Hot Desk: A Novel - 20

Rebecca stepped through the elevator doors at the last minute, fumbling her phone and trying to process the sight of Ben in her space. She was immediately convinced that everyone in the office was staring at her. Everyone in the office was staring at her. Okay, at least Gabe, Chloe, and Mrs. Singh were staring at her. Pull yourself together , she admonished herself. Act like a professional adult in your place of work.

In a gross invasion of privacy, Ben was opening her desk drawer and rummaging around.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Rebecca hissed.

“Oh, well, I was looking for something to wipe up what appears to be cow cud on the desk.”

“ ‘What appears to be cow cud’?” Rebecca mimicked him. “How would you know?” So much for acting like a professional adult.

“I grew up in Vermont,” Ben said, clearly trying to wield this fact—if it was a fact, and Rebecca didn’t put it past him to lie—to his advantage.

“Well, here in New York City,” she replied icily, “we can identify freshly pressed green juice.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Ben found a napkin left over from last week’s lunch and began swiping at the tiny green puddle—actually, more like a few drops. “I might have recognized it as such if it was in an actual container and not spilled all over the desk.” He wadded up the napkin and tossed it at the recycling bin and missed.

“Nice. I’m sure you didn’t come all the way up just to litter.” Rebecca inched past Ben, taking care not to actually make contact, and put her bag on the chair.

“Saving a seat?”

“I don’t have to. It’s Monday, and this is Avenue, in case you’re confused. On Wednesday, when it’s Hawk Mills, then you can sit there. I thought you had memorized the rules, seeing how you’re the teacher’s pet of the Collaborative Whatever Committee.”

“Do you mean the Desk Share Cooperative Community Group Committee?” Ben asked primly.

Rebecca wanted to murder him. He probably had the fucking manuscript from Atticus too. Mrs. Singh was making little friendly gestures and getting up as if she was about to head over. Gabe and Chloe were making no pretense whatsoever of doing anything but staring. And eavesdropping.

Rebecca seethed. “Let’s not do this here.”

“Do what?” Ben asked innocently, picking the napkin up and tossing it into the bin on his second try. “I just came by to sign some HR documents that are due today.” He smiled charmingly at Mrs. Singh, and Rebecca’s heart skittered as she remembered him turning that smile on her at the town house. What a faker! She knew he must have the book in his messenger bag. Mrs. Singh had stopped to clatter some teacups on her desk. Did she really think they were going to have tea together? When had Mrs. Singh ever offered Rebecca a cup of tea?

“Follow me!” Rebecca snatched her phone out of her bag in case she had to bludgeon him with it and headed to her former office, a.k.a. the “Synergy Room.” It took a lot, but she didn’t look back to make sure he was following her; she tried hard not to flounce but, honestly, she was furious. She didn’t believe his bullshit about HR documents for one minute. He had come to gloat. He had invaded the sanctity of her workspace and made her lose her professional cool in front of everyone. Maybe she wasn’t known for her professional cool, but still. There were rules! Desk sharing rules! She hadn’t read them, but she knew they existed.

Ben had in fact followed her into what was a much smaller space than Rebecca remembered. He closed the door behind them. Rebecca couldn’t even spare a moment’s thought for her office; there was nothing left of it but a small table, a few binders, and someone’s half-eaten lunch. All she could do was back up until she stumbled against the table in an effort to put some distance between them. She assiduously avoided his eyes. His dark blue eyes. Her heart had started hammering, and she began talking so that he wouldn’t hear it. “Why are you really here? Do you have it?”

“I told you. HR documents that need to be dated today.”

Because she was refusing to look at his face, Rebecca had to scan the bulk of him in dark jeans, a close-fitting gray T-shirt, and a casual blazer. His boots were cool. Eyes on boots! “So it’s just a coincidence that we had a bet come due today? Do you have the manuscript or not?”

“I take it, then, that you must not have it?” Ben folded muscular arms over his broad chest. For fuck’s sake, focus! Rebecca stared at the boots.

“So you don’t have it either? Where is it?” she asked the boots.

“Monday’s not over till midnight,” Ben said. “And I’m meeting Atticus tonight.” He was leaning closer. Why? To gloat?

“Prove it.”

“I don’t have to prove anything; I’ll just show you the manuscript after I get it tonight. And demonstrate my superiority, as you so maturely said.”

