another sip of her coffee. “What did he want?”
“I guess he was in Chicago a few weeks ago and ended up meeting an editor from
O
.”
She looks confused.
“Oprah’s magazine?” I say.
“Oh, right, right.”
“He said he thought our personalities would click. She’s expecting me to get in contact and pitch her a few ideas.”
“That’s
amazing,
” Jess says, then crinkles up her forehead and lifts a single, perfectly plucked eyebrow when I don’t look as enthused. “Isn’t it?”
“It would be if I
had
any ideas. I’m not even sure I should be freelancing right now. I sort of let things slide over the past year.” More like I let them disappear. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d sold an article. “I’m starting to think I might need to find a new career. One that actually pays my bills.”
“Are you okay? Do you need to borrow a little bit to get you through? If Derek makes this sale today—”
“That’s very sweet of you,” I say, cutting her off, “but I can manage. I still have some of the divorce settlement left. But it won’t last much longer.” I figure if I really cut corners, I can survive about six more months on what’s left in my account. After that, I may have to practice inquiring whether customers would like to supersize their meals.
“You’ll figure it out,” my sister says. “You could always sell the house, right? Maybe move into something more affordable?”
“I suppose so, but I’d hate to move Charlie.” The divorce left me with two main assets: the house and my cashed-out half of Martin’s 401(k) account, the latter of which I’ve been using to pay my bills. With the account already so diminished, I didn’t want to lose the house. Not yet.
“Well, at least you know a good agent if you need one,” she says with a grin.
“Really? Who?” I tease.
“Funny,” she says, rolling her eyes, then pauses for a moment to sip her coffee. “So, do any of the editors you usually work with know about your problem?”
“No.” I realize I’m gripping my mug tightly enough to make my fingers ache. I relax them. “I was pretty good at keeping it under wraps.”
She shifts her shoulders almost imperceptibly. It’s suddenly her turn to not make eye contact.
“What?” I push. “I know that look.”
“What look?” She moves her gaze to meet mine.
“That one.” I put a finger in her face. “You’re trying not to say something. Give it up.”
“This coming from Little Miss Not Forthcoming.” She bats my finger away and points hers back at me. “You’re not quite as sneaky as you think you are.”
I sit back in my chair. “What does
that
mean?”
“It means, Cadee,” she sighs, “that it’s not like people didn’t suspect what was going on with you.”
There is no condescension in her tone, only a factual edge, and it cuts deep. A panicky feeling grips my belly, the kind where it seems that the jig is up on something you thought you had gotten away with free and clear, and suddenly, there you stand, caught, your emotional pants down around your ankles.
She leans forward and takes one of my hands in hers. “We knew. We might not have said anything, but we did know.”
I pull my hand back, tuck my fingers in between my thighs, and squeeze them. Tears threaten to roll and I hate them. She hasn’t said this to me before now, not once in the last eight weeks.
Jess sighs, pushes back into her chair. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” I keep my tone neutral. Hysteria claws at the edges, just below the surface of my words. Only I can feel this. I will not show it to her. I will not show it to anyone.
“For bringing it up, I guess.”
“It’s okay.” It’s not okay. It is very, very far from okay.
“Yeah, you sound like you mean that.” We are silent for a moment. And then she continues. “I should have said something. I should have tried to help.”
“I wouldn’t have let you.” I swallow hard and clear my throat. “I
“I guess he was in Chicago a few weeks ago and ended up meeting an editor from
O
.”
She looks confused.
“Oprah’s magazine?” I say.
“Oh, right, right.”
“He said he thought our personalities would click. She’s expecting me to get in contact and pitch her a few ideas.”
“That’s
amazing,
” Jess says, then crinkles up her forehead and lifts a single, perfectly plucked eyebrow when I don’t look as enthused. “Isn’t it?”
“It would be if I
had
any ideas. I’m not even sure I should be freelancing right now. I sort of let things slide over the past year.” More like I let them disappear. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d sold an article. “I’m starting to think I might need to find a new career. One that actually pays my bills.”
“Are you okay? Do you need to borrow a little bit to get you through? If Derek makes this sale today—”
“That’s very sweet of you,” I say, cutting her off, “but I can manage. I still have some of the divorce settlement left. But it won’t last much longer.” I figure if I really cut corners, I can survive about six more months on what’s left in my account. After that, I may have to practice inquiring whether customers would like to supersize their meals.
“You’ll figure it out,” my sister says. “You could always sell the house, right? Maybe move into something more affordable?”
“I suppose so, but I’d hate to move Charlie.” The divorce left me with two main assets: the house and my cashed-out half of Martin’s 401(k) account, the latter of which I’ve been using to pay my bills. With the account already so diminished, I didn’t want to lose the house. Not yet.
“Well, at least you know a good agent if you need one,” she says with a grin.
“Really? Who?” I tease.
“Funny,” she says, rolling her eyes, then pauses for a moment to sip her coffee. “So, do any of the editors you usually work with know about your problem?”
“No.” I realize I’m gripping my mug tightly enough to make my fingers ache. I relax them. “I was pretty good at keeping it under wraps.”
She shifts her shoulders almost imperceptibly. It’s suddenly her turn to not make eye contact.
“What?” I push. “I know that look.”
“What look?” She moves her gaze to meet mine.
“That one.” I put a finger in her face. “You’re trying not to say something. Give it up.”
“This coming from Little Miss Not Forthcoming.” She bats my finger away and points hers back at me. “You’re not quite as sneaky as you think you are.”
I sit back in my chair. “What does
that
mean?”
“It means, Cadee,” she sighs, “that it’s not like people didn’t suspect what was going on with you.”
There is no condescension in her tone, only a factual edge, and it cuts deep. A panicky feeling grips my belly, the kind where it seems that the jig is up on something you thought you had gotten away with free and clear, and suddenly, there you stand, caught, your emotional pants down around your ankles.
She leans forward and takes one of my hands in hers. “We knew. We might not have said anything, but we did know.”
I pull my hand back, tuck my fingers in between my thighs, and squeeze them. Tears threaten to roll and I hate them. She hasn’t said this to me before now, not once in the last eight weeks.
Jess sighs, pushes back into her chair. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” I keep my tone neutral. Hysteria claws at the edges, just below the surface of my words. Only I can feel this. I will not show it to her. I will not show it to anyone.
“For bringing it up, I guess.”
“It’s okay.” It’s not okay. It is very, very far from okay.
“Yeah, you sound like you mean that.” We are silent for a moment. And then she continues. “I should have said something. I should have tried to help.”
“I wouldn’t have let you.” I swallow hard and clear my throat. “I
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