The Seven Year Slip

THE REST OF THE weekend and into the next week passed in a blur. The apartment felt empty without Iwan in it. Every time I opened the door, I hoped to find him again, but the present always greeted me, and I started to wonder if it would take me back again at all.

Days passed without much fanfare; Drew and Fiona preparing for their parental leaves as the baby neared, getting everything sorted, until suddenly I found myself sitting in an Uber as it pulled up to the sidewalk in front of the Olive Branch. The sign on the door said that it was closed for the evening for a special event—and that special event? The cooking class. Editors and their teams from all across publishing were supposed to be here. Faux and Harper and some Random Penguins and—rumor had it—the new publisher for Falcon, Mr. Benji Andor himself. Through the open windows, I could see a few people already mingling in the empty dining space.

“So, here’s the plan—I do all the cooking, you do the chopping,” Drew specified, probably because she didn’t trust my cooking skills as far as she could throw me. Which, fair. I also didn’t trust them. “And if we come across Parker, we hog-tie him and toss him in the bathroom.”

Fiona poked her head out of the passenger seat of the SUV. “Knock ’em dead, ladies!” She gave us the finger guns as the Uber pulled away again, bound for the Lower East Side to drop her off at home.

Drew and I waited until the SUV had turned the corner before she smoothed down the front of her button-down. “How do I look?”

I straightened her medallion necklace and put my hands on her shoulders. She looked about as nervous as I felt. “You are going to kick ass in there.”

“We are going to kick ass,” she reminded me. She pulled her arm through mine, and gave a shiver. “Ooh, I’m finally nervous! Can we back out? Tell Strauss I fucked off into the woods instead? Become a hermit? Live off the land?”

“What happened to the editor who said she’d kill for James Ashton? Also, you’d hate living without instant hot water.”

“You’re right. I’ll just fuck off to a castle in Scotland instead.”

“It’s probably haunted.”

“You like ruining everything, don’t you,” she deadpanned.

I rolled my eyes and guided her gently in the direction of the front door.

Inside the restaurant, I spied editors from all different publishers, some big names, some I didn’t recognize at all. I hadn’t been to any mixers in the last however many months—well, since my aunt died, at least—so Drew gave me the 411 on all the different people. There was a table set with glasses of champagne, and we both grabbed one and went to go haunt a corner of the restaurant until it was time to start our culinary journey.

“This is mission impossible,” Drew muttered, darting her eyes about the room. “We are deep in enemy territory, two spies in the jungles of—oh, Parker, hi.” She quickly straightened as a lanky white guy with too-big glasses and slicked-back hair swaggered up to us. He had what I’d call that guy in your MFA syndrome. Constantly acting like he was the smartest guy in the room, favorite book was something by Jonathan Franzen or—worse—Fight Club. The kind of guy who would look at the meme phrase “she breasted boobily to the stairs” and nod and go, Yes, yes, this is indubitably quality literature.

He was that kind of guy.

“Drew Torres, nice to see you,” Parker said with a smile that was probably as genuine as his hair plugs. “Excited for the class tonight?”

“Oh, absolutely. Can’t wait to see what we’re cooking!”

“It isn’t every day you get to learn from one of the best chefs in the industry. Why, just the other week I was talking to Craig over there”—he pointed at the executive editor of Harper or Simon & Schuster or something, a flex if I had ever seen one—“and we were comparing James’s ever-changing menu. I’m thrilled he has such a wide range of skills.”

Drew gave a nod. “Oh, yes, he’s very talented.”

“He’ll be great over at Faux. We have so many fantastic resources—though, I’m sure Strauss and Adder will try its best, won’t it?”

“We’re small but mighty,” Drew replied, and motioned to me. “Clementine here is one of our senior publicists. She’s the mastermind behind a lot of our books’ success.”

“Ah, Rhonda Adder’s second-in-command, I was wondering when I’d meet you!” Parker greeted me, extending a hand. “I’ve heard nothing but great things. I’m surprised she let you out from under that rock where she keeps you!” he added with a laugh.

My smile was strained.

“Well, I’m surprised your publisher let you out from under yours,” came a deep, soft voice, and Drew and I both looked over to watch a towering giant stride over. Dark gelled-back hair, thick glasses, his face an expression of artistically placed moles. He gave his fellow editor a knowing look. “You can stop being awful, Parker.”

Parker gave Benji Andor a surprised look. “I was just joking! She knows I was joking! Right?”

I told him, “Oh, yes, obviously.”

“See? Obviously.” Parker slapped me on the shoulder. I tensed, trying not to reel away, when someone on the other side of the restaurant called Parker’s name, and he said his goodbyes and wandered over to them. I shivered when he finally let go of me.