“Whatever. You showed up empty-handed is all I’m saying. And we have no idea where the book is or if he’s shown it to anyone.” Rebecca was starting to sweat. He was way too big and the room was way too small. How had she ever considered this an office? It was a mousehole!

“I haven’t heard anything. How would we know?” Ben smelled good. Of course he did. It was just like him to smell good and be the most vexing person on the planet. Rebecca took a deep breath but all that happened was that she could smell him more clearly. He smelled clean and soapy. Kind of like citrus but also fresh-cut grass? And with an undertone of something muskier, like Ben himself. Was she just going to just stick her nose under his arm and start sniffing? WHAT WAS HAPPENING? “Wait, I have an idea,” Ben was saying. Was the idea to wrap his arms around her so she could bury her face in his fresh, soapy Ben-smelling shirt? “Do you follow BLURB? We could check and see if there’s anything about Atticus?”

“Yes!” Rebecca practically yelled. She pulled up BLURB on Instagram with shaking hands. “Okay, okay.” She was able to focus on her phone as Ben moved EVEN CLOSER and bent down to watch her scrolling. “Got it!”

BLURB Zadie Smith in from London; Franzen from Brooklyn; DeLillo speaking; Kingsolver a maybe; will Rushdie show?

BookishBabe too much security needed for rushdie—they’ll zoom him in

SichelPress they should donate the $$$ instead

Anon, please what and not gatsby it up? LOL

BLURB Atticus has lion manuscript: deets please

MargaretTate No one will touch it

BLURB But who has read it?

bookguy2030 [meme of man walking away from a burning car]

s+medonovan there are legal issues obvi

NYCpoodle heard he made the rounds tho

ANON ok guys fr we got one page copied from a legal pad it is written in first person from perspective of 23 year old woman

NYCpoodle WTabsoluteFFFF??

ANON not gonna lie i took photo

litthicc can confirm my boss got it too—i had to meet atticus in lobby he smelled like whisky it was 11am.

litthicc i was ordered to shred

BLURB please say you did not shred

litthicc of course i shredded. I also took notes

BLURB HERO

ANON SHERO here. “My eyes widened in pleased surprise as I took in his girth…”

litthicc “I had finished reading the notes for his latest novel and was filled with the satisfaction of a doula.”

MBeeWrites NOOOOOOOOO

adrieangeloublossom i mean props to EDA for knowing what a doula is i guess??

skyelovesbooks everyone filled with girth and satisfaction WHAT A POS

butterchickenbookclub no wonder his widow wants it buried LOL

BLURB anymore where that came from??

ANON more of the same but not much of it

litthicc happy to be of service but that’s all i got

Sneedsfam has he gone to tabloids?

bookguy2030 [meme of man walking away from a burning car]

Rebecca couldn’t read any more. Ben was breathing on her neck. She turned off her phone. “Is this good or bad?”

“Good and bad?” Ben hadn’t moved back to a respectable distance. Was there a respectable distance in this space?

“At least people seem to know they can’t publish it. But it’s not good if anyone is actually reading it. Let alone leaking it! And what if Atticus does take it to the media?” Rebecca felt a surge of panic as she imagined her mother’s secrets and EDA’s lies plastered on the front page of the Post .

“I can ask him tonight.”

“I can’t believe he never texted me back,” Rebecca found herself saying, and immediately regretted it. Why show weakness?

“Look, I’ve been texting him nonstop since last Wednesday. He just responded this morning. It’s not you, it’s him.”

“I’ve heard that before,” Rebecca couldn’t resist saying.

Ben smiled, which she experienced full force as she had forgotten not to look at his face. “Hard to believe,” he said, and if she had to construe his tone, she would say gentle teasing. He kept smiling and she kept looking up at his face, unwillingly meeting his eyes. Danger! But also, he was so fucking handsome!

Rebecca tried to think of a response that would be simultaneously light and witty while also establishing the upper hand in a situation that was rapidly careening out of control. The sustained eye contact made her wish that, like Calista, the alien heroine of Alice Gottlieb’s draft that had kept her up until 2 a.m., she could shape-shift into one of the four elements and be reconstituted elsewhere. She would choose fire. There was a sprinkle of light freckles across Ben’s nose that she was, unwisely, close enough to count. Was he going to kiss her??

