Page 1 of Side Piece

I

Interview

1

Tess

I don’t drink all the time—ok, fine, maybe I do—but I do love watching someone make a complicated cocktail. The art of it is something to behold. Actually, I love watching anyone at the top of their game doing the thing they love best. I don’t understand hockey or whatever Neil deGrasse Tyson does, but I’ll gladly watch the Stanley Cup or Cosmos. My Sazerac arrives as Joan slurps down her second vodka soda and motions for a third.

“The numbers are good, the book’s good, your health’s good, and the money has been particularly good for both of us. Thank you very much.” My editor loves to remind me I paid for her house in the Berkshires.

“You’re welcome.” I tip my glass to her then into my mouth. The gentleman behind the bar looks like a bit like a throwback. The juxtaposition of his face behind this hipster hotel bar makes me smile, and I toast him too. He nods. He should have suspenders or those arm garters on the outside of his shirt. He has one of those character faces of second-generation European ethnicity that are dying off these days. The generations after his, mine included, are finally becoming more the melting pot imagined some 250 years ago. He conjures up a series of one-syllable names you won’t find a kid currently enrolled in first grade with.

Joan turns to me as she squeezes her lemon. “Now. What about your dried-up nether regions? You’re a gorgeous woman, mid-thirties with a fabulous ass. You should be with someone who appreciates your athletic fanny.”

She’s also of a different generation, one who fought to be heard. Her voice can cut through steel mill ruckus and to the quick of any argument. And not a soul in the hotel can claim they didn’t hear about my ass. Which is a good ass, but she’s hyperbolic.

“Shut up. The nethers have been greased recently.”

“Then what about companionship? You know I’ve got Daryll, and I can’t keep you company all the time.”

“I know. I’m fine alone. I got this. Go home to Daryll. Grab the train and take care of your own nether regions.”

“Ok, Doll. As soon as I’m done with this drink.” Joan hired me as an editorial assistant, one who reads through manuscripts and tells her what to fight to publish. We met nine years ago. It took me three years to summon the courage to let her read my own manuscript. I’d hidden it away for years, pretending it was a hobby until it was too painful to keep a secret. I slipped it on her desk anonymously—a fireable offense—but instead of canning me, she called an agent friend of hers and hooked me up. There was a bidding war, and ultimately, she won. Still, she put me out into the free market and the world: a mentor, friend, confidante, and a bit of a surrogate mother. More like a boozy surrogate aunt than mother, she cares more than most about my well-being.

And now I get to write, just write. It’s glorious and makes me insanely happy. And I get to meet readers and do question and answer things, like today’s appearance in DC. I head to Atlanta in the morning for three days of appearances and book signings. I’m not sure of the schedule, but I’m on the road until just before Christmas. Joan means well, but it’s so much easier to disappear for a couple of months when there’s no one to answer to. Not even a plant. A weeklong commitment to cut flowers is all I can muster.

Joan sometimes shows up to hang with me when these things fall within a train ride of Manhattan. She hates to fly unless there’s a handful of Ambien, a tumbler of vodka, and an exotic locale when she wakes up. I’m capable on my own, but it is nice to have her here.

“Been what, two years, since that moron screwed your friend? Miss them?”

“Not even a smidge.”

Joan slams her drink. “Here, here! I’m out of here.”

We hug, and I’m overwhelmed with the same feeling I get every time we say goodbye, melancholy. I don’t know when I’ll see her next, and I enjoy every second together, but there’s always a little sadness in the mix.

“Drink until you find some company tonight.”

“I’m exhausted and heading up after one more.” I keep my real plans a secret.

She yells back at me as she exits the bar, “Suit yourself, I’m getting laid.” I look at my possibly one-syllabled friend and order a bourbon neat.

I remember a phrase I’d dreamed up earlier. I grab my ever-present purple Flair pen and scribble on a napkin. I could write on my phone, but I prefer the feel of pen to paper. Or napkin in this case.

He could, but then where would the mystery be? But then again, maybe there’s already been enough mystery, and it would be nice to just know.

I hope this will fit into an edit of my next book. I look up to slip my Flair pen into my coat pocket and notice a man sat down a couple of seats away. I hear him on his phone. He sounds confident about what he’s saying but not aggressive.

“Now please. Please. I need all info like right now...Yeah. All that shit too...Thanks so much. You’re saving my ass. I’ll get to it tonight… I sent him a copy, but call me, not him, if you have questions… No. My project, he doesn’t know shit. Bye.”

He’s getting off a call, and his voice is instantly familiar to me. He’s waiting patiently for the bartender to notice him, and I can see he’s scrolling Twitter with one thumb. I go back to my bourbon and cup my hands around it as I return it to the bar. I look over, and he’s smiling at me. It’s a crooked smile with impossibly white teeth. His light sienna hazel eyes flash, and I work to even out my breath. They’re like the color of sand at sunset. There’s joy in them as well as wisdom. He couldn’t be more than thirty-five but looks as if he’s seen the world in a way I have yet to experience.

“Back again?” The OG bartender asks the magnetic man across the bar from me.

“Can’t stay away. You’re just too damn captivating.” He turns away from me and towards the bartender, who is shaking the man’s hand.

“You just love me for my booze.” I laugh at the exchange, and they both look over at me.