Drew said in a mock whisper, “See? He’s the worst.”

“You weren’t kidding.”

Benji Andor gave us an apologetic look. “I would say he means well, but we all know he doesn’t.”

“I would’ve called you a liar, anyway,” I replied before I could stop myself.

“He’s someone’s villain origin story,” Drew agreed, and then cocked her head in thought. “Probably mine, to be honest.”

He rumbled a good-natured laugh. “If Parker comes over to bother you again, let me know.”

“Thank you, but I think we can handle him ourselves,” Drew replied.

“Absolutely, I’d just like to watch,” he said with a wink, and after a goodbye, he migrated over to a different corner to stand silently again, like the brooding tree he was.

We didn’t have to stand around awkwardly for too much longer, because James Ashton breezed into the restaurant, all smiles and charming dimples, in a button-down maroon shirt and insanely well-fitting jeans, and I tried to school my face as best I could. I didn’t want him to get the wrong impression of me—again.

Drew elbowed me in the side and hissed, “Stop looking like you want to murder him!”

Apparently, it wasn’t working. I groaned. “That’s just my face!”

James rounded to the front of the kitchen and clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention. “Welcome!” he greeted. “It’s so nice to see all of your lovely faces. I hope you have all come ready with open hearts and empty stomachs. Now, follow me back to the kitchen. I’ve prepared different stations for everyone so we can learn how to cook a specialty here at the Olive Branch . . .”

DREW REALLY SHOULDN’T HAVE been all that worried about cooking. As it turned out, we weren’t the worst cooks in the kitchen—that honor went, full tilt, to Parker, who, along with his publicist and marketing director, set their entire station on fire. James rushed over with an extinguisher and patted him on the shoulder afterward with a laugh.

“Happens to the best of us!” he said.

In this intimate setting, James Ashton was nice and personable, and he was a very patient teacher, but there was something distant about the way he smiled at everyone, something guarded whenever editors asked questions. I kept looking for some crack in his facade to see the man I knew underneath—like I saw in the meeting room—but he seemed to have practiced. He wasn’t letting anyone get close, which on one hand was smart and professional—oh, he was so very professional—and it made me wonder how and why he’d become so practiced and refined.

Despite that, the cooking class was so much fun, I soon forgot that I’d been worried at all. We ended up getting flour everywhere as we made ravioli, stealing sips of cooking wine between learning how to reduce the sauce, and we teared up when cutting onions and said our final rights to the chicken as we slit the breasts down the middle. Benji Andor was beside himself at the station next to us, laughing so much he had to excuse himself to sit down and catch his breath. (“I haven’t been this winded since a car knocked the spirit out of me.”) We had somehow blundered our way through the cooking class, but we knew we weren’t going to get top marks for presentation.

And when James Ashton finally came around to our station, he looked moderately entertained by our ravioli. “They look . . .”

Like vaginas. Not that any of us were going to say it.

“Like the Olive Branch’s specialty,” I said instead, echoing his declaration from earlier, and took another sip of the cooking wine.

Drew wanted to die.

James bit the inside of his cheek, trying hard to keep his professional persona—but there. I saw it. The crack in his image. “How did you even manage this?” he asked only after he was able to look away.

“They kept falling apart,” Drew said meekly. “So we just kind of . . . squished them together?”

He nodded, his face earnest. “They’ll taste great regardless, I’m sure.”

I coughed into my shoulder to disguise a laugh, and Drew elbowed me in the side as James ambled away to go check up on Falcon House. “I can’t believe you said they looked like his restaurant’s specialty!” she hissed.

“They do, Drew,” I replied. “Would you rather me say they look like vulvas? Each one of them’s a little different.”

She rolled her eyes and started tossing them into the boiling pot. “You’re the worst.”

I elbowed her back. “You’re glad I came.”

“Immensely.”

The rest of the cooking class went about as well as expected. We finished up our food, and James talked a little about how he ran his kitchen. “A good kitchen runs on excellence, but a great kitchen runs on communication and trust,” he said, glancing over to me as I gave him secretive finger guns behind Drew’s back. He steadfastly ignored it. “I want to thank you all for coming out tonight. I know this is a bit different than what you normally go through to acquire a book, so I appreciate your willingness to explore cuisine with me.”

I wished he sounded a little more enthused, like he had in my aunt’s apartment. I wanted to see that part of him—the excited, passionate part, but it felt dulled a little in the harsh kitchen lights of the Olive Branch. My heart felt full and heavy thinking about the Iwan waiting for me in my aunt’s apartment, and the one here with us now, so different and yet so similar.

