” Morgan said, her voice firm in its own way, yet bright and girlish.
“Morgan,” Charlotte returned, placing her hand on her waist. “What do I owe the pleasure?”
“You haven’t been over to my house in over a week!” Morgan cried out, then, shoving the plate of cookies forward. “How do you expect to be my friend if we don’t hang out?”
A slight smile crept across Charlotte’s face, even as her heart seemed to drop in her chest. “Oh, honey. We’ll always be friends,” she said, taking the blue plate. “Did you make these yourself?”
“Uhhh… Kind of,” Morgan said, shrugging. “But Dad ate half the batter already. You can’t trust him with anything. Just like I couldn’t trust him not to hurt you.” Her eyes flashed, showing she knew more than most girls her age.
“Ah. I see,” Charlotte said. “You think your daddy hurt me, then?”
“I know he did,” Morgan said. “He doesn’t know how to play nice all the time. But I want you to forgive him, because I know he’s sorry. He hasn’t smiled in days. And it’s getting old.”
“I know I’ll see you around, Morgan,” Charlotte said, her voice hesitant. “Don’t be a stranger.”
“So, you won’t forgive him?” Morgan asked, piping up. “You really won’t?”
“He’s already forgiven,” Charlotte murmured, her eyes suddenly bright with tears. “But I need to be by myself right now. Can you understand that?”
“Oh,” Morgan grumbled, turning back toward her apartment. “Whatever.”
“Morgan?” Charlotte cried out, her throat growing choked. “Tell your dad it’s okay. Tell your dad I’ll be fine. Tell him—tell him I was always going to make it, no matter what.”
Morgan shrugged slightly, adjusting her pink sweatshirt and then zipping it with a firm motion. She took on the formation of messenger, tossed between her friend and her father, and somehow comprehending the sheer, impenetrable emotion between them.
“Okay,” was all she said, as a result.
Charlotte burst back into her apartment, still clinging to the blue plate of cookies. In a sudden burst of sadness, of emotion, she smashed the blue plate against the edge of the table, watching as the shards scattered in a flurry of cookie crumbs and blue daggers. She began to quake with sadness, comprehending that the end had truly come for them.
She had to move on, find peace.
30
Quentin had never been prouder of an MMM issue. Sending the pieces to print, he leaned back gruffly in his office chair and then wheeled it, swooping around toward the window, where he could glare down with brooding eyes at the tiny, squirrel-like people below.
Charlotte’s feature was better than anything he’d ever written. His heart burned with that knowledge, sensing that the prose had a maturity to it that his writing would never master. The moment after Maggie read it, she burst into his office, the pages pressed against her breasts. She clicked the door closed behind her, her eyes brimming, wet.
“Tell me you helped her with this,” she demanded, saying the first words since they’d fought at the Greenwich Village bar the previous week.
“I didn’t. She won’t talk to me,” Quentin said. “She wants to be on her own.” The truth of the words made his heart clench.
“Well, shit,” Maggie said, collapsing in her chair. “She’s damn good, then.”
“We can’t afford to lose her,” Quentin said.
Maggie’s eyes flashed. “But it’s not fair to the other interns.”
“It can’t be fair. She’s fucking better than them. Better is never fair.”
Maggie couldn’t bicker with that logic. “I have almost no edits,” she told him. “And I’ve decided… I don’t think I’m going to press the issue. The issue of you and Charlotte, I mean. You tell me it’s over, and I believe you.”
“It is,” Quentin murmured sadly, his eyes turning toward the office window, where he could see Charlotte leaning over the coffee machine, filling her cup. The curve of her ass was a perfect arc beneath her white dress. His hands clenched into a fist with sudden, indescribable sexual passion.
Maggie eyed him curiously, rising from her chair. She no longer spoke to him with any sexual attraction, with prowess. She seemed tired, lines drawing themselves in circles beneath her eyes. “You’ll find happiness again, Q,” she murmured, turning toward the door. “Just hopefully not at the mercy of some little girl like that.”
This felt like a slap. It stung for many minutes, long after Maggie had returned to her closet-sized office, after Charlotte had filled her coffee and dropped a tiny dreg of milk within. Would he ever learn how she liked her coffee? Would he ever make her laugh in bed again? Would their worlds draw together again?
