Jack and I are quiet as we drive home on the Long Island Expressway. He’s getting in and out of the express lane like he’s trying to shave fifteen seconds off his best time in a race. I have an email from Eleanor saying that she’d like to see me in her office on Monday morning at ten. All this mystery is really getting on my nerves. After I was pulled off that client, I spent an entire week just sitting at my desk waiting for someone to make a decision about me. I organized my files. I color-coded a spreadsheet I’ll probably never use again. And somehow they needed another week to mull it over without me there. It feels like Eleanor wants to punish me before she fires me. I reply, “See you then!” and immediately regret the cheery exclamation point.
I sneak looks at Jack and wonder what he’s thinking about, staring ahead at the road. Is he as gobsmacked as I am about Wyatt? Did he like being out at the beach with my family? Did he get that that song is about me? He’s millions of miles away, so I ask the annoying question.
“What are you thinking about?”
He turns to look at me, like he’s surprised I’m there. “Elliot.”
“Elliot?”
“Yeah, he needs to move our Tuesday evening tennis to Wednesdays. But Wednesday is my push day at the gym and if I switch it to Tuesday, it’s too close to the Fritz workout for proper recovery.”
“Ah,” I say. “Tricky.”
He keeps driving and chewing on his dilemma.
“Eleanor emailed. Wants to meet with me tomorrow morning.”
“Good,” he says. “Then you should take a few weeks off before you start looking for another job.”
“I’m not necessarily getting fired.”
He gives me a sympathetic smile. “Samantha. Come on.”
I want to teach art, is on the tip of my tongue. Jack and I are getting married, I should be able to tell him my dreams. I just don’t want to hear him tell me I can’t, that it’s impossible. That I’ve established myself as a consultant and I need to stick it out. It’s not like I want to be a trapeze artist, I just want to be doing something creative with kids.
“I want to teach art,” I say to the passenger window.
“Did you say something?”
“No,” I say. Then, “I want to teach art.”
“That would be fun,” he says.
I turn to him, relieved. “Right? All those kids making things out of clay and construction paper. Everyone going in totally different directions with the same assignment.”
“You could use a glue gun every day of your life.”
I laugh. “Exactly. That’s exactly what I want to do.”
Jack reaches for my hand, and as dumb as that confession is, I feel heard. And if Jack thinks it makes sense, maybe it’s possible.
“But you’re an HR consultant. It’s your whole résumé. So you’ve just got to make the best of that.”
I’m quiet for the next thirty minutes, and as we head through the tunnel, I start to feel afraid. I’ve reconnected with Wyatt and we’ve said goodbye. I feel a dread that reminds me of the drive back to the city after Wyatt and I said goodbye on the beach, my mother seething. I have an irrational premonition that I will be abandoned and stop sleeping again. And Gracie’s not coming back for a month.
I text Travis: I know you knew about Wyatt. It’s unbelievable that you didn’t tell me. We can fight about this later, but give me his number.
Travis: I figured if it mattered to you you’d google him Me: Who fucking googles people
Travis: Everyone Sam
He sends it, and I text Wyatt: It’s Sam. Travis gave me your number. Just wanted to say goodbye again. And wow. Also congratulations.
Wyatt: Ha, thanks. I’m headed back to LA tomorrow Me: So can we be in touch? Like say happy birthday and send funny internet stuff?
Wyatt: Like cat videos?
I’m smiling at my phone and I check to make sure Jack isn’t looking at me. He’s not.
Me: Yeah, like that
46
I wake up on Monday morning in our bed on Sixty-Third Street. It’s six, and I don’t need to be anywhere until ten, but I get up anyway to have coffee and gather my thoughts. I close the door to our room quietly so as not to wake Jack. His first patient is at nine, I think he said. But first, it’s push day. Or leg day. I forget.
I walk through our living area into the kitchen, and it’s all a little stark after having been at my parents’ house. “Clean lines” is what Jack said on repeat as we were looking to furnish this place. It’s pretty, but it’s a little ungrounding. I think of how Granny compared it to a prison. All this gray and white and chrome makes me wish there was something red to rest my eye on. It doesn’t help that we are on the fourteenth floor, which everyone knows is really the thirteenth floor. We are high up enough that the cars down below seem like toys. I sometimes feel like I’m floating, like I’m inside someone’s thought bubble.
I make my coffee and sit at the counter with my phone. I email my dad and ask if I can see photos of sketches from his new horizon series. This is pushy and presumptuous, as it’s possible he still hasn’t put anything on paper, but I do it anyway. I can’t remember the last time I asked my dad about his work, but I feel a little opening between us.
I check to see if I’ve missed a text from Wyatt, which is dumb. We just agreed to stay loosely in touch. No one sends daily cat videos.
Jack comes out of the bedroom dressed for the gym. “Man, it feels good to be home.”
“You said that yesterday,” I say.
“Well, it still does. Everything’s so damp at the beach.” He stops to kiss me on the forehead before mixing his pre-workout drink. He doesn’t have coffee because that pre-workout drink has as much caffeine as six cups, a thought that makes me slightly nauseated.
“I’m trying to figure out what to wear to my meeting this morning. Do I go casual because it’s summer or do I dress up to be appropriate for the gravity of the situation?”
“The decision’s been made; you could go in your pajamas if you want.”
He’s right, of course. Eleanor isn’t inviting me in to negotiate. Jack’s grabbing his gym bag and heading to the door. “I guess I’ll call you after?” I say.
“Yes, sorry.” Remembering himself, Jack comes back to give me a hug. “It’ll be fine. There’s tons of HR in the city.” He pulls away and gives me a smile. “You’ll be back to whipping people into shape in no time.”
He leaves, and the words “whipping people into shape” hang in the air. I’ve never really thought of my job that way. I like to think I’m setting the rules for a game they can win, using data to keep score. I smile, remembering the moment everyone in the flash mob finally got the steps right. They were so excited about it, and I admit it was a little infectious.
I’m humming “Dancing Queen” as I refill my coffee and get back in bed. I have half an hour before I need to get in the shower and put on whatever one wears to get fired. I scroll through my phone. Emails from companies who think I should buy more sweaters. Ninety-six people liked my Instagram post of the Old Sloop Inn lit up at night. “Possible wedding venue,” I said. I took that photo right before we walked into the restaurant. Wyatt must have been parking his car then, knowing full well that our dinner was being made possible by his celebrity.
I’m having a hard time knowing what is real. I survived losing Wyatt by believing that he was an addiction, that I was just boy crazy. But he wrote all those songs, with so many details of our relationship. He remembers it as clearly as I do. I need to look away from the possibility that what we had was real, because it could undo me. All of that laughing and touching is exactly the kind of freedom you’d feel if you threw yourself off a cliff. I don’t want to be broken again.
I put down my phone and pick it back up again.
I text him: Are you up?
Immediate reply: A little jet-lagged so yes. How’s life in the big city?
He used to say this, I remember, when we were apart during the school year. I’d smile when he asked it because it made me feel cool, like he thought maybe my city life was glamorous. I’m staring at those words now, uncomfortable with the way my body is leaning off the edge of that cliff.
Wyatt: Sam?
Me: Sorry, was just drying my hair. Life in the big city is pretty glamorous for an unemployed consultant
Wyatt: Did they fire you?
Me: I meet the firing squad at 10
Wyatt: I hope it goes well, but don’t beg for a job you don’t want. That’s not who you are
Me: Easy for you to say, you’re rich
Wyatt: Aren’t you the one marrying a doctor?