“I’m thrilled.”
“You’re unbearable.”
“One of us has to maintain standards.”
Priya mouths wow at me.
I ignore her.
Luke clears his throat. “How is Canada?”
“Still there.”
“You know what I mean.”
I glance out through the window. People move past in coats and office shoes, coffee cups in hand, all of them looking infuriatingly capable.
“It’s good,” I say. “Busy. Efficient. No one has cried in a meeting yet, which feels promising.”
“Hm.”
I can hear papers shifting on his end.
Then he says, in that offhand tone he uses when he is trying to make something sound smaller than it is, “I’m glad you kept me on.”
I blink.
“As your editor?” I ask.
“No, Philip, as my life coach.”
“That would be a catastrophe.”
“Yes, as my editor.”
I smile.
Luke does not do gratitude unless heavily sedated.
“You’d have survived another editor.”
“I don’t want another editor. Another editor might let me keep the moody window scene.”
“Now we’re getting to the truth.”
“I also don’t want to explain my process to someone new.”
“You don’t explain your process to me.”
“Exactly. You already know when to leave me alone.”
That settles with less force and somehow more effect.
Familiar.
Easy.
Like someone had briefly punched a hole straight through to London.
