Kalorama Road

2 Have We Met?

2

Have We Met?GOD, I CAN'T BELIEVE I OVERSLEPT.

Bypassing Fifth Avenue's congestion, the taxi winds across Central Park toward 57th street, through cherry blossom-covered trees, gripping me with spring fever, but the anonymous email still sits foremost in my mind. I dismiss the mysterious message with thoughts of Ryan McThursten, the reluctant author I'd hounded for months until finally, he'd agreed to meet and discuss a contract with McClelland Publishing. With my luck, Ryan will change his mind and decline McClelland's offer again.

Nonetheless, I seldom have high expectations of others. Since my parent's divorce and the troubling, off-campus party, I always expect the worse, believing any moment, an unforeseen, life-altering event will upend my world. For me, at least, happiness is a fleeting fantasy, a pendulum that swings cold, warm, and occasionally hot. I prefer a tepid medium between content and discontent, knowing at any moment life can swerve without warning. But for now, I welcome spring's temporary bliss, knowing over twenty-four hours emotions will sour.

I dial the office and tell the receptionist I'm in a taxi five blocks away. I'm surprised but thrilled when she says Mr. McThursten has arrived. Of all days to oversleep. The cab exits the park, speeds past the first traffic light, and I pray it's nonstop the entire way. The taxi races through the second yellow light with a sharp left turn, arriving at the building's side entrance. I exit the cab and hurry upstairs breathlessly.

Joy evaporates the moment I enter McClelland. The receptionist's worried expression and the office's ominous hush feels like a bombshell ready to explode. Although for weeks, employees have been aware of McClelland Publishing's merger with SNC Media; I sense another disaster waiting to happen. Softly, I walk toward the temp who's replaced our regular receptionist. A retiree, I'd learned, who returned to work when she lost her savings in the previous recession. It's bothersome seeing her support everyone. She should be enjoying her retirement.

She looks up with a pleasant smile and states, “Mr. McThursten's in Conference Room A.”

“Thank you,” I said, staring at my wristwatch. Ryan is early. But he's here, and God knows it was a struggle getting him to the office. If he waits too long in the conference room, he might change his mind again. “Send him down in five minutes,” I said, hurrying to my office. I'm eager to meet the talented author whose novel I discovered in the slush file. But most of all, I'm anxious to see the reluctant man who rudely hung up on me.

Two months ago, I was bewildered why McClelland rejected the captivating novel. Surely it was a mistake. Soon after I found the manuscript, I'd called the author to part good news, expecting an elated response. But when I'd stated enthusiastically, “This is McClelland Publishing…” he'd interrupted before I could finish my sentence. “I'm not interested in publishing my book, but thanks for the call.” And then he hung up. His indifference hadn't fazed me. It seems every way I turn, something blocks my attempt at fulfillment, but I persisted. His disinterest explained why the manuscript was in the slush file, but his attitude left me more perplexed.

Despite the nippy dismissal, I was glad whoever resigned the manuscript hadn't deleted it. I couldn't imagine this story unpublished and relentlessly pursued the author with gentle supplications via voice mail. After several appeals, he finally answered my call, apologized for his initial response, and agreed to a meeting.

In my office, I throw my bag under the desk and quickly open the manuscript, but before I can check my face and hair, I hear my name.

“Allison?”

“Yes?” In the doorway, my wide-eyed coworker beams at the attractive man by her side. I confess, I'd taken a siesta from men, but my heart woke with an instant and unexpected attraction. He could be a cover model for McClelland's romance novels. I'm pleasantly surprised by his age and appealing six-foot frame. I hadn't expected him to be so attractive. Every fiber of him exudes s*x. Washboard abdomens, hugged by a bright white T-shirt, appear beneath a gunmetal blazer. Dark-washed denim exposes a slight bow in his long legs. From his writing, I'd expected someone older, not a twentyish looking hunk. Immediately, I ponder the flaws beneath his gorgeous skin.