The door to the Synergy Room flew open with a bang, and Rebecca leaped backward, smacking her hip against the table. It was Paul from Production, come to reunite with the remains of his chopped salad. Apparently unable to recognize the fact that Rebecca was about to literally burst into flames—fine! she wasn’t using “literally” correctly this time—Paul, whose social IQ at the best of times was, Rebecca thought ungenerously, a two out of ten, blundered into the tight space.

“I didn’t know you had booked a meeting in here,” he said peevishly. “I forgot my tuna.” He brandished a small Tupperware container, its lid emblazoned with PROPERTY OF PAUL L .

“Meeting’s over,” Rebecca announced. She moved briskly past Ben, her face hot, and past Paul, who was still holding the tuna aloft. Mrs. Singh, Gabe, and Chloe were staring as if they had been watching the closed door the entire time. Although she was hyperaware of Ben behind her, Rebecca mustered superhuman resolve, waved a quick goodbye over her shoulder without looking back, and kept walking all the way to the restroom. There, she applied cold wet paper towels to her cheeks and gazed at herself in the mirror. Who was that flushed and wild-eyed person? On the side of the sink, her phone vibrated with a text. It was from Atticus Adams: Let’s meet up tonight. Maybe Ben thought he was going to win, but he was going be the jilted one waiting by his phone. Rebecca was back, baby.

“So let me get this straight,” Stella said, pausing for a moment to inhale deeply over a jar of homemade kimchi. “You are meeting Atticus Adams tonight, hoping that he gives you the only copy of the Lion’s deeply problematic unpublished manuscript so that you can win a bet with your hot desking partner—as in your hot hot desking partner—and save Jane from ruinous exposure? Did I get that right?” She began slicing Mimi’s cold brisket, popping a carrot slice into her mouth. Stella was concocting a kimchi, yogurt, and palm wine sauce for the brisket, testing it out for the next installment on her YouTube channel. They were in the kitchen while Mimi finished her cocktail in the living room, no doubt rehearsing what she claimed was an extremely amusing brisket story.

“Correct.” Rebecca had been tasked with dicing parboiled sweet potatoes.

“Girl.”

“I know.”

“Gochujang or sriracha?” Stella answered her own question. “Gochujang, obviously.” She spooned some into a bowl. “Here, mix with the sweet potatoes and turn on the broiler, please.”

“How are you incorporating the Fishwife haul?” Rebecca asked.

“Mimi’s doing a tinned smoked salmon with pickled onions, dill labneh, and bagel toasts. Of course she has a story about ‘shenanigans’ with Moe Greengrass, son of Barney the Sturgeon King.”

“That one I’ve heard. And you and Miles are still flying to Atlanta next month to see Grandma June?”

“Yes! And she’s promised to show me how she makes lard pastry.”

“What about Nonna? Have you FaceTimed her for recipes?”

“Of course. The cousins have been showing her the YouTube channel. She’s really excited.”

“All the grandmas are ready for fame. I’m so proud of you.” Rebecca scraped sweet potatoes into the bowl. For the first time since she had come face-to-face with Ben, her pulse calmed. Tonight, one way or the other, the Lion’s novel would be in safer hands; she would make sure of it. After that, it was totally for the best that she never see Ben again. It was too confusing. They shared a professional workspace! They were competitors. He would probably be pissed that Atticus blew him off and chose her to meet with tonight anyway. They could go back to exchanging snipes on the Office Life Inbox. That would be just fine , she thought dejectedly. What was wrong with her? She’d have to snap out of it before implementing her scheme to charm Atticus.

“It’s all you, baby!” Stella splashed a few drops of wine into the sauce.

“Well, not all me,” Rebecca replied. “Somebody has to conjure the recipes, cook the food, be nice with the banter, and look magnificent.” She thought again about Trixie’s idea. Before she brought it up to Stella, she would do some research. Whatever the fuckety fuck it was that had happened between her and Ben in the Synergy Room had sidetracked her.

“And I owe you for the chance Tor is giving me Thursday night.” Stella was working with a catering company to serve one of her desserts for the East River Review party. True that Rebecca had called Tor to ask, but also true that he was genuinely into the idea; she knew, because Gabe was always honest with her. “I’m going to do pineapple upside-down cupcakes,” Stella enthused. “Classic sixties. Bananas Foster is too complicated for a big party, and even I can’t work magic with Jell-O molds.”

