Selina “Toni Morrison?” called Joyce, waving a small stack of Morrison novels around the library. “Got them,” said about half the staff, rising above the mumbled assent of the other half. “More for me, then!” Joyce placed them in her box as I did the same with a copy of Our Gods Our Heavens. On my knees, I looked up at the City library, at the steadily emptying shelves. Scott stood near the door. He appeared to be studying a copy of Min Jin Lee’s Pachinko, but he’d been standing there long minutes, the crags and valleys of his face immobile. “Think he’s doing okay?” Kellie said. I looked over at her. She was sitting with her back against an emptied shelf, her elbow resting on a closed box of books. “No,” I said, “I think he’s devastated.” “Y ep. He takes things hard.” She toyed with the zipper on her leather jacket. “How about you?” I watched Joyce and Mike haggle over a first edition of Kindred. The light through the mullioned windows tumbled off the dust in the air, disturbed by fourteen pairs of hands. The room had grown darker and darker as the colorful spines disappeared into boxes. I wanted to say something intelligent and restrained. Instead, when I opened my mouth, a dejected sound slid out. “There we go. I know.” Kellie gave me a bracing pat on the knee. “But all is not lost, right?”
“Yeah.” I turned over a translation of Beowulf in my hands. “How are you always so unfazed?” “Unfazed? I’m plenty fazed.” Kellie took the Beowulf from my hands and tossed it into her own box. “Ask me how fazed I am. Do it. I dare you.” I managed to give her a sidelong smile, and I asked her. At the end of the day, Scott gathered us at the round table. “Now, on Monday, we’ll probably hit some bumps in the road, but we’ll figure it out. Just think of the time and money you’ll save commuting.” Some appreciative murmurs, a couple of chuckles. I didn’t join in. Of course I recognized the convenience of remote work. It wasn’t even that I believed the magazine’s operations would necessarily suffer, conducted over text and video. Having lost the Densmore Foundation grant, we were probably lucky that Nextward had decided to try this instead of bumping us into a coworking space and putting us through another round of layoffs. Still, it seemed to me that in losing this place, we’d lost a part of what we were, failing the decades of writers who’d come before us. I lingered so long in my office that by the time I emerged into the hall, the whole floor seemed to echo with quiet. I was the last one here. When I got out to the fourteenth-floor landing, my st eps slowed. Parker was waiting across from the elevator, one hand in his coat pocket, his head bowed over an open paperback. “Parker,” I said, hurrying up to him. He looked up, smiling. “Hey.” He bookmarked his page and kissed me. “Surprise.” I kissed him again, my hands loosely encircling his wrists. “Thank you for coming.”
“Of course. How was it?” “Terrible. In all the ways I imagined and some others I didn’t pr epare for.” He looked toward the sheer face of the oak wall, CITY MAGAZINE carved in de ep. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I know you loved this place.” I reached out to touch the edge of the C. “I remember my first day here. I got out of the elevator and saw this, and I felt like it had been here forever.” My hand lowered. “Like it was going to be here forever.” Parker trailed his hand over the wall, too. I wondered what he was thinking, if, someday, I would see this moment crystallized in something he wrote. He approached the glass door. I followed, and we stood looking through at the bare walls. The tessellated carpeting. “The framed covers used to hang down this side.” I pointed. “And that’s the library at the end.” “Any chance of a goodbye tour?” Parker said. “I think I can arrange that.” I opened the door, and we st epped through. “Why? Do you want to see the office where I spent hours seething over your press clippings?” He tucked my hair behind my ear. “Maybe I just like getting to see your sentimental side.” “Don’t tell anybody I have one.” “Your secret’s safe with me.” That night, we took the train to South Slope, where Scott lived, and where he’d decided to host what we’d called the Out-of-Office Party. Parker and I walked up a long line of row houses in the cool March dusk, the air laced with a drizzle so fine that I could barely feel it on my skin. We pushed through a waist-high iron gate and rang the old, glowing bell at Scott’s home, a brownstone that had been in his family for a century.