“This is Ryan McThursten.”

Before I can respond, a curious breeze stirs the manuscript, sending pages flying across the room. Ryan rushes in, retrieving and piling the disheveled papers atop my desk. The strange breeze abates, and the office quietens.

“That was strange,” I said, unable to take my eyes off Ryan.

He looks toward the door where Catrina stares with an amused smirk. “It was probably air pressure when the door opened.”

I twist my lips dubiously. “That door opens and closes throughout the day and has never caused a stir like that.” But I don't overthink it.

Ryan extends his hand and grins—I'm sure at my awed expression. Embarrassed, I return his firm grip and assume a professional demeanor. “Please, take a seat,” I said, examining his wrist swathed in bracelets. No wristwatch, perhaps why he arrived early. Amusingly, I catch Catrina still beaming at the entrance. “Thanks, Catrina.” Wide-eyed, open-mouthed, and with rapid fist thumps against her chest, she slowly closes the door. I stifle a laugh and settle my eyes on Ryan.

“Can I get you something to drink, coffee or tea?”

“No, thank you, I'm fine,” he said.

His voice stirs something familiar. Have I met him before? I open my mouth, ready to inquire, but banish the question quickly. Impossible, I would remember him. A sweet fragrance fills the room, much too floral for a man's cologne. Maybe it's Catrina's perfume.

“Are you okay?” Ryan asked.

The scent engulfs the area. “Do you smell that?”

“Yes, I thought it was your perfume.”

“No, I'm not wearing any.”

“Smells like flowers,” he said, looking around the office.

“Maybe someone in the hall sprayed air freshener,” I said, but the smell surrounds the desk as if it emanates inside the room, not outside. I dismiss the aura with a smile at Ryan. “I hope you weren't waiting too long.”

“That's my fault. I usually arrive thirty minutes ahead of time for appointments. I guess its impatience,” Ryan said with a grin.

“That's a good practice. I'm just glad you didn't change your mind this time Mr. McThursten—Ryan.”

“Ryan is fine,” he replied as if he'd read my mind.

“I hope our accommodations from Washington to New York went well?”

He adjusts his body in the seat and props his elbow on the chair with an alluring self-assurance. “I drove. I prefer driving over flying. But the hotel is perfect.” He pauses, resting his brown eyes on mine. His mouth parts to say something then closes. All the while, his eyes never leave my face.

Silence leaves me acutely aware of my appearance. I fidget with the tacit pause, waiting for him to speak. His expression changes swiftly with whatever he was about to say and didn't, so I break the silence. “Excellent, yes, Le Parker Meridien Hotel has great service.” Averting my eyes from his unflinching gaze toward his disheveled manuscript, I start rearranging skewed pages nervously. “Well, as you know, I was captivated by your writing, and McClelland wants to publish your story,” I said, finding his eyes again.

He smiles. “This was a tough decision, and I've hesitated too long. As I mentioned on the phone, my father sent the manuscript. It wasn't meant to be read by others.” He pauses mid-sentence as he clarifies the novel had been curative, but of what he didn't say, but from his reserved manner, I assume there's more to his story.

“Ryan, this is a big step. It's hard publishing personal information for the world to see, but you're a talented writer.”

“Allison … is it okay if I call you Allison.”

“Of course.” My name on his tongue elicits sudden warmth and sends my mind scrambling to distant places, trying to recall the familiarity. The instant déjà vu and attraction have me confused and wondering if I've met him before. No, I would never forget his attractive face. The room grows colder, and I can't explain the sudden chill. “Are you cold,” I asked, rubbing my arms briskly.

“It's a little chilly, but I can handle it.”

“You sure you don't want coffee to warm you?” I asked, rising from my chair and moving toward the small coffeemaker purchased when I grew tired of running upstairs to the office cafeteria. I notice Catrina, who shares the room, has already brewed a pot. “It's already made,” I said, hoping to change his mind.