“Perfect. Did you make a decision about what you’re going to wear?”

“As you know, my first choice is Angela Davis, but I don’t want to scare all the white folk away from my cupcakes. So, it’s Eartha Kitt as Catwoman. Black leather pants, some cat ears from Abracadabra, and copious eye makeup. Gabe’s not going to approve sexy hippie, is he?”

“He is not. I think Jane Birkin? Low-slung bell-bottoms, crochet dress or peasant blouses, short skirts, high flat-heeled boots… the original boho chic.”

“You are totally describing your own wardrobe. Didn’t she have bangs?”

“Bangs were her thing. I’ll get a wig. I have too much hair for bangs.”

Stella smacked Rebecca’s ass with a wooden spoon. Rebecca slid the tray of sweet potatoes under the broiler.

“Now, seriously, tell me more about Atticus Adams.”

“He’s a mess. Like on-his-way-to-rehab-any-second mess. And I know he’s got finance bro vibes, but it must have really sucked to be the Lion’s son. I honestly felt sorry for him when he was, like, ‘It’s my dad’s book’ right before he stole it. Even though he’s a dick for actually showing it to people when he hasn’t read it. At least he only handed out single pages. So far.” Rebecca thought about the photo of Atticus in that sailor suit.

“What makes you think it would be any different if he had read it? Sounds like a desperate man to me. Be careful.”

“I’m not going on a date with him! I’m winning a bet.”

“Make sure those don’t burn.” Stella began serving onto three plates. “Are we going to talk about Jane? Any new developments?”

“It’s complicated—reading that book and seeing her with Rose was like understanding my mom as a person for the first time, if you know what I mean.”

“Well, as the only child of a very European mother, I had a pretty good idea of my mom’s past. Lissa Marino is an extreme oversharer.”

“She does love to make it awkward,” Rebecca agreed. “My mom was never like that. It’s crazy to think about this wild year she had in the city, in the same space as I’m in now, but, let’s admit, much cooler. And then the trauma that she never shared with me. I can’t imagine what it was like for her. I mean, I’ve told you how her mother was terrifying, right? Everything was sin, sin, sin. It was like Jane denied herself the friendship with Rose for some kind of penance. And I never knew she was a writer! Even though she was always pushing me toward English and books and publishing.”

“Talk about vicarious living.” Stella picked up the plates. “Poor Jane.”

“And I was a clueless, self-absorbed little monster who knew nothing about her!”

Stella put down the plates and gave Rebecca a hard squeeze. “But you’re my favorite clueless, self-absorbed little monster!”

“Thank you? I just feel bad that I never asked any questions!” Rebecca hugged back, then disentangled herself from Stella. “And even now, when I try to talk about her writing, she changes the subject.”

“It’s not too late, right? Though, from what you said, that secret book explained a lot.”

“More than I needed to know. Like, Lissa Marino–level revelations but worse because it was the Lion telling the story. ‘His girth’—ugh!”

“Men.” Stella shook her head, curls flying.

“Men,” Rebecca agreed.

“Still, though, time to get back on it.”

“On it?”

“You know what I mean.” Stella raised her eyebrows suggestively.

“Not a clue.” Rebecca put the plates on the table and shouted into the living room, “Mimi! Dinner!”

After they ate, Stella jotted some notes down about tweaking the sauce, Mimi finished up her amusing brisket story, and they disappeared to smoke out of Mimi’s bedroom window. Rebecca picked up her phone to text Jane, then decided she would actually call her.

“Hello, sweetheart.” When Rebecca heard her mom’s voice, it sounded exactly the same as it always did: a little brisk but happy to hear a full accounting of Rebecca’s activities and feelings and opinions. Rebecca could imagine her reading in the blue chair in Philadelphia, but now she could also imagine her on the window seat at the East End town house. She felt protective of that young, dark-haired girl with all her dreams and insecurities. What was harder to imagine was Jane in Southampton with Rose.

“Just checking in,” Rebecca said. She decided not to tell her mom about meeting Atticus in case she failed to get the manuscript. Anyone could google the masthead of the East River Review like Rebecca did, do a little forensics, and identify Janet the intern as Jane, Rebecca’s mother from Philadelphia. She had to get the manuscript!

“I’m not an invalid yet,” Jane responded.

“You’re always complaining that I never call!”

“Well, you’re sweet to check in again,” Jane relented. “And I know all of this has been… surprising.”

