Page 58 of Gifted & Talented

Meredith then gave him as long a look as she could manage without driving them off the highway, which she hoped conveyed the extent of her irritation.

“Fine.” Jamie was quiet then, considering it. “I think,” he said slowly, “you did it because you’re ambitious. You’re, you know, hungry. The hungriest person I’ve ever known.” He stopped. “I do think a lot of it was for your mom,” he admitted. “That was my first thought, that you never really got over losing her, and you wanted to fix her even though you couldn’t. This was the closest thing. But the scale of it, the betrayal, the fact that you chosethese particularcorporate overlords…” He trailed off. “That part doesn’t sound like you.”

Meredith thought about the sweat of it. The heart-crush of it. The way she’d stood in a room full of people she’d hired at twenty-four years old and promised them they could trust her as if she wasn’t just an idiot teenage girl playing dress-up in a fancy suit. All those mothers and fathers with children to feed. The people who needed this job to pay their rent, to keep a roof over their heads. The people who expected her to be a genius because everyone she’d ever met had told her she was a genius even though she was pretty sure she was just an idiot teenage girl. She read eight different booksabout impostor syndrome.You go, girlboss! You are smart and capable!But surely not everyone who read the books wasactuallysmart and capable. The book was only printed with the assumption that a bunch of stupid, incapable people would buy it. If only the worthy read those words, then publishing as an industry would collapse. Maybe impostor syndrome was real, but not for her, anactualimpostor.

“Everyone takes the money,” said Meredith, realizing she was parroting her father’s words back to Jamie. “Couldn’t this whole thing have been a natural consequence of an industry built on pretense? Everyone who takes the money has to show success that doesn’t exist yet—that isn’t technically possible until it is. I’m not the only one who doesn’t want to fail.”

Jamie didn’t say anything.

“Why didn’t you tell me you called off your wedding?” blurted Meredith.

“What would you have done about it?” said Jamie.

Meredith didn’t say anything.

“Yeah,” said Jamie darkly. “That’s what I thought.”

Meredith shook herself of the memory from the car, typing out a message.

U up?

Very funny, said Jamie.

That’s not a no

I’m proofreading the article to send to my editor. Could be free later

After you destroy me, you mean?

Yeah, after that.

Meredith picked at her cuticle and blinked, then blinked again, struggling to clear her vision. The stye was still going strong. She looked over at Cass, then back at her screen.

Do you think we should just have sex and get it out of our systems?

No, said Jamie,but I could do coffee again if you want. Or a drink?

Assuming she found Lou today, she was definitely going to need one.

Okay, said Meredith.See you later for a drink.

26

Arthur woke up to motion in his hands and feet, which signaled in a way that had recently become noteworthy that he had probably not died overnight. He rolled over and felt the presence of warmth beside him, opening his eyes to see that Philippa’s hair was swept across his pillowcase, golden and honey-warm.

“Where’s Gillian?” said Arthur, and Philippa’s eyes snapped open.

“Well,” she said. “That’s one way to greet someone.”

“Sorry, I just—” He shook himself, reaching over to pull her closer, which was something he very much enjoyed doing. He had always loved waking to Philippa; the way Philippa curled into him like the slice of a crescent moon, all soft contentment and gentle narcissism, a kitten wanting to be stroked. But usually he had a mental space for waking up next to Philippa and/or Yves, and a very separate one for waking up with Gillian, and he had thought it was going to be a Gillian day. “I thought you’d gone to bed with Yves.”

“He’s up early this morning, as is your wife.” Arthur had the distinct impression that this word was meant to punish him somehow, although it didn’t seem reasonable. His arrangement with Philippa had always been rooted in Philippa’s distaste for the conventional, though he supposed it didn’t get more conventional than sleeping next to someone in accidentally matching pajamas, which was not his fault. For one thing, life among the middle-aged had given both Arthur and Gillian certain middle-aged (“mature,” they liked to tell themselves, since they could no longer envision themselves at the proverbial club) creature comforts. Besides, they didn’t coordinate; they just happened to like the same colors and brands. One Christmas they had gifted these pajamas to each other, him to her because she’d commented that the material was so soft and hers to him because she knew he’d like them. It had been one of the times Gillian had laughed so hard she started to cry, which was something that happened when Gillian thought something wasreally, gorgeously stupid. Usually, Arthur prided himself on a Gillian laugh-cry three to four times a year.

The point is that the pajamas were very comfortable, but hardly a comment on the institution of marriage.

“Gillian is a very early riser,” Arthur decided to say, which was true. Gillian was most productive in the hours before most people were awake, although there were technically no times when Gillian was unproductive. The thought gave him a strange wrenching sensation, so he reached into his nightstand for a bit more chocolate, breaking off a piece and tossing it into his mouth. His phone screen flashed with a string of headlines:WREN (D-CA) NOTABLY SILENT IN CONGRESSIONAL HOUSING DEBATE AFTER CLAIMING MARKETS “UNAFFORDABLE” FOR WORKING CL…

ARTHUR WREN IS RIGHT—THE EAST BAY IS UNAFFORDABLE AND IT’S HIS FAU…

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