To See You (5 page)
I wrote back to Maggie, encouraging her to think outside the box, check out new trends, and come up with something fresher, hinting at a few untapped topics. Something that would get eyeballs on our site, lots of them.
I ignored the e-mail from my mom with nothing in the subject line. I knew it was a Garrett-fueled message.
The next e-mail was from my boss, Larissa. There was a staff meeting later this week, and I was expected to have a full report.
I clicked into my spam folder; I checked it once a day. I’d learned my lesson the hard way when Brooke Burke was trying to get a hold of me and her message went to spam. For some unknown reason, I decided to check the folder and there it was, luckily only a day after she sent it. That feature went wild; every woman over thirty who wanted to look like Burke clicked on it.
Of course, there wasn’t much tonight. I tossed a bunch of sale e-mails from J. Crew, Athleta, and Amazon into the trash folder until only one was left.
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Apology
Dear Charleston –
Before you wonder, yes, I stalked you and found you, but only to say I’m sorry. I swear! Although there aren’t too many fitness editors named Charleston around, so you’re a pretty easy target.
Peggy over at
BubblePOP
was kind enough to give me your e-mail (I sort of lied and said I had a big Hollywood pitch and then offered movie passes to Katie’s film).
Well, I’m rambling like I did on the plane, and I by no means meant to offend you when I said “Merry Mary” or admitted to being lucky. I also would have much rather spent the flight chatting with you than looking at Katie.
I guess it was for the best because you had a lot to catch up on. Again, I’m sorry about your grandma. And my actions.
I had a good time in New York, but I kept thinking it would have been better if you were able to connect for a drink. I held back in writing until I left.
Look me up if you ever get to LA.
Good luck in all you do—
Wow, an editor. You should be proud, but don’t sacrifice what you really want.
—Lay(ton) Griffin
Holy shit! What the heck is this?
I slapped Lucy closed and turned out my light, curled under my down comforter (perfectly purple, more lavender actually), and closed my eyes.
“Lay” had written to me after I’d been such a bitch, and I’d slammed my laptop closed without so much as a reply. What was with him? We sat next to each other on a plane, his forehead shiny and his thigh touching mine, and not in a sexual way.
Fuckity-fuck. Why did I have to go and give him my name? Now he’s freaking finding me and acting all nice when I don’t deserve it.
I sat up, clicked the light back on, and grabbed my remote. No way was I going to sleep now. I turned on my TV that sits on top of my antique white chiffonier and scrolled through the movies.
How to Win a Guy in a Month
came on the screen.
Double what the fuck? Katie was everywhere I turned.
Of course, I fluffed my lilac pillows and settled in to watch. After all, this was my specialty . . . losing a guy. If I could even get a guy, other than Layton, clearly a big Star Wars fan . . .
Dark Side Music? Ha. Please.
I’m a twenty-eight-year-old editor in the Big Apple with everything going for me. I’m a catch, right?
Then why did this stranger make my spine tingle and my heart warm?
I didn’t know him from the next guy, and he wasn’t close to my type. Yet his eyes made me want to ditch my stilettos and jump in, feet first.
W
hen my alarm went off, I rolled out of bed and checked my phone for the temperature outside. After pulling on my favorite burgundy lululemon leggings and a Nike fleece jersey, I quickly put on socks and shoes, grabbed my headphones, and ran out the door. On the elevator to the lobby, I hit the button for my grunge playlist and secured my phone in my armband. As soon as the doors opened, I jogged to the front door and out into the chilly early spring weather.
I lived in an old warehouse in the Meatpacking District that had been converted into condos, and I’d been there since the revitalization started. It wasn’t the Village but it was loud and vibrant, the place to live if you were young and on the up-and-up. I loved it. My condo was close to the High Line, and all mine. My first place was nothing more than a glorified closet with a bathroom, but now I had a one-bedroom with high factory ceilings and exposed brick-and-metal walls in the middle of the coolest neighborhood in New York.
I picked up speed as my feet struck the pavement, making my way to the Line without even having to think about it. I did this four or five days a week, usually Monday through Wednesday, Friday and Sunday, with yoga on Thursday and Saturday. If I wasn’t running, I went spinning.
Hey, I was a fitness editor. Practice what you preach and all that. Plus, my sanity depended on it. It was the only way to mentally run away from the demons that haunted me. My fitness schedule was like a salve for my broken soul.
This morning I tried to stay focused on my music, but my mind kept wandering to a pair of rich brown eyes, compassionate and considerate. I wondered where he was from. Not New York or LA for sure, not with his kind manner.
Layton.
All night I’d felt compelled to answer his message, but had resisted the urge.
Why should I? I was never going to see him again.
