I had a suspicion. I started administering silent tests. Evan would get home, dropping his briefcase to the floor with a sigh. “You wouldn’t believe what happened at work,” he’d say, flopping down on the futon. He told me everything about Michael Casey, about the WestCorp deal. On and on and on. I’d keep perfectly quiet, waiting for him to finish, to turn his attention to me—to anyone but himself. Waiting for him to ask how my work was going, what I’d eaten for dinner, the people I’d been hanging out with in his absence. Anything. But he never asked, not once.
This new Evan didn’t have anything left for me. Evan needed me to affirm his existence, to nod and smile and say the right thing at the right time. He failed the test, and my suspicion was confirmed. He wasn’t really thinking about me. He never was. I don’t know what I’d do without you. He seemed to forget that it was supposed to be reciprocal.
At work, later that September day, there was nervous chatter in the hallways. I imagine that was true everywhere in New York that afternoon—watercooler speculation about how far it would go, if we were witnessing the end of one era and the beginning of the next—but we had particular reason to be concerned. Organizations like ours formed an appendage to the financial industry, rising and falling along with the market. It was symbiotic, our minnow cleaning the gills of the whale that swam around lower Manhattan. We relied on the largesse of the Fletchers and others like them to keep us alive.
Had I started thinking of the foundation as ours? Had I started thinking of myself as us? I guess I had. I was beginning to understand why people sometimes stayed in jobs they hated. It wasn’t just about the paycheck. It was about the structure, contributing to the hum of civilized society. My own contribution was almost invisible, but I liked the accoutrements. The nameplate on my desk; the security guard in the lobby who knew me by sight. Even if the job wasn’t much, it was something. I’d complain about it to Evan, but all he said was how lucky I was to have such easy hours; cutting, even if true.
I thought of Evan pacing the apartment the night before, of what he must be going through at work. After lunch, I sent him a text. He didn’t respond until hours later, when I was getting ready to leave. All good. Probably gonna be here late.
Can you take a break for dinner? I wrote.
I’ll go out around 6:30 to get something, he replied.
I glanced at my watch—it was approaching 5:30 p.m. I thought of one night from earlier that summer, from better days. This was a chance to get back what we’d lost track of. I walked north from my office and found a deli a few blocks from Evan’s office. His favorite sandwich, the same since college: a chicken cutlet with mozzarella and bacon. I took two sodas from the cooler, draped with strips of dusty plastic that reminded me of tentacles at a car wash.
I thought about calling, but I liked the notion of surprising him. Maybe it was the air of doom making me alert, but I felt optimistic. Renewed with hope. I leaned against the side of his building, my eyes closed against the sun, two sandwiches and two cans of soda in hand. Maybe we both just needed to try a little harder. This was a phase, and it would pass. I checked my watch. It was 6:30, then it was 6:45, then it was almost 7:00 p.m. Well. I couldn’t be upset with him. He didn’t know I was waiting.
A group finally emerged from the building, spit out of the revolving door like pinballs. Evan came out last, jogging to catch up with his coworkers. They all had their jackets off, their sleeves rolled up, and they were laughing about something.
“Evan!” I called, waving at him.
He looked confused when he saw me. The group kept walking, slower now, giving him the chance to catch up. A few of the guys stared at me.
“Hey,” he said, walking over. “What are you doing here?”
“I brought dinner.” I lifted the deli bag. “I thought we could eat together. Like the old days, you know.”
“Oh. That’s nice of you, Jules.”
“I got your favorite. Chicken cutlet with bacon and mozzarella.”
“The thing is,” he said, glancing over his shoulder, “I was going to get dinner with the guys. We’re going to this new Indian place on Ninth. You understand, right?”
I squinted. I couldn’t see. The sun was right in my eyes.
He laughed, then took the sandwich from me. “I can have it for lunch tomorrow, okay? Don’t worry about it.”
“But what about—how was your day? I was watching the news at work.”
“We’re fine. Our CEO had to leave for Washington. He’s joining the government advisory team. So Michael’s in charge now. Acting CEO.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“It’s a great thing. It means the WestCorp deal becomes a top priority. Pretty cool, right? Hey, I should really catch up with the other guys.” He rested his hand on my shoulder for a moment. “Thanks again, Jules.”
“You’re welcome.” I didn’t mean it.
He started to walk away, then paused. “Oh. I forgot to tell you. Guess whose byline I saw today?”
“What?” A truck was rushing past, blaring its horn.
“I said, ‘Adam McCard.’”
My heart sped up. My hands went clammy. I was suddenly glad Evan was already several feet away. My brain couldn’t think up a reply.