“I wonder if Jacob and Cassie are here yet,” I said, listening to the chatter se eping through the door. “Arthur’s coming too. He’ll probably be an hour late, though.” The door swung open, and noise, light, and music enfolded us. “Selina!” said Kellie. “And Parker Navarro. Hello. Hi.” “Kellie, right?” said Parker, shaking her hand as we st epped in. “That’s me. It’s extremely fun to meet you.” Kellie’s laughing eyes strayed to me. “Selina’s been so secretive.” We hung up our coats in the small tiled mudroom. “Really?” said Parker, his hand brushing the small of my back. “What did she tell you?” “Your book came up at a staff meeting. You know, a month on the list ... I thought it would be fun to poke Selina about it.” Kellie led us through an oak door that looked like it could have withstood a battering ram, into a long, narrow, crowded living room, whose mantelpiece boasted an enormous abstract painting and twin vases of lilies. “So I said, your favorite book’s been on the list for a month, what do you think. And Selina was like—what did she say?” Kellie stood up ramrod straight, wiping the impish smile off her face. “I’m very happy for Parker.” Kellie gesticulated with her empty champagne flute and made an incredulous face at Parker. “And we were all, like—what? Since when did Parker Navarro become first-name-only Parker? What are you hiding from us? And she goes, like, solemn face, witness stand, ‘I haven’t been completely forthcoming.’” Parker laughed, and looking at him, I broke into a smile, too. I had never considered myself a jealous or possessive person, but there was something satisfying about having him here beside me, about everyone in this room knowing that, somehow, I was the one he wanted.
I thought I heard my name, and I turned, looking for Jacob or Cassie, but my eyes moved toward the front of the room, onto what I’d thought at first glance was Scott’s dining table. But from this angle, I could see it was none other than the enormous claw-foot table from the City library. I moved slowly toward it. The pitted surface held a sea of champagne glasses. “It’s our round table,” I told Parker. “Well,” said Scott’s voice behind me, “we need somewhere to conduct those Friday eleven o’clocks.” I turned to Scott, my hand passing over the hard, ridged wood glossed with age. The pang I’d felt looking around our barren office seemed to fade. “I’m glad you took it with you,” I said. “The magazine is changing shape,” Scott said. “Just a little metamorphosis, Selina. Nothing we can’t handle. Now, this must be Parker.” “Yes, sir.” Parker shook Scott’s hand. “I love your magazine. I’ve been reading City since I was thirteen.” “That’s what I like to hear. Not planning to write revenge fantasies about any of our other staffers, are you?” An embarrassed smile spread over Parker’s face. “Not unless I get requests.” “There you are,” said a flushed-looking Cassie, darting around one of the data guys and tugging Jacob after her. Following them was a tall, shaggy-haired Chinese man, whom I recognized from Parker’s photos as his roommate, Arthur. I felt abruptly stiff, sipping my champagne. At first, in the days after Parker and I had reconciled, I hadn’t thought much of the fact that he would come over, night after night, to my apartment. He had a roommate; I didn’t.
