“Jules,” I say as I glance at the clock on my desk slowly ticking toward the time when I have to meet with Magda. “I’ve got to go. Have fun dildo shopping!”
After hanging up, I’m faced with an endless stream of emails that have appeared in my in-box during our short call. I start to click through them when a Facebook notification pops up on my screen—one of my college classmates has changed her status to married. I hit like and then scroll down my own feed, grimacing at the endless stream of celebratory announcements, staged photos, and carefully written statuses. In the past few days, I’d started to look at Facebook differently, wondering what the real story was behind the date-night photo or the pouty-lipped selfie. When I was in Big Bear, reconnecting with Max, doing things that provided endless photo ops, something had kept me from posting about it—I didn’t even check in at the restaurant where we had dinner. Even though we were legitimately having a wonderful time, I held off. For reasons I didn’t completely understand, I hadn’t been compelled to share our private moments with other people the way I used to.
I click through my list of friends now to see if Courtney is still listed or if she’s unfriended me. But as I’d expected, her name is still there, listed among those who claim they are ready and willing to receive my news every day. I wonder which of us will be the first to admit publicly that it’s over.
? ? ?
I’ve always been convinced Magda has a sixth sense about what’s on my mind. Whenever I’m about to do or say something, it’s as if she already knows. Once, in a meeting, I parted my lips just the slightest bit and she whipped her head around and pointed at me, her long magenta fingernail hanging in the air. “Don’t even think about suggesting we change the campaign slogan!” she’d warned, and I’d clamped my mouth shut, wondering how she knew exactly what I was about to say. So I’ve done my best to steer clear of her since I traveled back in time, keeping most of our conversations limited to the phone, worried that if I spend too much time in her presence she’ll look at me and ask why I didn’t use my power to wish her younger. So when I picked up the phone earlier to give her an update on how my search for a replacement for Courtney was going, I wasn’t surprised that at the very same moment, my other line had blinked red and it was her telling me not to bother calling—she wanted to see me in her office this time.
I hover in her doorway at exactly 10:30 a.m. until she finally looks up from her work and curls her finger toward herself, indicating that I should enter.
I slide down into the seat across from her and wait, doing my best to keep my mind blank.
“You can stop avoiding me now,” she says abruptly.
“Excuse me?” I say, using my most innocent-sounding voice.
“I know you haven’t found someone to fill Courtney’s shoes and—”
“I can explain.”
Magda tilts her head to the side and purses her lips and I immediately stop talking.
“There’s no need—in fact, you can stop looking.”
“You’ve found someone?”
“No,” Magda says simply, removing her blazer and smoothing the front of her black silk sleeveless blouse, her bony shoulders protruding from underneath it. “I’ve decided we don’t need to hire someone. You’re doing a great job picking up the slack.”
I blink rapidly. There was no way I could keep up with the workload I’d been juggling. I’d been creating PowerPoint presentations rather than going to lunch and laboring after hours at home each night. I’d even had to write several emails and craft a pitch on the final day Max and I had spent in Big Bear. I knew I’d burn out if I kept this up for much longer. Maybe I can just wish that Courtney never left in the first place?
“But—” My pulse quickens, sending shivers of panic through my body as I start to argue why there is no way I can continue this pace—especially with the wedding coming up—but Magda cuts me off.
“My God, Kate, you look like you’re about to pass out—I thought you were going to be relieved!” Magda says incredulously. “Weren’t you and Courtney always in competition? Each of you trying to show me how great you were individually. Didn’t you both desperately want my”—she waits for a moment, even though I can practically see the word she’s about to say dangling from the end of her tongue like bait on a fish hook—“approval?” she finally says, dragging the word out one syllable at a time.
I sit silently, my palms wet with worry.
“And now she’s gone. Don’t you see, Kate? You’ve won.”