Page 33 of A Storybook Wedding

I hit Send and hope she’ll get back to me ASAP.

This is not good, I say over and over in my head as I watch the buildings pass by out the window of the train. It becomes a mantra of sorts. Not good, not good, not good.

I rewatch the bit on Fallon a few more times, letting the stress wash over me. Sometimes, when I get really overwhelmed, I just sink into negativity like quicksand. I feel actual weight on my shoulders, as if gravity placed a sumo wrestler on my back and told me to carry it around. It’s a new thing for me, dating back only a few years. My doctor has suggested therapy. He says, “Nate, success does not come without an emotional price tag,” but so far, I’ve become very good at avoiding and procrastinating making time for my personal well-being.

What? I’m on deadline.

I’m pulled up momentarily by the arrival of a new email.

Hi!

Happy Thanksgiving.

Yes, my phone’s been buzzing off the hook. Shit, I don’t like the sound of that email from Dillon Norway at all. I’m sure it’ll all blow over if we just explain what happened though, right? I’m around if you want to talk.

My number is (917) 558-0607. Feel free to call or text if that’s easier than email.

Sincerely,

Cecily

* * *

Panic is a funny thing. It makes my heart beat at the speed of light, makes me sweat, and causes me to be impulsive. I’ve got her number, so that means I’m calling her. Right. Now.

It rings only once before she picks up. “Hello?” CJ sounds cheerful. I mean, she’s always cheerful, but something about even just this single word I find surprisingly soothing.

“Hey. It’s Nate.”

“Hi. I was wondering what this number was. Good thing you identified yourself right away. I once blocked my doctor when she called me from rounds at the hospital with results from a Pap smear. She spoke so quickly I couldn’t understand what she said, and there was noise in the background, so I was like, ‘Nope! Must be spam!’ and I hung up on her. I mean, not that you need to hear about my Pap smears or anything. Which are fine, by the way. I’m perfectly healthy in my downstairs. Wow. I’m sorry. This call is off to a rocky start, huh? My bad. So…uh…how’s it going?” She giggles nervously.

Even with what appears to be thousands of milligrams of caffeine lighting up her voice, I can tell my blood pressure is dropping. It’s fine. Everything will be totally fine, I reassure myself. “Hi,” I reply. “Did you have a hangover today?”

“No, thankfully. I think the latte helped. How about you?”

“I didn’t really drink last night,” I remind her.

“Oh, right,” she says. “Well, have you started drinking yet today? Because that email sounded pretty scary.”

She’s trying to keep it light, which I appreciate, although I really don’t think she understands the gravity of the situation here. “He wasn’t exactly writing to wish me a happy Thanksgiving,” I say. “And I’m not going to lie, I’m definitely freaking out a little.”

“I’m sorry, Nate. I’m sure I can just tell him that it was a mistake. He’s my mentor, remember?”

“I remember.”

“So I’ll just explain what happened. No biggie. Don’t even sweat it. Dillon Norway is one of the kindest, most reasonable people I’ve ever met.”

“You sound pretty sure of yourself.”

“I’m just saying! I know he’ll listen to reason. I’ll just explain that it’s his fault, actually. He’s the one who told me to get out there into the literary scene and take the world by storm, or whatever his advice was. So I did that! And if it ended up with me drinking a little too much and dragging you up onstage and forcing you to sing with me, then that’s on him.”

“And the kissing? Was that his fault too?”

“I mean, technically? Yeah, I think so. He never told me about wine consumption and book talks. He assumed that I would be some kind of connoisseur, which, I mean, I can’t blame him. I do look very posh and chic and all that, but he could have at least said something.”

“And what would you have had him say exactly? Hey, Cecily, go out and find book events but sip your wine very slowly so you don’t end up trying to tongue down your professor?” The guy across from me on the train gives me a look. I shift my body to face the window and lower my voice.

“You’re not my professor.”

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