Rebecca thought that perhaps “all of this” was not the best way to describe the level of betrayal, assault, crushed dreams, and years passed. “How are you feeling about Rose?”

Jane’s tone brightened. “It’s not exactly picking up where we left off, but it’s pretty close.”

“I know I said this before, but I’m sorry. I’m sorry that your life wasn’t what you expected or wanted.” Rebecca couldn’t help hoping Jane would contradict her.

“Rebecca. I’ve had a wonderful life.”

“Still, though,” Rebecca insisted, “it’s not too late, right? I mean, now you’re spending time with Rose? And for you to write? Though I guess you’ve been secretly writing?”

“It’s never too late,” Jane agreed, not taking the “secretly writing” bait.

“I’d love to read anything you write, okay?”

“We’ll see.” Jane laughed a little, and she sounded young. “Anyway, what did you and Trixie decide about Alice?”

“Mom, seriously,” Rebecca persisted, “stop deflecting. We can talk like adults, you know. I have things to talk to you about, and you obviously have things to talk to me about. I’m not a baby.”

“Well, you’re my baby.”

“Mom!” Didn’t she know that Rebecca was about to head out on a mission to retrieve the stolen manuscript? Before Atticus sold it to the highest bidder? Or leaked it to the Post ? Oh, right, she hadn’t told Jane. “Try to hear me!”

“I know we have a lot to discuss. And I’ll try, I promise. It’s just, I’ve spent almost a lifetime not talking about it. It never occurred to me, for years, that what happened between me and Teddy was anything other than my fault. As Rose said, I didn’t have the language you have now: there was no #MeToo movement. But I never want you to think I regret my life with your father, with you and the boys. I don’t.” Jane’s voice softened, and Rebecca swallowed a sudden lump in her throat. In time, she thought, her mother would continue to process it all, and Rebecca was determined to be there for her. For now, she could at least offer up something Jane would appreciate.

“I know, Mom. I know. Also, and don’t tell anyone, but Alice has been writing a crazy sci-fi love story.”

“Romantasy is very popular these days,” Jane said with authority. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Well, I hope your book club will forgive her.” Rebecca checked the time on her phone. “I have to go, but I love you!”

“Rebecca, I do hear you. I promise. Things will be different now that I have Rose again. Now that she knows everything. I love you too.”

Rebecca said goodbye and went to brush her teeth so she wouldn’t reek of kimchi while relieving Atticus of the manuscript. She would make it quick and painless, and then she would figure out how to lord it over Ben. Which wasn’t the point, obviously, but she needed to keep her wits about her to make sure that stupid book ended up doing no harm.

After her second and a half glass of what Atticus assured her was VERY FINE WINE, Rebecca had to admit that her wits were not exactly about her. He had picked her up in a black car that was idling at the curb in front of Mimi’s apartment. She looked suspiciously at the tinted windows and hesitated before getting in, but Atticus had pointed out that she got into Ubers all the time and that they would be chaperoned by Leon. Leon ignored them both all the way downtown.

Atticus was a type of man familiar to Rebecca: the charm that attractiveness and money and social ease gave him was offset by the wheedling pressure he exerted to have another drink, stay out a little later, be a good sport, be a fun girl. His longish hair fell rakishly into his eyes, so he had to keep brushing it back. She didn’t care for his signet pinkie ring. But she admitted to an undeniable little glow of satisfaction that he was focusing his attention on her. Pathetic, she knew. How old was he, anyway? His vibes were less finance bro and more reckless, aristocratic boarding school teacher who was sleeping with his students. What was she doing? Part of her yearned to be at home in sweats and glasses, but part of her was tempted to be that fun girl, to see which fabulous, moneyed, secret venues he had access to. He was also carrying a black leather bag that she assumed contained the manuscript—which, she knew from her BLURB sleuthing with Ben, he had no luck unloading yet, though not for lack of trying.

“It makes sense that Avenue would buy the unpublished novel along with the rest of my father’s work. What you do with it is up to you. You know what I’m saying, right?” Atticus was doing a moderately successful impersonation of a sober person—better than the one he had tried at the town house. They were sitting next to each other in a curved booth near the bar at Frenchette, where Atticus had eaten a steak while Rebecca had watched; although tempted to order food, she was still too full of brisket. He was probably used to women watching him eat while they sipped lemon water. Maybe she could choke down a crème brûlée?

