She had to put the phone down for a second. Jack had now texted twice to apologize. Of course, he kept doing things thatrequiredapologizing. Still, this was not a plot twist she’d seen coming. She chewed her salmon, trying to think how to respond.
Blair:It was what it was. You’re allowed to say no.
Jack:I know, but I could have done so with more grace.
That was true. But to say so would suggest his rejection had bothered her. Blair didn’t let men bother her in a professional setting. She just moved on. She invoked Tiffany’s refrain, which had become their professional motto: Don’t sweat the small stuff. Don’t sweat the small men.
Jack:I didn’t expect the media to get ahold of it.
Blair:I’m pretty sure the media got ahold of it becauseyour publisher, not expecting the aforementioned no, did a huge reprint of In Time with a Books with Blair badge on the cover and somehow Target put a bunch of them on the shelves prematurely.
Jack:Right.
She wondered if he was wearing that raggedy Prince shirt. There had been something about that shirt. Well, there had been something about Jack’s arms in that shirt.
What was it about the men in her life and their arms? And why did Reggie’s new arms gross her out while Jack’s arms were compelling?
Jack:I thought if I said anything publicly to clarify, it would sound patronizing.
Blair:Kind of like talking about my “little projects” in The New Yorker sounded patronizing.
Jack:I thought you weren’t the kind of person who reads The New Yorker, but yes. The New Yorker debacle is what got me thinking about our initial dustup.
Blair:The strange thing was that you talked about me in that particular issue, with that particular cover.
Jack:What do you mean? What did that cover mean?
Blair:It was The Great Gatsby, wasn’t it? The green light at the end of the dock?
Jack:I guess it was.
Well, look at that, a piece of art had gone over the head of a luminary such as Jack.
What was supposed to happen now? He had apologized. She hadn’t accepted it outright, because, again, to do so would imply a degree of botheration she did not want to imply. So they were done, business concluded. But if this was the end of the conversation, she would have to go back to sad solo salmon.
A movement in her peripheral vision drew her attention. “Mrs. Afonso, is that you?” she called.
Nothing.
Mrs. Afonso was an older woman who was constantly sticking her head over the hedge that separated her front yard from Blair’s. Yet when Blair tried to engage her in conversation, she was aloof. Even a visit to drop off a homemade peach pie—as the “newcomer” to the neighborhood, wasn’t Blair the one who was supposed to be in receipt of baked goods?—had not thawed Mrs. Afonso.
“Your lemon tree is looking amazing,” Blair said into the void—the void she was pretty sure was populated by a lurking old lady. “Maybe you can give me some tips. The fruit on mine is all woody all of a sudden.”
Still nothing.
She picked up her phone.
Blair:It’s the hundredth anniversary of The Great Gatsby. I was hoping to have my film adaptation of Green Light, which you may or may not know is a young adult retelling of Gatsby, out by now. I thought we could capitalize on the attention the book would be getting anyway.
Blair:So, yeah, funny coincidence that my “little projects” were referenced in that issue.
Jack:So Green Light isn’t going to be ready in time?
Blair:It isn’t going to exist.
To her surprise, Blair went on to tell Jack about the book. About how much she loved it and how excited she had been when Angela sold her the screen rights and came on board as a producer. About how gutted she had been when Angela died in the first wave of COVID infections. And about the project’s life—or lack of life—over subsequent years.
She felt a little sheepish when she was done.