He didn’t talk about best offers or final bids. He talked about food and technique, and he hoped that we’d all come back to visit him whether or not it worked out.

After the class, he went around and thanked everyone, and we all put our leftovers in to-go bags and exited the restaurant, laughing and picking on Parker for almost setting the entire restaurant on fire.

“I’m a better editor than cook!” was his defense.

And Drew replied, “To be fair, we all are.”

Outside, a blond woman waited, and she rushed up to Benji Andor when he came out. He bent and kissed her on the cheek, and handed her his terrible ravioli, and they split off toward the subway station. Parker grumbled as he and his team caught a taxi. Drew’s Uber came first.

“I can wait for yours,” she said, but I waved her off.

“Nah, it should be here any minute.”

“Okay.” She hugged and kissed me on the cheek. “Thank you for being on my team. I’m not sure what I’d do without you, Clementine.”

“You’d still kick ass. Here, you can take mine for Fiona,” I added, handing her my food, after she got into the Uber.

“Fiona will love you forever.”

“I know.”

The car drove away, and soon enough I was the only one left outside the Olive Branch. My Uber was circling the wrong block for the second time, and I began to get the feeling that the driver was about to cancel the ride and flag me as a no-show. I should probably take the train home, anyway, and save my money. Besides, it was such a lovely night. The moon was round and large, framed perfectly between the buildings like the main character in her own film, reflecting off the windows, cascading silvery light into the warm orange of streetlights. For a few hours, I’d been so focused on cooking that I hadn’t thought about Rhonda’s retirement or the pending disaster that was Strauss & Adder Publishers if we didn’t get James. No, focused wasn’t exactly the right word. My jaw didn’t hurt from clenching it; instead, my cheeks hurt from smiling so much. I hadn’t had that much fun in . . . a very long time. Especially where my job was concerned.

Even before this James Ashton business, I couldn’t remember the last time I actually had fun at work. I used to—I know I did, I wouldn’t have stayed at Strauss & Adder if I didn’t—even when I was working myself to the bone. There had been something invigorating about mastering the job, being surrounded by people who loved the same things, but over the last few years . . . I wasn’t sure. The job never changed, but I think what I enjoyed about it did. My job used to feel like chasing the moon, and now it just felt like planning out how to give it to other people.

But that was what a job you loved was supposed to feel like, right? When you’d been there a while?

As I stood, wondering, watching my Uber take another wrong turn, someone came up beside me on the sidewalk.

I glanced over. It was James, having locked up for the evening, swinging his keys around on his first finger. He looked just as pristine as he had a few hours before, and I resisted the urge to scrub my fingers through his hair to make him a little less perfect. I certainly felt like a mess beside him.

“I think we got off on the wrong foot,” he said in greeting.

“We?” I echoed, turning to him. “Don’t drag me into your bad decisions.”

He snorted a laugh, and put his hands in the pockets of his dark-wash jeans. They fit him too terribly well, hugging every curve. It wasn’t the first time that night that I thought he had a nice ass, after all. Not that I’d ever say that to a prospective author. Or say it aloud at all. In fact, I probably should not have thought it in the first place. “Fine, fine,” he said, his voice light and warm. “I started off on the wrong foot.”

“Better.” In the app, my driver kept circling and circling. Brad wasn’t going to come pick me up, was he?

“You know,” he said, and gave a frustrated sigh, scrunching his nose, “this part was a lot easier in my head.”

Surprised, I glanced up at him again. “What are you talking about?”

He turned to me then, and I wished he didn’t look as handsome as he did in the streetlight, the way the oranges and browns in his auburn hair glimmered, a few streaks of silver at his widow’s peak, but he did and I couldn’t quite bring myself to look away. It struck me then, how strange it was to see him out in the world and not in a small, cramped apartment on the Upper East Side. He was here, real. In my time.

It made my stomach knot in a way I couldn’t exactly describe.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

I inclined my head.

Drew had been snacking all evening, but I’d been so nervous I couldn’t eat at all. It was probably a bad idea to cross any sort of professional boundary, but this was just food. It wasn’t a marriage proposal or anything. Besides, he was such a mystery to me, I couldn’t really resist. And I was, in fact, starving. But maybe not for the thing I thought . . .

I canceled my Uber and asked, “What do you have in mind?”

He pointed with his head down the sidewalk, and tipped his body a little, before he began to walk in that direction, and it must have been the way New York City felt at night—the glow of possibility, shrugging off the heat of the day to bright, glittery evening—but I followed.