Page 4 of Backslide
And that recklessness began to feel exponentially ill-advised about three weeks ago, when—during our standing Monday morning meeting—my boss gave us senior staff members a heads-up that the magazine would be folding after only two more issues. And that news of that development would be public soon.
Now, scrolling through work emails I will willfully ignore all week on my phone, I let myself admit that, before reality fully set in, I had experienced a fleeting wave of relief about my job ending. Maybe the magazinewasfeeling a little tired; maybeIwas feeling a little tired. Maybe I’d been squinting at that reality—my need for more stimulation, for change—for more than a while now.
Then I remembered that I like to be able to pay my rent. And that I have to show my face at this un-wedding thing and act like I’m not a basket case.
I pick up the pace.
Weaving through the terminal, I pass gourmet markets and chocolate shops. A yoga room! There are travelers in line for elevated takeout—spicy Korean rice bowls, massive burritos piled with fresh green avocado, radishes, and tangy limes, smoothies with ingredients like cacao and transformative adaptogen dust.
I don’t know what that is. But who cares? I’m in California! And I clearly need to transform.
I exhale. For a moment, I can almost,almostforget what’s coming my way.
Maybe he won’t make it, I reason, letting hope rise in my chest against my better judgment. Maybe his flight will get canceled, permanently—or, better yet, he’ll get hit by one of those motorized luggage carts and fall into a coma. You know… temporarily, of course. So I don’t have to feel bad for him.
I smile at the thought. Then I park myself by baggage carousel five and wait. I scan my surroundings for tech bros, this being close to Silicon Valley, but, while there are a few nerdy white boys of indeterminant age in big ugly sneakers, there are mostly preppy older ladies in pressed button-downs with tight lips and Goyard bags.
My phone dings again. Cara is not going to let me off the hook.
Cara
Nellie! You CAN talk to us about this. About him.
I quickly respond:
Nellie
Just because I can, doesn’t mean I want to.
Cara
He was your first love!
Nellie
I don’t have a first love. If anything, I have a first hate. And I feel good about that.
Cara
That’s not a thing.
Nellie
It is now.
I can just see her rolling her big brown eyes in frustration at me, then pursing her lips to the side as she contemplates how to move the needle on getting me to talk.
The needle is going nowhere.
After a beat, she types:
Cara
So, what’s the plan? If not introspection, sharing, and catharsis?
That’s an easy one.
Nellie