“I’m happy to take it to Ami Ito and see what she says,” Rebecca lied. She protested weakly as the waiter poured her more wine. Aside from one of Mimi’s tiny cocktails and the salute! nights, she was not usually a weekday drinker. Atticus had already gone to the bathroom twice, bringing his bag with him; she had watched each time as he engaged in very close talking with the stunning hostess, then returned, energized and glassy-eyed.

“Now, you see, I’d really like to trust you on that.” Atticus pushed his plate away, leaned back, draped his arms in a power move across the back of the booth, then wrapped and unwrapped a piece of Rebecca’s hair around his finger. It happened so quickly that by the time she had jerked away, he was smirking, hands held up in a “What, me?” gesture.

This wasn’t a business meeting. Nor was it a date. Rebecca had to stay focused on the task at hand. Not one more person was going to read about her mom playing strip pool with the Lion. And worse. It was doubtful Atticus knew that Jane was her mother or even that the book featured versions of Jane and Rose. Was it to her advantage that his father had had sex with her mother and that he had no idea? Atticus dropped his hand lower and brushed it against Rebecca’s collarbone. Seriously? They were almost related! She shrugged him off and looked longingly at the leather bag.

“I think you’ll take the book right to Rose is what I think.” Atticus leaned farther back, his knees apart in a classic manspreading-on-the-subway stance. Rebecca inched away from his dangling hand. Obviously she would give the book back to Rose. If she knew it and he knew it, was it really a lie to say she would run it by Ami first? She had begun the night attempting to reason with him, but at this point maybe telling him what he wanted to hear was the wiser course?

“I think the book ends up with Rose regardless,” she heard herself saying instead. Maybe he would just forget his bag the next time he did coke in the bathroom and she could execute a heist. That would be easier than whatever this was. Atticus was about to say something when his phone lit up. He bent over it, entranced. Rude. But also she had to pee. Rising to her feet, Rebecca realized she was a tiny bit drunk. She made her way to the restroom, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. Why had she worn such high-heeled boots? Who was she trying to impress? Oh, right: Atticus. She nodded nonchalantly at the stunning hostess.

When Rebecca made it back to the booth, Atticus was still texting, but he had paid the bill and procured two shots. He looked up from his phone, giving Rebecca a slow, thorough once-over that she found both enraging and flattering. If he thought she was going to hook up with him just to get her hands on the book, he didn’t know shit about her. Yes, she would drink his, to be fair, very fine wine, and, yes, she would most likely go to wherever the next one-percenter venue was, but, first of all, he was not her type; number two, she had established that they were practically siblings; secondly—no, wait, number three—she would not stoop to using what Mimi called her “feminine wiles” just to win a bet; number four, Ben; number five, what? Hang on and back it up to number four, or maybe it was thirdly? Scratch that! Ben was not a reason.

Still standing, Rebecca took the offered shot, tried not to cough as she downed it, and smacked the shot glass on the table. She was Fun Girl now! After she shared a meaningful goodbye with her new friend, Stunning Hostess, she crawled clumsily into the black car. Atticus slid in beside her, somehow in possession of a rocks glass filled with amber liquid that he must have taken from Frenchette.

Rebecca batted his hand from her thigh, and he went back to texting. Wherever they were headed had better be worth it. And she still had faith that by the end of the night the manuscript would be hers. She spared a quick, satisfied thought of Ben Heath waiting in vain for Atticus to text him. One thing was certain: she would not be riding home in this car with Atticus. She was sick of dodging his half-hearted advances, he was smoking out the window despite her protest, and he kept cranking up truly unbearable electronic music. “Where are we going?” she yelled over the painful percussions.

“Have you ever been to Ibiza?” she thought he yelled back.

Did he think she would go with him to Ibiza? Would she? She would not! For a fleeting moment, she imagined herself by a turquoise sea in one of those plunging one-pieces while Atticus, still in a gray suit and white shirt, handed her the manuscript with an umbrella drink. She turned him into Stella in her wide-brimmed beach hat, then Stella morphed into Ben Heath, tan and muscular. Fine! She would go to Ibiza with Ben if she had to! Atticus offered her a key bump that she refused—was cocaine really coming back now? She would have to ask Chloe—and just as her head was about to explode from the noise, the car stopped and she hauled herself out onto the relatively peaceful Lower East Side sidewalk.