“Well, in that case, I'll take a cup.”

“Cream and sugar…”

“No, I prefer dark,” he said.

I pour two cups, one dark, one with cream, and return to the desk, placing Ryan's cup in his hand. Suddenly, the room is quiet, chilly, and fragrant. I know Ryan senses it too because he turns his head and sniffs softly. The scent has settled in the corner around the small sofa. I'm tempted to investigate, but that would look strange. Ignoring the fragrance, I give Ryan my full attention.

We both take a sip of coffee. Ryan's eyes lock with mine, and I lower my eyes into the cup, wondering when I've ever been a blushing i***t. At the same time, we place our cups on the desk. Ryan leans back with a smile.

“After our last conversation I was worried you wouldn't show up,” I said.

His angular jaw softens with a one-sided grin. “I've done much deliberation since your call. You don't need to convince me any further,” he said reassuringly.

“I'm so relieved and happy you're going through with the publishing. You've made a good decision,” I said with a smile.

“Well,” he said, looking down at his wrist and twisting a colorful beaded bracelet around a triple-helix silver cuff, “I'm not doing this to be a renowned published author. I could care less. But I feel … Well, let's put it this way, it's for my brother.”

* * *

That was the first, and possibly the last time I'll ever see Ryan McThursten. Three hours later, and without any warning, management pulls my division into the conference room. Another impromptu sales meeting, I assume. But the bombshell I'd been fearfully sensing and traipsing around suddenly explodes in all our faces. No one saw it coming. Months before the merger, we were given assurances. After all, McClelland has a policy of no layoffs. Why would anyone worry? We're confident McClelland has our backs, but management's rigid conduct says otherwise. Wide-eyed, I listen as McClelland discards employees like last year's model.

“We regret to tell you we're closing several divisions…”

A collective shock of disbelief sends a horrified gasp across the conference room. The announcement, like a boulder tumbling onto my path, hurls me precipitously over the edge. Momentarily dazed, I sit listening but not comprehending my life has changed in an instant. All I can think about is my schedule, the number of manuscripts I've been working on, and the meeting with the editing team about Ryan McThursten's contract. How I make it back to my office is a wonder.

I sit at my desk, appalled at management's callous dismissal. A surge of anger swells, and then infests my mind with outrage. After four summer internships and two years of hard work and dedication as an Acquisitions Editor, all I receive in turn is three month's severance. Angrily, I screech, “WHAT THE f**k!” I deserve better.

My stomach bubbles venom. Anger swells vengefully. Swiftly, I send valuable contacts to my personal email and log onto a blog I'd created months ago with hopes of writing but quickly abandoned. I vent to wordless exhaustion—a much-needed tantrum publishing a rebuking post about McClelland's merciless layoff.

I exhale long and slow, then grab the phone and call the one person who can console me, the one person who's been my anchor for years. A prerecorded message spills robotic through the phone, “This number is no longer in service.” My mind clicks. How could I forget Grandma Blu passed away two months ago? Then I dial the only other person who can assuage my anger. Voicemail mirrors my sister's voice. I want to scream, NIK, CALL ME BACK IMMEDIATELY! But I don't want to appear the needy little sister losing her s**t, unable to cope with problems. So, I continue packing my belongings and leave the office without a goodbye to anyone, not even Catrina, one of my dearest friends.

How comical, I think, as I exit onto Avenue of the Americas, merely six hours ago I'd entered the building joyful with hopes of a new contract. But like every good thing in my life, time at McClelland has expired. I refuse to look back at a building where I've built a career soon after college, a place akin to a second home. Brimming with anger and aware of strangers' furtive glances, I avoid the subway and opt for a taxi's backseat privacy. Dazed, I barely hear the driver asks, “Where to?” A subdued voice answers, “1630 York Avenue.” I sit numb and oblivious to the city landscape past the window. Temporarily, I stuff anger inside an abyss, a detrimental place suffused with painful memories. Tears will come later.