I want him to smile, but it doesn’t fit the moment. I’m curious what his smile would look like. Instead, he shrugs a little and says, “Alright, then.” He moves to unlock the door. He holds it open for me, but I don’t exit right away. Instead, I continue to watch him, not quite ready to face the world outside. I appreciate his kindness and want to say more, to thank him in some way, maybe over coffee or by returning his shirt to him. I find myself drawn to his altruism—a rarity these days. But it’s the flash of wedding ring on his left hand that propels me forward, out of the bathroom and coffee shop, onto the streets now buzzing with an even larger crowd.
An ambulance has arrived and is blocking traffic in both directions. I walk back toward the scene, wondering if I should give a statement. I wait near a cop who is jotting down other eyewitness accounts. They aren’t any different from mine, but I give them my statement and contact information. I’m not sure how much help my statement is since I didn’t actually see him get hit. I was merely close enough to hear it. Close enough to be painted like a Jackson Pollock canvas.
I look behind me and watch as Jeremy exits the coffee shop with a fresh coffee in his hand. He crosses the street, focused on wherever it is he’s going. His mind is somewhere else now, far away from me, probably on his wife and what he’ll say to her when he goes home missing a shirt.
I pull my phone out of my purse and look at the time. I still have fifteen minutes before my meeting with Corey and the editor from Pantem Press. My hands are shaking even worse now that the stranger is no longer here to distract me from my thoughts. Coffee may help. Morphine would definitely help, but hospice removed it all from my apartment last week when they came to retrieve their equipment after my mother passed. It’s a shame I was too shaken to remember to hide it. I could really use some right about now.
When Corey texted me last night to let me know about the meeting today, it was the first time I’d heard from him in months. I was sitting at my computer desk, staring down at an ant as it crawled across my big toe.
The ant was alone, fluttering left and right, up and down, searching for food or friends. He seemed confused by his solitude. Or maybe he was excited for his newfound freedom. I couldn’t help but wonder why he was alone. Ants usually travel with an army.
The fact that I was curious about the ant’s current situation was a clear sign I needed to leave my apartment. I was worried that, after being cooped up caring for my mother for so long, once I stepped out into the hallway I would be just as confused as that ant. Left, right, inside, outside, where are my friends, where is the food?
The ant crawled off my toe and onto the hardwood floor. He disappeared beneath the wall when Corey’s texts came through.
I was hoping when I drew a line in the sand months ago, he’d understand: since we no longer have sex, the most appropriate method of contact between a literary agent and his author is email.
His text read: Meet me tomorrow morning at nine at the Pantem Press building, floor 14. I think we might have an offer.
He didn’t even ask about my mom in the text. I wasn’t surprised. His lack of interest in anything other than his job and himself are the reasons we’re no longer together. His lack of concern made me feel unjustly irritated. He doesn’t owe me anything, but he could have at least acted like he cared.
I didn’t text him back at all last night. Instead, I set down my phone and stared at the crack at the base of my wall—the one the ant had disappeared into. I wondered if he would find other ants in the wall, or if he was a loner. Maybe he was like me and had an aversion to other ants.
It’s hard to say why I have such a deeply crippling aversion to other humans, but if I had to wager a bet, I’d say it’s a direct result of my own mother being terrified of me.
Terrified may be a strong word. But she certainly didn’t trust me as a child. She kept me fairly secluded from people outside of school because she was afraid of what I might be capable of during my many sleepwalking episodes. That paranoia bled into my adulthood, and by then, I was set in my ways. A loner. Very few friends and not much of a social life. Which is why this is the first morning I’ve left my apartment since weeks before she passed away.
I figured my first trip outside of my apartment would be somewhere I missed, like Central Park or a bookstore.
I certainly didn’t think I’d find myself here, standing in line in the lobby of a publishing house, desperately praying whatever this offer is will catch me up on my rent and I won’t be evicted. But here I am, one meeting away from either being homeless or receiving a job offer that will give me the means to look for a new apartment.
I look down and smooth out the white shirt Jeremy lent me in the bathroom across the street. I’m hoping I don’t look too ridiculous. Maybe there’s a chance I can pull it off, as if wearing men’s shirts twice my size is some cool new fashion statement.
“Nice shirt,” someone behind me says.
I turn at the sound of Jeremy’s voice, shocked to see him.
Is he following me?
It’s my turn in line, so I hand the security guard my driver’s license and then look at Jeremy, taking in the new shirt he’s wearing. “Do you keep spare shirts in your back pocket?” It hasn’t been that long since he gave me the one off his back.
“My hotel is a block away. Walked back to change.”
His hotel. That’s promising. If he’s staying in a hotel, maybe he doesn’t work here. And if he doesn’t work here, maybe he isn’t in the publishing industry. I’m not sure why I don’t want him to be in the publishing industry. I just have no idea who my meeting is with, and I’m hoping it has nothing to do with him after the morning we’ve already had. “Does that mean you don’t work in this building?”