“After you,” Atticus slurred gallantly, miraculously still in possession of his full drink. He was gesturing toward a neighborhood dive bar that looked exactly like the kind of place where she, Stella, and Miles would play pool and fight over the jukebox during college. Maybe you walked through the dive part to a secret door that led down to a hidden bar where all the cool people lounged behind velvet drapes and sipped champagne? You did not. Betty Jack’s was a self-contained familiar world, its fanciest patron an old man in a white hat. Rebecca’s drink-addled brain snapped to attention when she caught sight of the tall, incredibly good-looking bartender.

“I thought I would call my own meeting,” Atticus said, steering her forward. “Benjamin! My man!”

Ben’s face lit up when he saw her; she was not mistaken about that. Then it darkened a little as she evaded Atticus. The bar was almost empty, but Ben was in the middle of opening and pouring beers. He kept his eyes trained on her while he worked efficiently. “What can I get you?” he asked, his voice neutral. Oh, okay, so that’s how he was going to play it , Rebecca thought, perching unsteadily on a barstool. She too could be indifferent.

“Look here,” Atticus announced. “I’ll have a Manhattan with Rittenhouse, if you please.” He plunked the Frenchette glass on the bar. It seemed as if Ben was about to say something, but he didn’t and instead poured half the rye into a shaker.

“Water, please?” Rebecca asked in what she hoped was a chilly tone.

“Becca will have a glass of your top-shelf red,” Atticus said grandly. He was starting to totter and reached out to steady himself by gripping Rebecca’s shoulder. Ben watched intently as she peeled Atticus’s fingers off. He put a glass of water in front of her and poured Atticus a small drink. “Stingy, what? And here I am helping you both out.” Atticus was losing the exaggerated control he had displayed in the restaurant.

“Why don’t you sit down,” Ben told Atticus rather than asked him. Surprisingly, Atticus obeyed. He leaned against her, but this time it was more to prop himself up than to continue his relentless yet uncommitted groping. Ben raised an eyebrow.

“Benjamin. Benny. Can I call you Benny, my man?”

Ben slid Atticus’s drink off the bar and smoothly replaced it with a glass of water; Atticus didn’t seem to notice. “Why are you here?” Ben asked. Rebecca jerked her head toward the bag Atticus had slung onto the bar. She tried to convey with her eyes that the manuscript was right there. “Are you okay?” Ben gave her a concerned look. Why was he so dense?

“Listen,” Atticus continued. “Listen.” He stopped and looked around as if unsure where he was and why. Then he perked up. “There’s a lot of interest in Sun Run . A lot of interest. Someone is going to make a lot of money. Why not you two?” He turned suddenly to Rebecca. “Heyyy. You’re really beautiful, you know that?” It seemed possible that he had no idea that they had arrived together.

“Okay,” Rebecca said, trying not to look at Ben. “We know you went around to different publishing houses. But Rose is the executor.” It was time for some tough love.

“But what you don’t know… Erica”—Atticus retrieved the wrong name with some effort—“is that I met with an agent. Talk about monnnnnnneyyyyy. I think Rose is making a big mistake, and guess what? The agent agrees with me.”

This was an unpleasant development. The deal with Avenue to represent the Lion’s estate was not actually signed. She didn’t think Rose would ever work with an agent, but it was true that she was probably leaving some monnnnnnneyyyyy on the table by not doing so. Did Ben know about this? Maybe he set it up? Maybe it was a plot to have an agent cut out Avenue and go with Hawk Mills. Rebecca was about to cry just thinking about it: having her triumph, however undeserved, yanked away at the last minute. What would Ami say? What would her mom say?

“Agent or publisher doesn’t matter,” Ben said. “The terms of the will give Rose the authority to do what she wants with the manuscript. With all of it.”

“Not everyone is as screw-pew-lusss as you two,” Atticus warned, exhibiting for the first time tonight a flash of wounded anger that seemed real. “I have plenty of media contacts. I could start a Slubshack. A Subscrap. Self-publish, right?”

Rebecca was sure that Rose had more than enough money. But maybe she would be tempted? She was single-handedly supporting the East River Review , for example. That wasn’t cheap . Could Atticus start a Substack? He could hardly stand upright!

