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Fuck.
He ordered another drink, and then another, feeling the Friday after-work crew join around him, laughing raucously, their eyes wide with joy for the end of the workweek. But Quentin felt nothing but gloom.
Charlotte wouldn’t talk to him, needing her space. His daughter was at a friend’s birthday party for the night, stuffing herself with too much candy and cake, probably on a path toward passing out in a soda coma. And his ex-wife was probably entwined in the arms of that new Wall Street asshole, Jason.
Frustrated, he returned to his apartment, stopping to buy a bottle of Jack on the way. He hunkered down in his studio, strumming together a new song throughout the night, trying to abandon his fears at the door. He hadn’t remembered—or perhaps he’d never really known—how close intense happiness was to intense love. Now that he’d allowed himself to feel anything worthwhile for Charlotte, he saw the depths of his soul.
And he didn’t necessarily like it.
But the guitar and his voice howled out a melody, one he stuck to a half-assed recording. He felt that jolt of electricity he’d once felt, as a much younger man, building songs with his once-best friends and ex-band mates.
It had been the only worthwhile thing.
29
Charlotte busied herself with the article throughout the weekend, listening to the recordings from the band over and over again, and retyping the introduction over fifteen times, just trying to get the right emotion, to highlight the intensity of their conversation. Throughout the interview, her heart always tinged when she heard Quentin speaking, reminding her of the beauty of that, their last day together. A relationship that really couldn’t be.
Since she hadn’t been to work in days, she was curious to know what had occurred, but hadn’t yet dared ask. Had Pamela broken the spell and told Maggie about Charlotte and Quentin’s affair? Had Quentin stood up for her? Had Randy said anything—anything at all—in her favor? The world felt tumultuous, chaotic, outside of the small cavern at her computer screen. It was her final sanctuary.
But it couldn’t last forever. The article needed to go to the editor—Quentin himself—and then it needed to go to print. With the 3,000-word article trapped in her Google drive, she showered and dressed early Monday morning, conscious to choose a simple pair of black pants and a black turtleneck, her least sexual clothes, asserting the difference between her old self and her new one. She wouldn’t be sleeping with the boss anymore, if only they’d take pity on her and allow her to stay.
The article was damn good. And if they didn’t see validity in her writing, then she didn’t know how else to fix her situation.
At the office, she sent the email to Quentin, Maggie, and the other interns, including a downloadable link for her article, along with the message:
Hello all,
As you know, I’ve taken the past several days to focus on this article. I’ve put my blood and guts into it. As it’s my first feature—and perhaps my last—I’d love all your thoughts and edits. Don’t hold back.
Yours,
Charlotte
As the day crept on, the interns joined her in the intern offices, giving her only a subtle glance before draping themselves over their computers. Charlotte worked diligently on other projects, hunting down new stories to pitch and hoping her brain would stop its unnecessary, rapid, cyclical nature, which was making her feel crazy.
Randy still hadn’t looked at her.
During lunch, Charlotte passed Quentin’s office, sensing his brooding form within. As she’d drawn the line between them, she knew she shouldn’t want to go in there, to hunt him down, to admit defeat. She yearned for his body, ached for his scent. But the flashing eyes from Maggie, in the corner near the printer, shrouded her with fear. Hustling to the elevator, she burst into the crisp, late-September afternoon, understanding: Maggie knew. She was hanging on a literal thread.
Sometime at the end of the day, she received a single email regarding her submission. Just one. And it wasn’t from Quentin. It wasn’t from Maggie. And it certainly wasn’t from Pamela, who still seemed out for her blood from the other side of the intern office.
It came from Randy.
I can’t believe how well written this is. And I can sense how sad you are today. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m not brave enough to say this to your face. Maybe, just maybe, how good this article is will patch things up in the office. But if it doesn’t, I want you to know—you’ll make it somewhere else. The world is your fucking oyster, Charlotte.
If he’d approached me, I would have fucked him, too.
Randy
The email brought new life to Charlotte’s aching head. She excused herself from the office, bouncing down the sidewalk in the last of the fall sun, sensing that Randy’s words regarding her article described the feeling of everyone else, as well. The writing was crisp. The perspective was clear. The anecdotes were interesting, yet not distracting. And it made an up-and-coming band look timeless.