He pulls out his identification and hands it to the security guard. “No, I don’t work here. I have a meeting on the fourteenth floor.”
Of course he does.
“So do I,” I say.
A fleeting smile appears on his mouth and disappears just as quickly, as if he remembered what happened across the street and realized it’s still too soon to not be affected. “What are the chances we’re heading to the same meeting?” He takes his identification back from the guard who points us in the direction of the elevators.
“I wouldn’t know,” I say. “I haven’t been told exactly why I’m here yet.” We walk onto the elevator, and he presses the button for the fourteenth floor. He faces me as he pulls his tie out of his pocket and begins to put it on.
I can’t stop staring at his wedding ring.
“Are you a writer?” he asks.
I nod. “Are you?”
“No. My wife is.” He pulls at his tie until it’s secured in place. “Have you written anything I would know?”
“I doubt it. No one reads my books.”
His lips turn up. “There aren’t many Lowens in the world. I’m sure I can figure out which books you’ve written.”
Why? Does he actually want to read them? He looks down at his phone and begins to type.
“I never said I write under my real name.”
He doesn’t look up from his phone until the elevator doors open. He moves toward them, turning in the doorway to face me. He holds up his phone and smiles. “You don’t write under a pen name. You write under Lowen Ashleigh, which, funny enough, is the name of the author I’m meeting at nine thirty.”
I finally get that smile, and as gorgeous as it is, I don’t want it anymore.
He just Googled me. And even though my meeting is at nine, not nine thirty, he seems to know more about it than I do. If we really are headed to the same meeting, it makes our chance meeting on the street seem somewhat suspicious. But I guess the odds of us both being in the same place at the same time aren’t all that inconceivable, considering we were headed in the same direction to the same meeting, and therefore, witnessed the same accident.
Jeremy steps aside, and I exit the elevator. I open my mouth, preparing to speak, but he takes a few steps, walking backward. “See you in a few.”
I don’t know him at all, nor do I know how he relates to the meeting I’m about to have, but even without being privy to any details of what’s happening this morning, I can’t help but like the guy. The man literally gave me the shirt off his back, so I doubt he has a vindictive nature.
I smile before he rounds the corner. “Alright. See you in a few.”
He returns the smile. “Alright.”
I watch him until he makes a left and disappears. As soon as I’m out of his line of sight, I’m able to relax a little. This morning has just been…a lot. Between the accident I witnessed and being in enclosed spaces with that confusing man, I’m feeling so strange. I press my palm against the wall and lean into it. What the hell—
“You’re on time,” Corey says. His voice startles me. I spin around, and he’s walking up to me from the opposite hallway. He leans in and kisses me on the cheek. I stiffen.
“You’re never on time.”
“I would have been here sooner, but…” I shut up. I don’t explain what prevented me from being early. He seems disinterested as he heads in the same direction as Jeremy.
“The actual meeting isn’t until nine thirty, but I figured you’d be late, so I told you nine.”
I pause, staring at the back of his head. What the hell, Corey? If he’d told me nine thirty rather than nine, I wouldn’t have witnessed the accident across the street. I wouldn’t have been subjected to a stranger’s blood.
“You coming?” Corey asks, pausing to look back at me.
I bury my irritation. I’m used to doing that when it comes to him.
We make it to an empty conference room. Corey closes the door behind us, and I take a seat at the conference table. He sits next to me at the head of the table, positioning himself so that he’s staring at me. I try not to frown as I take in the sight of him after our months-long hiatus, but he hasn’t changed. Still very clean, groomed, wearing a tie, glasses, a smile. Always such a stark contrast to myself.
“You look terrible.” I say it because he doesn’t look terrible. He never does, and he knows it.
“You look refreshed and ravishing.” He says it because I never look refreshed and ravishing. I always look tired, and maybe even perpetually bored. I’ve heard of Resting Bitch Face, but I relate more to Resting Bored Face.
“How’s your mother?”
“She died last week.”
He wasn’t expecting that. He leans back in his chair and tilts his head. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Why haven’t you bothered asking until now? I shrug. “I’m still processing.”
My mother had been living with me for the past nine months—since she was diagnosed with stage four colon cancer. She passed away last Wednesday after three months on hospice. It was difficult to leave the apartment in those last few months because she relied on me for everything—from drinking, to eating, to turning her over in her bed. When she took a turn for the worse, I wasn’t able to leave her alone at all, which is why I didn’t step foot outside of my apartment for weeks. Luckily, a Wi-Fi connection and a credit card make it easy to live life completely indoors in Manhattan. Anything and everything a person could possibly need can be delivered.
Funny how one of the most populated cities in the world can double as a paradise for agoraphobics.
“You okay?” Corey asks.