Chapter 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.

“If this is the last article I ever write,” Charlotte murmured to herself, “Then I’m proud of it.”

Tuesday, Charlotte didn’t hear anything at all, not from Quentin, nor Maggie, nor the rest of the interns, making her stomach swell with anxiety. She bit her tongue throughout the day, trying to stabilize her panic. But she soon drew blood, tasting its tangy flavor in her spit.

The magazine would be released on Friday, which was just three days away. And she hadn’t heard anything.

If the article was pulled from the issue, due to the circumstances, she felt she might kill herself. She’d strained everything for this, drained her romantic life, and lost her friends. The loss would be too great.

And not speaking with Quentin gave her an aching sadness, which seemed to grow and chill in the bottom of her stomach, replacing the incredible love that had brewed there throughout her first few weeks in New York.

That night, Charlotte sat at home, a book splayed across her lap, her eyes not reading. It was past eight, and she imagined Morgan sliding her fingers across the keys, with Quentin in the kitchen, cleaning up after dinner. Just a few apartments away, their vibrant life brewed on, while hers seemed to dwindle, grow gray.

A knock at the door caused her to burst from her chair, dropping the book to the ground. Stringing her fingers through her hair, she stretched her legs toward the door, hopeful. This had to be Quentin; he was finally there, with the right words to say.

He would finally tell her how incredible her article was—the highest compliment she could receive, from an editor.

But when she opened the door, she found little Morgan, standing with her feet shoulder-width apart, her eyes firm and stubborn. In her arms, she held a large blue plate, on which seven chocolate chip cookies were splayed.

“Charlotte,” Morgan said, her voice firm in its own way, yet bright and girlish.

“Morgan,” Charlotte returned, placing her hand on her waist. “What do I owe the pleasure?”

“You haven’t been over to my house in over a week!” Morgan cried out, then, shoving the plate of cookies forward. “How do you expect to be my friend if we don’t hang out?”

A slight smile crept across Charlotte’s face, even as her heart seemed to drop in her chest. “Oh, honey. We’ll always be friends,” she said, taking the blue plate. “Did you make these yourself?”

“Uhhh… Kind of,” Morgan said, shrugging. “But Dad ate half the batter already. You can’t trust him with anything. Just like I couldn’t trust him not to hurt you.” Her eyes flashed, showing she knew more than most girls her age.

“Ah. I see,” Charlotte said. “You think your daddy hurt me, then?”

“I know he did,” Morgan said. “He doesn’t know how to play nice all the time. But I want you to forgive him, because I know he’s sorry. He hasn’t smiled in days. And it’s getting old.”

“I know I’ll see you around, Morgan,” Charlotte said, her voice hesitant. “Don’t be a stranger.”

“So, you won’t forgive him?” Morgan asked, piping up. “You really won’t?”

“He’s already forgiven,” Charlotte murmured, her eyes suddenly bright with tears. “But I need to be by myself right now. Can you understand that?”

“Oh,” Morgan grumbled, turning back toward her apartment. “Whatever.”

“Morgan?” Charlotte cried out, her throat growing choked. “Tell your dad it’s okay. Tell your dad I’ll be fine. Tell him—tell him I was always going to make it, no matter what.”

Morgan shrugged slightly, adjusting her pink sweatshirt and then zipping it with a firm motion. She took on the formation of messenger, tossed between her friend and her father, and somehow comprehending the sheer, impenetrable emotion between them.

“Okay,” was all she said, as a result.

Charlotte burst back into her apartment, still clinging to the blue plate of cookies. In a sudden burst of sadness, of emotion, she smashed the blue plate against the edge of the table, watching as the shards scattered in a flurry of cookie crumbs and blue daggers. She began to quake with sadness, comprehending that the end had truly come for them.

She had to move on, find peace.