Page 9 of Willow in the Wind

Chapter Four

Summer 2022

James woke up on thousand-count sheets. There was a funny ache in his lower back, and he rolled over and stretched his legs to the far end of the bed, arching his spine.This is forty-three,he thought darkly. A part of him wished he was in his own bed. But Kinsey didn’t like it when he left after their date nights. He didn’t like to deal with the repercussions of leaving.

On the left wall hung a massive black-and-white photograph taken by a famous photographer from the eighties, and a monstera plant sat in the corner that seemed eager to swallow him up. The sounds of morning rituals came from the kitchen: brewing coffee, making toast, scrambling eggs. He hadn’t been seeing Kinsey long, but he knew already that she liked her toast with peanut butter, her eggs with sriracha, and her coffee with games on her phone. Wordle was a particular favorite as of earlier this year.

But James couldn’t calm his mind down enough to play word games so early in the morning. Kinsey said that was precisely the reason he should try.

James got out of bed, touched his tender lower back, and donned a big sweatshirt he kept at Kinsey’s for chilly mornings like this. Kinsey’s apartment was on the first floor of a thirty-story ornate apartment building near Central Park, and it got very little sunlight. James joked it was the same season in the apartment all year long—somewhere between winter and spring.

Kinsey sat in the breakfast nook with her traditional breakfast, a big mug of coffee, and a pile of manuscripts ready for her attention to her left. She smiled at him, and he dropped down to kiss her cheek.

“Morning,” she said.

“Good morning!” James turned to pour himself some coffee, then sat across from her, eyeing the manuscripts. Kinsey was an editor at one of the Big Five publishing houses and was instrumental in bringing some of the most iconic and oft-discussed novels of the past ten years to the public eye. She was thirty-seven years old and incredibly driven, so much so that she’d never gotten around to getting married or having children. She’d told James she hadn’t been averse to the idea; it just hadn’t happened yet. Sometimes James worried she wanted to have children with him. He’d already done that.

Be in the moment, Atkinson,he told himself.

But Kinsey didn’t want to talk so early in the morning. She was finishing her word games, leaving James in peace. And James was pleased with that. He had a big day ahead.

James carried his coffee into the foyer to hunt for his notebook in his black leather bag. Later today, he had an interview with Colton Parsons, one of James’s favorite musicians of all time. James already had several interview questions lined up, but he wanted to nail down a few more before he set out for the studio.

Kinsey eyed the opened notepad curiously as James clicked his pen. She set down her phone and picked up a manuscript, clicking another pen to imitate him. She winked.

“There he is,” she teased, “the famous music journalist.”

“There she is. The famous editor,” James shot back.

“Editors aren’t famous,” she said. “We hide behind the authors.”

“Couldn’t you say the same about journalists?” James asked.

“Not you,” Kinsey reminded him, raising both eyebrows.

And it was true that Kinsey had heard of James when they’d first met. “I read your profile on Paul McCartney,” she’d said when they’d been introduced at a dinner party late last year.

The profile on Paul McCartney had come out more than ten years ago. It meant that she’d followed his career since then. James was touched.

Kinsey took a shower and got ready for work, and James walked her down the block to grab the subway. They kissed like lovers do at the top of the stairs, and then James watched her walk into the darkness and turn out of sight. As he always did when he said goodbye to the women he was dating, James felt an opening up in his chest, freedom now that they were gone, and he was left to do whatever he wanted. He’d once explained that feeling to a male friend who’d looked at him as though he were crazy. “Doesn’t that mean you’re dating someone you don’t really like?” he’d asked. But James had said no. That wasn’t it. “I just like to feel like my time is my own. That it belongs to me,” he’d explained. The friend still hadn’t understood.

James returned to his flat in Greenwich Village at ten that morning, grabbing a bagel at the corner shop before headinginside. Kinsey didn’t like bagels—one of her rare negative traits. He liked to tease her about it.

James sat at his own table, surrounded by his records, books, plants, Persian rugs, and artwork made by friends on the walls. He ate his bagel, slathered in cream cheese with dill.

The past two years felt like the raucous final cycle in a washing machine. He’d been living in the Florida Keys with Taylor, and then Taylor had come back to Manhattan, and then he’d lived alone in the Keys until he couldn’t take it anymore. He’d found himself lonely; he’d watched the world begin to move on from the pandemic—inch by inch, step by step. So he’d left the Keys and returned to London, where his job had abruptly ended and cast him back into the world of freelance journalism again. He’d returned to Manhattan, back to the flat he’d rented out after he’d left Manhattan in the first place. And toward the end of 2021, he’d met Kinsey.

Taylor texted him now.

TAYLOR: Still up for hanging today?

JAMES: Sounds good. 5?

TAYLOR: Perfect.

Taylor said she had someone she wanted him to meet. It was pretty clear it was a male somebody, a romantic somebody. But Taylor and James had never gone through this step before. James felt strangely nervous about meeting his daughter’s boyfriend.

It was bizarre for James to feel nervous. He’d met some of the biggest celebrities in the world. He’d shared numerous pints with Paul McCartney. Bruce Springsteen had once called James “an essential voice of a music generation.”

---