“It’s not the humiliation so much as the sheer optimism.”
His lips press together. “I’d say I’m a realist, but one who doesn’t always understand when what he’s seeing isn’t realism.”
“So why’d you run away to New York?”
“I didn’t run,” he says. “I moved.”
“Is there a difference?” I ask.
“No one was chasing me?” he says. “Also, ‘running’ implies speed. I had to go to community college for a couple years here, work construction with my dad to save up so I could transfer in my junior year.”
“You don’t strike me as a hard hat guy.”
“I’m not a hat guy, period,” he says. “But I needed money to get to New York, and I thought all writers lived there.”
“Ah,” I say. “The truth comes out. You wanted to be a writer.” My brain flips straight to Jakob, like a book whose spine is creased to land on a favorite page.
“I thought I did,” Charlie says. “In college, I realized I liked workshopping other people’s stories more. I like the puzzle of it. Looking at all the pieces and figuring out what something’s trying to be, and how to get it there.”
I feel a pang of longing. “That’s my favorite part of the job too.”
He studies me for a moment. “Then I think you might be in the wrong job.”
Editing might’ve been the dream, but you can’t eat, drink, or sleep on top of dreams. I landed the next best thing. Everyone has to give up their dreams eventually. “You know what I think?”
His eyes stay trained on me, his pupils growing like they’re somehow absorbing all the shadows from the room. “No, but I’m desperate to find out,” he deadpans.
“I think you did run away from this place.”
He rolls his eyes and leans back in his chair, the posture of a jungle cat. “I left calmly. Whereas, in one week, you will run, screaming, for the city limits, begging every passing semitruck driver for a lift to the nearest bagel.”
“Actually,” I say, rising to the challenge in his voice, “I’m here for a month.”
His lips press together. “Is that so?”
“It is,” I say. “Libby and I have a lot of fun things planned. But you already know that. You’ve seen the list.”
Because I am not Nadine. I’m capable of spontaneity, and flannel won’t make me break out in a rash, and I’m going to finish that list.
His gaze narrows. “You’re going to ‘sleep under the stars’？ Offer yourself to the mosquitoes?”
“There are body sprays for that.”
“Ride a horse?” he says. “You said you’re terrified of horses.”
“When did I say that?”
“The other night, when you were three sheets to the wind. You said you were terrified of anything larger than a groundhog. And then you took it back and said even groundhogs make you uneasy, because they’re unpredictable. You’re not going to ride a horse.”
We changed it to Pet a horse, but now I’m unwilling to back down. “Would you like to make a bet?”
“That you won’t ‘save a dying business’ in a month?” he says. “Wouldn’t call it a gamble.”
“What will you give me, when I win?”
“What do you want?” he says. “A vital organ? My rent-stabilized apartment?”
I slap his hand on the table. “You have a rent-stabilized apartment?”
He tugs his hand back. “I’ve had it since college. Shared it with two other people until I could afford it on my own.”
“How many bathrooms?” I ask.
“Two.”
“Pictures?”
He pulls his phone out and scrolls for a beat, then hands it over. I was expecting photos where the apartment was incidental. These were obviously taken by a real estate photographer. It’s a gorgeous, airy, tastefully minimalist apartment. Also, it’s extremely clean, which: hot.
The bedrooms are small, but there are three of them, and the main bathroom has a gigantic double vanity. It’s the stuff of New York dreams.
“Why do you just . . . have these?” I say. “Is this your version of porn?”
“A page covered in red ink is my version of porn,” he says. “I have the pictures because I was considering subletting while I’m here.”
“Libby and her family,” I say. “When I win this bet, they get the apartment.”