Page 109 of Bad Words

But then I imagined going to a restaurant and realizing that one of Parker’s friends, or some author, or any person peripherally involved in publishing, was seated next to us.

On second thought, I said, it might not be the most prudent thing for us to have dinner in public.

Yeah, maybe not, he said.

Thirty seconds passed. The ellipsis appeared as he typed. I typed, too, then deleted, then retyped. I was pacing more quickly now, my mouth bone-dry.

I wrote, You’re welcome to come over to my apartment for dinner.

My finger paused over the Send button. This was inappropriate. This no longer sat within the bounds of a business dinner that happened to fall on a Friday. It was just that I’d agreed to dinner, and the prospect of trying to hold eye contact with Parker in a crowded room felt agonizing.

I pressed Send just as a message arrived from Parker:

It’s okay. We can do a call instead.

“Fuck,” I said, and began to type: Yes. A call would probably be easiest. If evening is best for you, then

A message appeared from him. Oh—sure, I could come over.

I deleted what I’d written. I could feel my pulse near the top of my stomach, shallow and quick. He sounded taken aback. Or was that a tone of casual dismissal? Veiled reluctance?

If a call is easiest for you, then we can do a call, I said.

And I thought, I don’t want to settle for a call.

And I thought, Please just ask me to call you, how am I going to stand you walking into my apartment.

And I thought, Please come inside, please stay for hours, please find something in the corners of my life that makes you want me.

He typed for a while. I wondered if he was writing a joke or a gentle letdown. Then he said:

Just tell me what time to be there.

After a lot of careful deliberation, I left work an hour early the next day.

“Leave work early?” Scott asked, startled. “Why?”

“If it’s not all right, I can—”

“No, please, by all means. I’m just wondering if, somewhere, pigs are beginning to fly.”

I smiled. “No, I just need to—I’m doing the Navarro interview tonight and I need to prepare some, some notes.”

Scott’s pantomimed shock faded, and to my surprise, he patted me on the shoulder. “Thank you for doing this, Selina. I know the last month has been … but I’m sure you’ll make something wonderful out of it.”

“You’re not expecting me to play some trick on him for the clicks?”

“No.”

“Good. I’m glad.” I hesitated. Scott’s weariness shadowed his face, deepening the pouches beneath his eyes, the sag of his cheeks.

I forced myself not to turn tail. I swallowed the cordial exit line that was always, in situations like these, on the tip of my tongue.

“Scott,” I said.

“Yes?”

“Do you remember Marcy D’Artagnan’s review of Asylum Piece?”