Finally, I pull back. “Don’t forget to write.” I smile, even though my heart is breaking. “Isn’t that what they say?”
Josh searches my expression and nods. “Sure is.”
I press my fingers to my lips and then touch them to his mouth. “I…I’ll see you soon.”
He frowns, his expression solemn.
I turn and rush to the taxi. Josh stands in the drive, the snow falling around him. I watch him, my hand pressed to the window, as the taxi pulls away.
28
It’s Thursday, the morning after the funeral. I walk into the office at nine sharp, a steaming cup of coffee in my hand. I stopped at the coffee stand on the way up and Zamir gave me an extra-large, double cream and sugar on the house. He seemed to think I’d need it.
I spent the night sending my résumé out. By four in the morning, I’d applied for three dozen different social media marketing positions. Hopefully by this time next month I’ll have a new job.
I look over the office. All the backdrops and lighting for the virtual conference are gone. The cameras are gone. I frown and stop walking toward my desk. I’d say only about a quarter of the staff are here. Most of the desks are cleared off of any personal possessions. They’re empty.
What in the world?
Usually at nine, everyone is here, drinking their morning coffee, starting on projects, gathering for team meetings. But this morning it’s strangely quiet.
Lavinia is at her desk. She’s pulling stacks of paper from her file drawer and tying them together with a rubber band. I walk over and set my coffee on the edge of my desk.
“Where is everybody?” I ask.
She purses her mouth. “You haven’t heard?”
I look around, stumped. “Ian gave everyone a day off after a successful conference?”
Lavinia’s lemon-pursed lips turn up into the first smile I’ve seen her give in seven years. I have to admit, it’s really, really weird to see her smile.
“Well, that’s good, I guess.”
“He asked to see you as soon as you arrived. In his office.” Lavinia waves at his glass door and then goes back to pulling folders from her filing cabinet.
I look around the office again. A few of the interns are openly staring at me and the database techie that I threatened over the sparkling water gives me a salute. I send an awkward wave back and then I pull off my coat and purse and hurry to Ian’s office.
I have no idea what’s going on, but I have a feeling it has to do with his introduction for the conference and then me leaving for the day.
I knock on his door and then slowly open it. Ian is at the back at his putting green. He’s on the phone, talking loudly and pacing back and forth. When he sees me he gestures for me to come in then turns his back and continues his conversation.
I close the door behind me and wander slowly toward him. It sounds like Ian is in the middle of a heated conversation and won’t be finishing anytime soon. I can’t hear the words but his tone is not happy.
I stop at the koi pond and watch the orange and gold fish swim to the surface and beg for food. But the koi pond reminds me of puking on Ian and realizing I was pregnant, so I turn away and walk toward Ian’s desk. Just past it is an abstract painting that I can stare at while I wait for Ian to finish his phone call.
I’m only a few feet from Ian’s desk when something catches my eye.
A book sits on the edge of his desk. It’s open to a page near the center. That’s not unusual. What’s unusual is that the book is one of those thick, three-hundred-page, leather-bound drawing journals with unlined artist’s paper and a silk ribbon to mark the pages. I lower my brow and step closer. The page that the book is opened to is filled with ink sketches.
I take a sharp breath and run my hand over one of the drawings.
It’s me.
It’s a sketch of me.
Or, at least me as I looked fifteen years ago. I recognize the T-shirt I was wearing, it was my favorite band, and I have on the thick-rimmed glasses I decided I needed to wear as a “fashion statement.”
What is this?
The hair on my arms rises in goosebumps. I look back at Ian, but his back is turned away from me. He’s looking out over Midtown, snarling into his phone.
I glance back at the journal.
Ian didn’t know me when I was a teenager. He didn’t meet me until seven years ago.
I look at the page again. Opposite the sketch of me are the scrawled words—anything is possible if you put your mind to it.
What is this?
Slowly I reach out and turn the page. It’s a sketch of a shaggy dog with floppy ears and a tongue that hangs from the side of his mouth.