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He burst from the office and bounded toward the intern offices, his heart continuing its mad ramming against his ribcage. If Charlotte couldn’t work at the magazine, if she left New York, he wouldn’t see her again. And it would be his fault.
The interns sat demurely, their eyes downcast, with Charlotte’s little blond-haired friend’s shoulders slumped with dismay. Charlotte was nowhere to be seen, her laptop closed, her long, brown locks missing in the sea of blondes and redheads. Quentin stood in the doorway, as one-by-one, the interns turned to face him, their faces like moons.
“Where is she?” he asked, his voice booming.
Pamela pointed at the elevator. “She just left. Bawling her eyes out.” She smirked as if she took pleasure in it. Her eyes cut into slits, looking dark.
“Fuck,” Quentin murmured, turning toward the elevator and rushing, his black shoes blasting across the hardwood. He stabbed the “down” button, sensing all eyes on his back. The office was like an echoing cavern, rich with other people’s assumptions about him, about Charlotte, about Maggie.
If he fought to bring her back, what would that show them?
And if he didn’t fight to bring her back, just because of what they thought, what did that mean?
The elevator swept him to the ground, where he chose a direction—north, toward their apartments—and then all-out sprinted, his breath catching and his lungs tightening. It had been years since he’d exercised, having kept a trim, muscled figure just from hanging out with his daughter. But his muscles grew loose, warm, and his body opened up to the sprint, as if this was life or death.
The sunlight caught on Charlotte’s brunette hair as she stood at the corner, three blocks up. Her spine was arched; her back muscles quaked with tears. Quentin blasted forward in a final bit of both rage and panic, feeling as if she was falling off a cliff, and he had to catch her. He had to halt the impact.
“Charlotte!” he cried finally, placing his hand firmly on her shoulder and ripping her back toward him.
She spun like a ragdoll, with black makeup drawing lines down the tops of her cheeks. Her lips quivered; her eyes met his with confusion.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she whispered, her voice raspy. “Did you want to fire me again? Did you want to make sure I really got the message that you don’t want to sleep with me anymore? That you don’t like my ideas? That you don’t think I’m a good enough writer to be in the club or whatever?” She pointed a finger directly toward his muscled pectoral, showing more passion than he’d ever seen. “Because you’ve made it pretty clear. You tossed me out like a plaything. And that’s fine, Quentin. Now I know just how New York guys work. I know just how my idols—my musician idols—would treat me. If I could take back the first time I ever listened to Orpheus Arise as a teenager, I fucking would.”
As she spoke, her voice reached a crescendo. Quentin’s eyes grew wider, taking in the gorgeous image of her. When he and his ex-girlfriends had fought, he’d felt almost nothing, instead understanding that what they’d had was never meant to last and usually rushing out the door afterward.
But now, he felt no urgency to leave. He wanted her. He wanted all of her.
As Charlotte began to charge into another tirade, he wrapped his arms around her waist and yanked her into him, cupping her bottom lip and then ripping her lips apart, gliding his tongue across hers. She let out a small whimper and then collapsed into him, bringing her arms around his neck and allowing him to lift her into him.
They kissed as the traffic pulsed past, as the taxis honked brightly, as bicyclists twirled over the pavement and as pedestrians cut behind them. The entire world continued its manic racing, but they paid no mind.
After what seemed like a tiny infinity, Quentin broke the kiss and stared down at her glittering eyes, which had filled with tears. Neither of them spoke, recognizing the depth of emotion between them. They didn’t want to interrupt the spell. It felt like a million years since they’d last faced off in the conference room. It felt like even longer since they’d made love.
“I don’t want to fire you,” Quentin whispered. He nudged his nose against hers.
“You didn’t show that very well,” Charlotte murmured back, her eyes filling with humor.
“I didn’t know she was going to do that. Maggie sometimes makes decisions out of turn. And I’m sure, on some subconscious level, she’s jealous. I don’t think it takes a smart person to sense what’s between us.”
“Well,” Charlotte began, visibly shaken. “Shit. I don’t really know what to say.”
“Say you’ll come back to the office. Say you’ll help me with the Thick Soled piece. I love your idea. It’s absolutely impeccable. I want you to come to the next interview. I want you to take your place as a writer for MMM. You fucking deserve it, Charlotte. Your shyness really falls off when you care about something.”
