Page 2 of Writing Mr. Right

“Ahh, yes, that’s right!” Colin nods distractedly as he scrolls on his phone. “If you’re planning on bringing coffee and donuts again, remember I’ve gone decaf recently—”

“No, that’s not it,” I interrupt in the politest tone I can manage (not that I need the reminder—I’m the one who encouraged him to go decaf in the first place because of how much his wife complains about his heart problems and makes a scene whenever she visits the office). I continue before my boss can take a second to realize I cut him off. “I was wondering if during the meeting, we could—”

Colin doesn’t even look up. “Fine, we can discuss having casual Friday again, but I don’t think it’s a good idea. If clients need to come to the office, I don’t want them to see we’re not dressed in our best.”

Either he truly can’t see where I’m going with this, or he’s purposely acting distracted to avoid it. I keep my positive expression stretched across my cheeks. “Actually, I was hoping we could discuss finally putting together some kind of funding package for me to do my JD.”

That gets his attention, and Colin raises his head. He scrunches his nose. “Oh, I don’t know, Ziya…”

“I think it’d be really valuable for the firm!” I say quickly, as if talking faster will get my point across better. “When I first got hired, I was promised monetary support to eventually pursuehigher studies. It’s been a few years since then, and every year I think about bringing it up, but I don’t because I never thought I was ready. Now, after spending the last couple of years helping Ollie and Jeanette with research, shadowing Eugene in court, and working in the records room with Stella, I think I finally am ready to take the next step and become a lawyer. You know I’m a fast learner, and I already know a lot of stuff from my work here. I think my value as a lawyer here would greatly help the firm, especially given that we seem to be growing every year but haven’t taken on many new attorneys. I was hoping instead of hiring someone new, we could fund my studies instead—”

This time I’m cut off by the incessant trill of Colin’s annoying ringtone—some ’80s song I don’t quite know but at least recognize. He glances down at his phone, as if he doesn’t care that he’s in the middle of a conversation, then back up to me. He doesn’t even bother to appear apologetic as he says, “Sorry, Ziya, gotta take this. It’s an important call. Let me think about…what you said, and I’ll get back to you, okay?”

Colin answers his phone and walks away at the same time, heading for his office. The walls of his office are glass, so I watch him head inside and laugh boisterously as he sits down at his desk. I have no idea who he’s talking to, but based on the way he leans back in his chair and guffaws at the ceiling, the call isn’t as important as he made it seem.

With a barely contained sigh, I drop back into my chair. I resist the urge to slump down until I collapse onto the floor, though I do allow myself to sink in more than necessary. Great. The one time I finally muster up the courage to ask Colin if the firm will fund law school, and the moment is ruined by some forty-year-old metal band my dad listens to.

My desk phone rings, and I force myself to bottle up all my disappointment and answer the call in a chipper tone. Part of my job is managing phone calls, so even though I’m eyeing a bigger prize, I still need to show I’m good at what I do.

And I’mverygood at what I do. Much like how hospitals can’t function without nurses, the New Scope Law Office can’t function withoutme. Without me writing and following up on emails, fielding phone calls from other attorneys, making phone calls to clients, and even organizing paperwork, none of the attorneys or paralegals would be able to do anything. Oftentimes, when people think about law, they only think about litigators in a courtroom. But people like me, at the bottom of the food chain, do a lot of the grunt work nobody hears or sees. The boring work no one else wants to do. The work that has to be done in order to actually make it to court. Administrative work is just as important as any courtroom or client-based work.

At least, that’s the speech I give to my skeptical relatives at family get-togethers.

But it’s also the work I thought would help me balance a career in writing. I thought I could come here and do a nine-to-five and not bring anything home with me so writing could be my five-to-nine. I thought it’d be easy to leave the legal work in the office and my writing work at home. I was wrong, though. Some weeks the work gets overwhelming, especially because I’m the only legal secretary here, so there’s no time to write. And clearly nothing’s moving forward on the writing front, despite trying my hardest over the past six years. But as my writing career seemed to halt, it fueled a desire to see my full-time career go further…hence why I decided to finally pursue my law degree. It was always an option in my back pocket, especially because it was one of the promises Colin made when he hired me, but I was never really interested in it. Then I got to New Scope and began to see all the amazing work the other lawyers do in real time. It made me wonder if I was capable of more. I think I am, but that doesn’t matter if I don’t have the money to go to school.