“It’s not going to happen,” Ben said firmly. He sent a bowl of pretzels down the bar to the old man in the hat. “That book is not going to print. There’s plenty of other writing he left behind. Stories, letters. Those will be the Lion’s last word.”

“But the book is the big one.” Atticus fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a vial of coke. “And it just so happens to be the one I have in my possession, my man.”

“Nope. Put that away.” Ben tapped on the bar. “Right now.”

“Aw, c’mon.” Atticus continued trying to get the vial open, but his hand-eye coordination was failing.

“Not inside. You need to head out.”

Atticus stood up suddenly, stumbled, and took firm hold of Rebecca’s arm. “S’all right, s’all right, chill, my man. We were just leaving.”

Rebecca tried to pull away, but Atticus was both dragging her off the stool and using her for support. There was a loud smack as Ben flipped the section of the bar that allowed him to get out from behind it. “Take your hands off her, my man . Let’s go.” As Ben was maneuvering Atticus toward the door, Rebecca had the presence of mind to snatch up the bag and remove what was, indeed, the manuscript, loose and a little worse for wear. She looked around wildly, then sat on it. Atticus was protesting, so Ben turned back and motioned to Rebecca, who tossed the now empty bag to him. They disappeared out the door. Her pulse was thudding in her ears.

After a few minutes, Ben came back. “We’re closing a little early,” he announced to two women snuggling in the red booth and to the man in the hat. “Finish up, please. First drink is on me the next time you come in.” There was some grumbling (man in the hat), but soon the bar was empty. Ben locked the front door and turned off the neon “Betty Jack’s” sign. Then he came over to Rebecca where she perched on a slippery pile of papers. She was ready to share the good news of her heroic, quick thinking. “I’ll call you an Uber” was what he said.

Stung, Rebecca snapped, “I can call my own Yuber. I mean Uber.” Now that Atticus was gone, she was the drunk one.

“I got it.” Ben pulled his phone out. Why was he trying to get rid of her? Why was he so hot? “I’m sorry if your ride left without you,” he said stiffly.

It took Rebecca a minute to clock his tone. What was his point? Did he think she wanted to be hanging out with Atticus? Wait, was he jealous? She tried to peer at his face, but he kept his eyes down. “What’s your address?” he asked.

Was he seriously going to send her home like a naughty child? While she was literally (literally!) sitting on the manuscript they had both been trying to find? Seriously? Fine! She gave him her address. “What?” he said, after typing it in. “Six minutes.”

“What ‘what’?” Rebecca retorted.

“You’re glaring.” Ben reached over the bar to grab a sweater and a book. “I’ll walk you out.”

She was being dismissed. She tried to dismount gracefully from the barstool but slid awkwardly, a few sheets of papers floating down. In a reaction based wholly on necessity, Rebecca (like Atticus before her but not at all creepy!) grabbed at Ben so that she wouldn’t fall. He was still wearing the gray T-shirt, and it still smelled good. He had instinctively held her to steady her, and Rebecca felt his muscles tense under her hand. She looked up at him, at his dark blue eyes and smattering of freckles. She would not kiss him! The jukebox started playing the old T. Rex song “Bang a Gong (Get It On).” She would not “get it on” no matter how many times the chorus suggested it. Even though her body fought her, Rebecca gathered the strength to let go and draw away. Looking anywhere but at Ben, Rebecca’s eyes lit on the book he had tossed back onto the bar. Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway .

“Are you reading that book?” she demanded.

“Yes, when it’s quiet in here,” Ben answered.

Okay, fuck it! Rebecca crashed into Ben, who swept her up and deposited her on the bar, her legs on either side of him, and then they were kissing, finally ; she wanted to inhale him; she could not get enough of his warm mouth, his hands tangled in her hair, the strength of his arms. He groaned against her lips and she felt her body answering. Her body was saying yes! Her body was saying, “You’re dirty and sweet, oh yeah,” or maybe that was T. Rex. Their teeth clashed and Rebecca sank her fingers into his biceps. Ben started kissing down the side of her neck, and she opened her throat to him as if waiting to be made a vampire. She felt his none-too-gentle bite reverberating in every part of her. Clamping her legs around his hips, Rebecca pressed herself against the length of his chest. A small sound of protest escaped her when he leaned back. He tipped her face up and they stared at each other, gasping for breath. The Uber honked outside, and pages of the Lion’s book littered the floor of the bar all around them.