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And then, she was out the door, leaving me blinking into the setting sun, until I understood.
I didn’t know what Ella wanted from me, but I needed her–needed everything from her.
And first I needed just one more chance. Dinner, the two of us, not as reporter and subject, but as two people.
And she said yes.
Ella
We had agreedat the interview–standing on the stoop of Charlie’s ludicrous townhouse, the sunset turning his hair gold and seeming to illuminate the single, perfect, starry moment–to have dinner on Sunday.
I hadn’t thought, just agreed, but now, in the bright light of Saturday morning, I was hesitating. He had suggested today, but I was having dinner with Anna tonight–her husband was taking the kids and we were going to have a girl’s night. I was looking forward to seeing her, but it meant that now I had a wholetwo daysto get through like this, I thought as I lay in bed, my brain conjuring up images of his smile, his sparkling eyes, his fingers tapping restlessly on the countertop. I had too much energy. I forced myself up, pulling on a sports bra, old Collingswood University tee shirt, leggings, and running shoes. I braided my hair messily, just to keep it out of my face, laced my apartment key onto my shoelaces for safekeeping, and headed out.
I set off into the city from the stoop of my apartment building, the cold air whipping against my face despite my moderate speed. I had run cross country in high school, but had never tried out for the college team: I probably hadn’t been fast enough anyway, but more importantly, I had known I wouldn’t have time between my classes and my campus job. Charlie had gone to CU, too. He had been two years older than me, though, and in a different major–computer science–so I had never met him. What would he have been like, on campus? Was he an athlete? Lacrosse, I thought, smiling grimly to myself. He seemed the type, maybe. Or had he been holed up in the computer lab all day and night? No, he would have had friends from his dorm, his fraternity perhaps, who would have dragged him out to the college bars where the only cards they cared about were of the credit or debit variety and you could get in underage. Obviously he had those, if his house was anything to go by. Or was his house bought with the money he’d earned from selling his company? But no: It looked more lived in than the recent sale of his start up. I had done some research before the interview. I had only a basic understanding of finance or computer science, in that I had a bank account and a laptop. One was empty, and one was pretty ancient, but they got the job done well enough. Charlie, on the other hand, had built a company combining the two (in a way I still wasn’t quite clear on, despite reading the company website) and apparently it was good enough to make him more money than I had ever even dreamed of having. Millions of dollars, a lifetime of money, in an instant. Even before the sale, though, Charlie’s family was rich. Likerichrich. What would that be like? I thought it over as I listened with one ear to my footfalls on the brick sidewalks and the sounds of the city.
Would I still get up and go to work everyday if I knew I didn’t have to? I wanted to say yes. I loved my job–well. I loved the idea of my job: reporter. Filling in the monthly events calendar for a society magazine didn’t always feel likejournalism, though.
Would I keep working atCityStyleif I had a million dollars? Three million? Ten? Fifty? With a hundred million dollars, could I justbuythemagazine? How much did a magazine company cost, anyway?
I played the game for three more miles, until my body began to protest. I headed home.
* * *
I spent the day doing all the things that seemed to slide to the weekend now that I was a working adult: meal prep, cleaning the bathroom. It felt good to accomplish something so tangible, but it also kept my mind off of Charlie, and our date tomorrow. Now that I wasn’t running, I could feel the butterflies in my stomach whenever I thought of him much more clearly. The hours passed quickly until late afternoon, when I got a text from Anna. “Hey sis! sorry, have to take a rain check bb is sick!” The short message was followed up with a couple of emojis: a girl with brown pigtails and a face with green vomit coming out. I shuddered imagining the night she’d have.
What ofmynight? I had delayed my date with Charlie because of my plans with my sister, and I was already dressed and ready to go out. I had even done some light makeup; I didn’t want to waste it. It was Saturday night, after all, and someone had to be doing something. I texted my former roommate, Em, one of the few people I was with at Collingswood with whom I was still friendly and who had a real social life. She was sure to be doing something on a Saturday night, and sure to invite me to tag along. When I checked my phone after a diligent 10 minutes of not looking at it, her response read “heyyyy girl were goig out mee8t pu w us! Lets danceeeee!” On second thought, I didn’t feel quite up to that tonight; I didn’t want to be sendingblonde girl with pigtails, face with green vomittexts tomorrow morning.
I searched my brain for someone else to distract me.Charlie, it said, unhelpfully. I hesitantly shot a text to the one work friend I had made so far, Michael. He was a fun coworker, and we often chatted in the staff break room where the coffee machine was. We hadn’t hung out outside of work, but we went to lunch sometimes, which sort of counted. I got no response, even after a self-imposed ten minute waiting period.
And that was that. The full extent of my social life: alone on a Saturday, ditched by my sister (albeit for a very good reason), and with no one else to text.
I thought about crying, very briefly. Then, I thought about going to the bar around the corner from my house by myself. I could bring a book. It was that kind of place, I thought. Maybe someone would feel sorry for me and buy me a drink. But… It was a Saturday. It would be packed with people.
In the end, I carefully wiped off my makeup, the eyeliner leaving black streaks across the cotton pad. I washed my face, put on my pajamas, and retrieved my ancient laptop. I was tempted to get in bed, but that was too far even for me, so I sat at my desk and began to type up the notes I had made during my interview with–who else?--Charlie Prince.
I woke up hours later to a beep from my phone. My back ached; I had apparently fallen asleep slumped over my desk, head on my arms. Michael had responded. “Hi Ella! Sorry I missed your text–I was on a date ;) Maybe next time?”
I dragged myself to bed, where I fell back asleep instantly.
Charlie
I had avoidedany mention of Ella to my brothers after the disaster that was my first–and then my second–conversation with Philip. Everyone had been so excited for me–for us, me and my mysterious mate–at dinner at Jack’s place, back when Ella was Lara, the beautiful and accomplished magazine editor. Since then, Philip had managed to demote her from editor toreporter who lied to you,even if I wasn’t quite sure what he thought was sodangerousabout that.
But tonight was our date, and I was missing a family dinner for it.
“A date?” Rose’s eyes were sparkling. “Tonight?” Rose and Asterid were sitting on the couch in the living room.Myliving room. Richard and Jack had disappeared into the kitchen.Mykitchen.
“Remind me again why all of you are at my house?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“It’s pack dinner night, Charlie,” she huffed. “I can’t believe you’re leaving! It’s atyourhouse!”
“That’s what I just asked!” I snapped. I loved Rose, I did, I just wanted to mentally prepare for my first date in peace. “Why are you atmy housewhenI’m leaving?”
“Oh, Charlie,” she said, “You know this isn’t reallyyourhouse. This is thepack’shouse. Right, Philip?” The last she called into the kitchen, from which Philip emerged, carrying several wine glasses and a bottle of cabernet sauvignon.
“Sure, Rose,” he replied. I was eighty-five percent sure he hadn’t heard the question, or he would have been more diplomatic, but it was true that he had let himself in unannounced while I was showering, gotten out a bunch of dishes and shit, dug around in my wine fridge (okay, that was Philip’s) and not bothered to let me know he was here until I stumbled into the kitchen half-expecting to find a burglar.
The door let out a short series of beeps and opened to reveal Asterid and Jack, both carrying large white paper bags with discreet stamped logos on the side: “BISTRO.” Margaret hopped up from the couch to relieve Asterid of her burden, and the three women shuttled the food into the dining room. When they emerged, Rose looked over at Asterid and patted the cushion beside her, then busied herself pouring glasses of cab for everyone. “Did you hear, Asterid? Charlie’s found himself an omega. He has adatetonight.”