Still, I’m lucky—and grateful—to have a day job that pays the bills. I spend the rest of the day emailing, making calls, and visiting Stella Lin, our records clerk who manages our filing system, forcase files. I also drink an ungodly amount of coffee, but I tell myself the resulting tachycardia is a problem for my doctor, not me.

But even as I do my important daywork, as I put away files and mark down court dates in the schedule, I’m already thinking of ways to shift stuff around in my book. Maybe I could change up events to make things more interesting. Like instead of the volunteer food drive happening at the beginning of the novel, where Haniya and Arsal meet again for the first time after Haniya’s tenure away from home, it could happen later to emphasize the tension between them.

The rest of the day goes by like this: me going through my administrative work while thinking about my book. The thoughts circle around in my head for the rest of the day, until they’re interrupted by a text message just as I’m about to pack up to go home. I do a quick sweep to make sure no one is paying attention, then I slide my phone out of my pocket to check.

I sense a disturbance in the Force—you’ve had a shit day.

I smirk at my screen. Emily Wan, my best friend and roommate, always seems to know when I enter a bad mood—and I’ve been in one all day.

Yeah, I have.

I knew because I have also had a shit day, so as per tradition, bring home ingredients for ice-cream sundaes. I will compensate by cooking.

It’s a deal, I text.

I slip my phone back in my pocket, my stomach already rumbling. Work might be hectic, and my writing career might be a mess, but at least I have an Emily.

2

People see New York City as this glamorous place that drips glitter and gold and opens its doors to anyone who is courageous enough to chase after their dreams, like something out of a pop song. But the only thing that covers this concrete jungle most of the time is smog, and an odor of pee or old pizza always permeates the air. Not even the doors to the subway will stay open for you, even if you jam your arm through.

Which is something I just did, and a rush of pain rattles my bone as I pull it out. I wait for the doors to open politely for me again, throwing a pleading look at the subway conductor, but they close the rest of the way, and the train car trudges along. The conductor stares at me with complete emptiness in his eyes as the train rolls out of the station.

I massage my muscle as I wait for the next one on the G line to arrive. I switch my bag of groceries off my sore arm to give it a quick break. The items shift in the bag—vanilla ice cream, chocolate syrup, whipped cream, and sprinkles: the ultimate sundae ingredients. My stomach growls at the thought of the creamy chocolatey goodness.

The next train finally arrives, and I step onto it along withthe rest of the commuter crowd. It’s already full, so I have to stand, and I grab one of the poles to keep my balance steady. I forgot my headphones at home today, so my only soundtrack is the chatter of people around me.

My gaze sweeps along the length of the train car, taking in my surroundings. A woman in a sharp business suit furiously types on her phone using only one hand, her other hand holding on to a pole to maintain her stance. A teenager with his headphones over his ears blasts a K-pop song, the sound loud enough for the few of us around him to hear. He’s listening to ATEEZ, though, so I personally don’t mind. A man sits in one of the seats with a stroller in front of him, but a closer glimpse reveals a tiny pug nestled inside instead of a child.

Unconsciously, I tuck all these little details away in my head. I often use the things I pick up from my environment as little quirks for characters. It’s something writers do: use the world around us as inspiration for our work. It helps to lend the fictional situations we write a layer of reality, so the story is unfamiliar but comfortable at the same time.

I get off at my stop and walk the ten minutes to my home. I live in Sunset Park, which is a cute little neighborhood with a spectacular view of the Manhattan skyline, though you can see it best from the actual Sunset Park. The rows of apartments on this street all look the same: redbrick, two three-paned white windows at the top and bottom, white doors with an oval-shaped window in the center. I tentatively walk up the wobbly crusty eggshell-white steps that Emily and I have been begging our landlord to fix for months and unlock the front door.

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