At the end of the day, I slumped at my desk, staring at my steaming large coffee from Dean and DeLuca and the half-eaten bran muffin discarded next to it. My body spent, I was desperate to go home and slip into lounge pants.
Except I still had one more unpleasant task to handle, a part of my job I didn’t necessarily like and often felt I was too young to do, but that was just an excuse. Sadly, it came with the territory, so I pulled on my big-girl undies and picked up the phone.
“Maggie, can you come here?”
My intern flitted in like she was the boss, confident her ideas were the best I’d ever heard.
“Sit down, Maggie.”
She plopped down in the chair across from my desk like we were colleagues, flipping her bright red shawl of hair over her shoulder as she said, “What’s up?”
She really said it just like that. Seriously. Like we were happy-hour buddies.
“Maggie, it’s come to my attention you’ve been pitching ideas to our main competitor as well as a bunch of other Internet outlets while interning here.” When she opened her mouth to protest, I held up a hand to shush her. “Yes, if you were freelance, that would be okay. But you have a non-compete during the term of your internship.”
It was a mouthful made in corporate speak, another part of the job I despised. The lingo sucked every last creative cell from my body.
“I wasn’t trading secrets or anything, just trying to get an article, Charl-eee.” She sounded like my mom did lately, whiny and malcontent.
I didn’t mind being on a first-name basis with my intern, but the way my name rolled off her tongue like we were BFFs irked me. I mentally chastised myself for only being twenty-eight and not worthy of respect, as if it were my fault.
In a surprising and unwanted train of thought, my mind drifted to Layton and his reaction to my position as an editor. He’d practically laughed when I said I was an editor.
Or did he?
“Maggie, listen, I don’t make the policies, and I know you desperately want to get your name out there, but this isn’t how to do it. You’re bright, but I think you’re trying too hard. I’m not entirely certain you’re not pitching the entire island of Manhattan. Maybe spreading yourself too thin?”
“Char, seriously, I’m cool. I’ll stop.” Maggie’s blue eyes were wide and innocent, sparkling even, not concerned and contrite like they should have been for a lowly intern being chastised as she was.
Time to put the hammer down.
“I have to let you go, Maggie. I’m sorry. It’s been a pleasure mentoring you while you were here, but now it’s time for you to go. I wish it were different, but you violated our agreement and the lawyers upstairs have a zero-tolerance policy.”
More corporate babble from me, and yet not a shred of humility on her part.
“That’s bull—” she spat out, then cooled her jets a little. “I’m a damn good intern, Charli.” Refusing to stand, she braced her hands on the armrest as she argued with me.
“It is what it is, Maggie. Stay in touch.”
I turned my attention to Lucy, making out like I had a million other tasks to do, but I was done. I was exhausted and my ego was bruised. Even Maggie didn’t take me seriously; she could see right through my facade. My outer shell might be New York chic, all stilettos and toughness, but inside I was trembling.
As Maggie stood in a huff and stomped out of my office, I leaned back in my chair and took a long slug of my coffee. The hot liquid made creamy with two-percent milk warmed my stomach and eased the headache that was building behind my eyes.
I was supposed to meet up with Janie again after work, but that wasn’t going to happen. I still had two stories to approve and it was late; the windows had already grown dark. Sighing, I closed out the windows on my screen, resigned to dragging Lucy home with me yet again.
Was this what I wanted? I wasn’t even writing anymore, just slashing my virtual red pen across the writing of others. My current reality seemed like a pale comparison to my old dreams.
Shoving my dissatisfaction to the back of my mind, I forged ahead with my routine. It was definitely a hail-a-cab kind of evening, and the salad bar around the corner was calling to me. They had the best tuna salad in New York.
But my hands had a mind of their own and didn’t power Lucy down. Instead, I pulled up my spam folder.
Needing to busy my hands while it loaded, I twisted my hair as best I could. It was half ponytail, half messy bun, and mostly falling out of the elastic band since my hair was shorter now.
My fingers worked over my mouse, hurriedly deleting all the sales pitches and requests for money to be sent to foreign lands, and then they began typing.
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Re: Apology
Layton –
Thank you so much for your kind words. But seriously, there was no need.
We were just neighbors on a flight, and you don’t owe me anything.
Oh God. I’m hitting backspace more than actually writing.
We were airline companions, both under deadlines. I enjoyed your company while we chatted
, and I wish you luck in your endeavors
.
I hope the movie does awesome! Of course,
I am going to try to snag a ticket to the premiere now that I met you
I am going to definitely see it when it comes out and will look for your name in the credits.
Be well, and one of these days, I hope to visit LA.
and will e-mail you.
Thanks again for your condolences.
Best wishes,
Charli