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“Hi, there,” Maggie said, her eyebrows moving to make smooth peach circles above her eyes. “What do I owe the pleasure?”
“You mean I can’t just come by and ask my favorite lady what she’s up to in here?” he asked, sounding false.
“Just editing, as usual,” she said, standing. “You have anything you want to talk about?” She hesitated. “I know Charlotte’s writing that feature. Are you really sure you want her to do something of that importance? She’s just an intern, and the magazine literally hinges on that.”
Quentin held up his palm, his fingers flat. “I am. She deserves the chance. Perhaps they all do. I’ll figure that out myself, down the line.”
Maggie’s head tilted. “You’re willing to let them all write features?” she asked, incredulous.
“Okay, maybe not all of them,” Quentin said gruffly, already losing ground. He needed to tell her about Charlotte, he knew. He needed to get ahead of it. “By the way. Charlotte went home sick, I guess. Going to work on the feature from home.”
“Ha. As if some sad little apartment in Queens or whatever is going to be more consoling than staying here,” Maggie said, rolling her eyes.
“Is that where she lives?” Quentin asked, feigning ignorance.
“She lives at the bottom of a well for all I know,” Maggie said, stacking her edited pages evenly. “Listen, I’m about to start writing that feature you assigned to me the other day. About music downloads. Want to run an eye over it when I’m finished?”
“Absolutely,” Quentin said, backing toward the door. His heart rushed into his stomach, recognizing that Charlotte was well hated amongst both the interns and Maggie. His smile faltered. He remembered Charlotte saying they should turn back, that it was their last chance to cover everything up. But he’d ignored it, listening only to his innate, animalistic desires.
Quentin left the office early, knowing he needed to pick up Morgan from school that afternoon. Grateful to uncoil from the stress of their current situation, he stopped to nab a few apple-based pastries from the French bakery and waited near the school as a slight drizzle began to coat his jacket. Several mothers tittered around him, complaining about the weather and comparing notes on how they got their kids to practice their music.
“I take away video games,” one mother said.
“I just don’t allow a snack until after.”
“My daughter screams if I make her practice over forty-five minutes. Let’s just say we’re transferring schools next year if this keeps up. I don’t think she’s going to be the next singer-songwriter, that’s for sure.”
Morgan appeared in the school doorway moments later, her backpack bobbing along her spine and her smile wide, making an invisible tension in Quentin’s brain loosen up. He lifted her with a swift motion, twirling her and causing her to squeal. The other mothers looked on, either worried or else uncertain about the lack of boredom in the father and daughter’s relationship. For this moment, perhaps, Quentin could forget about the trouble brewing at work.
“What do you wanna do today, kiddo?” he asked Morgan. He snapped her coat’s hood over her blond hair, ensuring that she was covered.
“Let’s go out for dinner,” Morgan insisted. “I don’t want to eat spaghetti again. Unless, is Charlotte cooking for us?”
“No. Don’t think so,” Quentin said sadly. “She’s working pretty hard right now.”
“Well, she has to eat,” Morgan said pointedly.
“She might need to work and eat at the same time,” Quentin said, sighing. “How about burgers in Greenwich Village?”
Morgan lifted her arms in a mighty, victory motion, agreeing. Quentin flashed his arm for a taxi and the pair corralled inside, with Quentin telling the man the address of their favorite burger, fry, and milkshake place—again, a place best-avoided in conversation with Morgan’s mother. Kate hadn’t so much as looked at a burger in years.
They arrived at the restaurant and were seated in the corner, at a high-top, where Morgan swung her feet playfully and read out the menu to her father, showing off the skills she’d learned only in the previous year.
“The Big Heaven burger has three types of cheese, bacon, pickles, and hot sauce. Damn, that sounds disgusting!” she cried, aghast.
“That’s what I’m getting. No question,” Quentin said, teasing her.
Morgan ordered a strawberry milkshake, a kid-sized burger, and fries, while Quentin ordered a large burger with Brie cheese and an IPA beer. They sat, awaiting their food and chatting, as several dark-haired, gruff-looking men in suits entered, their aura powerful, matching even Quentin’s.
His eyes snapped toward them with recognition. As they sat at a four-top near the street window, he pinged two of them as being top writers for Rolling Stone, a magazine MMM would never beat in either content or readership, not for miles.
He wouldn’t approach them. His pride was stiff, unbending. He sucked his IPA down, trying to concentrate on Morgan’s twittering about a fight she’d had with a boy at school about grace notes and just how long was too long. His brain felt stretched.