But at the beginning of March, we’d had dinner in Greenpoint, and I’d suggested that we go home to his place afterward. He’d set down his fork and knife, deliberating, and said, “Look, Selina. Arthur is ... He’s having a tough time getting past everything that happened.” I hadn’t known what to say. I’d been coming to terms with the strange fact that many thousands of people, for the rest of my life, would react to my name with hatred or disgust, but for Parker’s best friend to feel that way was different. “He’s been trying to talk you out of seeing me,” I said. “Yeah.” I’d never lost my appetite so quickly. What if it works, I thought. What if Arthur made such a compelling argument that Parker slowly came back to his senses and left me, this time forever. “Hey.” Under the table, Parker’s fingertips grazed my knee. “It’s not happening, Selina, obviously. He’s going to love you, eventually. Just, right now, he thinks I’m...” He grimaced, running his hand through his hair. “You know. Caught up in the physical stuff, not thinking clearly.” “Are you?” He lowered his voice. “You didn’t seem to be thinking that clearly this morning, either.” I touched his hand under the table. His fingers twined with mine, and, drawing circles on my palm, he’d said quietly, “A little more time, and he’ll see how clear I am on you. I promise.” Now, as Arthur came into the circle, I tried to loosen my shoulders. I told myself, Be likable. “Arthur,” Parker said, “this is Selina. Selina, my roommate Arthur.” “Hello.” I moved my hand in an awkward wave. “It’s nice to meet you.” “Y ep. Hi.” Arthur was looking over my shoulder with a determined expression, as though he were about to take bitter
medicine. I thought about small talk. Asking him about Macmillan or how he liked the wine. But his hands had hooked into his pockets, and Jacob and Cassie were giving him curious looks, and I did not have time in my one life to talk around clear discomforts. “Arthur,” I said, “could I borrow you in the hall?” “I—what?” He glanced at Parker, who shrugged. “Um. Okay.” Leaving Parker chatting with Jacob and Cassie, I led Arthur into the small, deserted hallway that looped back toward the kitchen. When we were far enough from the door, I stopped and said, “Look, Arthur. I’m sure you still have some misgivings about me, considering what I wrote about Parker.” “Yeah. I do.” “Right.” I set my champagne flute on an end table. “And maybe you think I’m responsible for what happened before his launch. I still feel responsible. So I understand.” Surprise showed on Arthur’s face, his thin mouth loosening. “Believe me,” I said quietly, “you and I are on the same page, if you think I don’t deserve him.” Arthur shifted. He shook his shaggy hair back and looked at the ceiling. “He did say you’d be intense,” he said eventually. “Yes,” I said with a small smile. “I’ve been told that.” Arthur took a swig of his beer and sighed. “Okay, fine. Let’s do this. It’s nice to meet you, too.” He stuck out his hand. “But also, if you hurt him again, I’ll—” “I know.” I took his hand and shook. “What’s this shady backdoor deal that’s happening?” said Parker’s voice down the hall. “She bought my affection,” Arthur said as we made our way back toward the party. “She bribed me with a lifetime subscription to City Magazine.”
“Completely untrue,” I said, reaching Parker’s side. “Good idea, though.” “Everything okay?” he murmured in my ear as Arthur moved ahead. “It’s good.” I kissed him, then looked out into the glowing room ahead of us, at the circles and arcs and pairs of people, at Jacob and Cassie, laughing at some comment of Arthur’s. I looked at this sliver of my life, and then back to Parker, to the warmth and care in his face, and I said, “It’s all good.” The party slowly filled wall to wall. Authors and publishing professionals leaked in, some of whom performed double takes when they saw Parker’s hand on my waist. It was easy not to pay them much mind. Cassie mentioned something about climate change, and Arthur eagerly leaped in with six different options to volunteer for climate policy, while Jacob, Parker, and I talked about how baffling it was that an experimental book from last year called Alaya’s El ephants was getting a film adaptation with major studio backing and Saoirse Ronan set to star. Our corner of the room felt so comfortable that I finally understood why people felt compelled to stay at parties until two in the morning. Around eleven, though, Jacob and Cassie headed home to relieve the babysitter, and Arthur spotted a friend in the crowd and disappeared. Parker and I st epped backward into the empty hall, just beyond the door, in the wavering light of Scott’s vintage chandelier. Parker looked so handsome then, his hair rumpled, his tie loosened under his jacket, his gaze skating over my shoulders. I glanced toward the door down the hall and traced my fingers over the knot of his tie, across his chest. He leaned in toward me. “What are you thinking?” he murmured in my ear. “That I want you,” I said, but I was thinking, That I love you so much I could never find the words.
Parker moved closer and slid his hand down my back, lighting fire where he touched me. “Now what are you thinking?” “Take me home,” I said, but I was thinking, I’m already there.