Despite our early efforts at discretion, I’m positive she’s noticed the vibe between us, but she’s kept any disapproval to herself ever since Charlie helped with the surprise campout.
She pounds on the shop door with the ferocity of an FBI agent on TV until Charlie reappears, looking exactly how he always looks: tidy, overworked, well dressed, and like he wants to bite my thigh.
“We came to invite you to dinner.” Libby pushes inside, beelining toward the bathroom, as she is wont to do these days, calling, “We’re going to Poppa Squat’s.”
“Maybe you’ve heard of it,” I say. “It was on a very exclusive BuzzFeed list.”
Slow nod. Dark, gut-melting eyes. Holding his gaze feels like public indecency. “？‘Places That Sound Like They’ll Definitely Give You Diarrhea While Really They Only Just Might Give You Diarrhea.’？”
“That’s the one,” I agree.
He widens the door for me, but just then my phone rings. On instinct, I check it. Sharon’s calling. While on maternity leave. “I should take this.”
Libby does a cartoon screech-to-halt and turns back to me. “No work calls after five,” she reminds me.
“This is different,” I say, the ringing scritching against my nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard. “It might be important.”
Libby’s lips fall into a straight line. “Nora.”
“Just give me a minute, Libby,” I say. Her eyes go wide at the sharp edge to my voice. “I’m sorry—I just—I have to do this.”
I take off down the dark block, heart thudding as I answer the call. “Sharon? Is everything okay?”
“Hi, yes!” she says brightly. “Everything’s fine—sorry to worry you. I just had a question.”
The tension in my shoulders dissolves. “Sure. How can I help?”
“I can’t give too many concrete details,” she starts. “But . . . Loggia might be hiring a new editor soon.”
“Oh?” The floor of my stomach sinks. I’ve gotten enough of these calls over the years to know where this is going. Sharon’s leaving—or, rather, not coming back from parental leave.
“Yeah,” she goes on. “Looks that way. And hey, I know you’re doing great at the agency, so this might not be interesting to you at all, but I’ve been talking with Charlie, and he says you’re really helping get Dusty’s book into shape.”
“He makes it easy,” I say. “And she does too.”
“Of course,” Sharon says. “But you’ve also always had a knack for this kind of thing. I guess I’m wondering if there’s any chance you’d be interested.”
“Interested?”
“In editing,” she says. “For Loggia.”
I must be stunned into silence for longer than I realize, because Sharon says, “Hello? Did I lose you?”
My mouth’s gone dry. It comes out small. “Here.”
This must be how people feel when their water breaks. Like they’ve been carrying a new future around inside themself and suddenly it’s gushing out, ready or not.
“You want me to be an editor?”
“I’d like you to interview, yes,” she says. “But I totally understand if you’re not interested. You’ve made a name for yourself as an agent—and you’re great at it. This might not make sense for you.”
I open my mouth. No sound comes out.
I’m stumped.
“I don’t need a concrete answer yet,” she says, “but if you’re at all interested . . .”
I expect to have to swim through the soup of my thoughts and feelings, to have to give a hacking cough to get out some words.
Instead, I hear my voice as if through a tunnel: “Yes.”
“Yes?” Sharon says. “You’ll meet with us?”
I squeeze the bridge of my nose as pressure rushes into my skull. This isn’t the kind of decision you just make. Least of all when your sister’s in the middle of a potentially very expensive crisis.
“I’d like to think about it,” I backtrack. “Can I call you in a couple days?”
“Of course,” she says. “Of course! This would be a big decision. But I’ll admit, when Charlie said you might be interested, I was very excited.”
I barely hear the rest. My mind has become one of those FBI corkboards with zigzagging red string between every pushpin it can find, trying to make things add up, to make all of it fit into one uninterrupted pattern, proof that this can work, that I can have this, that it’s not too good to be true.