Page 42 of Writing Mr. Right

I wait for irritation to bleed into Joe’s expression, but his face remains shockingly neutral. “I’m on my way to court for a contract dispute between a realty company and our client,” he replies.

“Oh, nice,” Aashiq replies, then gestures over at me. “Can Ziya tag along? I know your assistant isn’t here today, so she could help you out.”

My jaw drops. I’m about to protest when Joe says, “Sure, that’d be a big help, actually.”

“I can’t,” I insist. “I have to stay at the desk.”

“Everything’s been dead quiet here today,” Aashiq reminds me. “Plus, I can watch over things. I’ve been shadowing you long enough to know what to do.” He nudges me in the side. “Besides, it’s good to get out of the office once in a while.”

Given the fact that the one time I let Aashiq answer the phone he told the client not to forget to chase their dreams, it’s not exactly an appealing idea to leave him alone. But I did promise I’d give him more responsibility, and tagging along with Joedoesseem more fun than sitting around here. There are only a few hours left of the workday, anyway.

Despite my initial hesitation, I say, “Sounds like fun.”

* * *

I immediately regret my decision the second we’re in Joe’s car. There’s nothing wrong with the car; it’s a white BMW with a beige interior, and while I think it’s impractical to own a car in Brooklyn, it’s nice to travel somewhere without having to fight for a spot to sit down. It’s also clean, with no fast-food wrappers or stray papers lying around.

The reason I’m kicking myself is because of the awkward silence that engulfs the car. I don’t know why I thought this might be fun, because I’ve spoken a handful of sentences to Joe since I started this job, and they were all along the lines of “hello” and “goodbye.”

I tap my fingers along my lap. Joe turned on the heat as soon as we got into the car, so the only sound for a long time is the whoosh of air that warms our faces. I’m rarely in a car, so driving on the road feels foreign. We go under a bridge, which reminds me how New York is just a place that built itself on top of itself. It’s about 3 p.m., so while it’s not dark outside yet, the sun is well on its way to its descent. The sharp brightness ofthe day is slowly shifting into a golden yellow, which in turn makes the light layer of snow on the ground shine.

We pass tall redbrick apartment buildings, and if you look quick enough, you can see people in the windows. It’s a wonder, in a way. Those strangers have whole lives of their own: jobs they adore, loves they’ve lost, family they hold dear, friends they’ve cut off. When we peek at those people in the windows, or they gaze down at us on the road, we only get a glimpse of someone else’s life. Someone who has their own path, their own story that, for a brief millisecond, intertwines with ours.

Huh. Maybe Aashiq is on to something about the allure of strangers.

Joe raps his knuckles against the steering wheel. We’ve been driving for about ten minutes, and I guess the quiet has finally gotten to him, too, because he opens his mouth. “So,” he drawls, “how long have you been with the firm?”

How would a main character handle this? My instinct is to see this as an insult because Joe’s been at the firm for like fifteen years, so he should have noticed when I started, but honestly, we interact so rarely I don’t blame him for not knowing. And a main character wouldn’t intentionally antagonize someone trying to be nice. “About six years,” I answer.

His eyes widen. “Wow, really? That’s…quite a long time. I thought you’d been here six months, a year max.”

I snort, though quickly cover it up because he’s a big shot lawyer. “Well, you’re usually too busy to notice things. You handle big-time clients and I answer the phone. We’re at two opposite ends of the food chain.”

“Hey, if you weren’t there to answer the phone, our schedules would be all over the place,” he says. “You do important work, too.”

“Huh,” I muse aloud. “I never thought I’d hear that from you.”

“Why not?” he asks.

“You’re all buddy-buddy with Colin. Sometimes I feel like he doesn’t value the work I do.” I pause, then grimace. “But please don’t tell him I said that.”

To my surprise, Joe chuckles. “Don’t worry, I won’t. I’m very familiar with how highly Colin thinks of himself. Lawyers like us, who have been in the business for decades, tend to be like that. I try to be more friendly and personable with everyone I work with.” He flashes me a rueful smile. “Though I guess I haven’t been doing a very good job with some people.”

I give him a weak shrug in return because what am I supposed to say to that? Yeah, you’re actually a jerk for not knowing the minute details of all your coworkers?

I prepare for another long bout of silence when Joe suddenly says, “So… I hear you’re a writer?”

My stomach sinks like I swallowed hot rocks. If this is his way of making up for the fact that he’s bad at mingling with his coworkers, then I’d be happy if he forgets my name. “Where did you hear that?” I squeak.

“Some of the others were talking about it in the lunchroom,” he explains. The panic must be plastered on my face, because he quickly adds, “Oh, no, they all only had nice things to say! They think it’s amazing. I imagine writing a book is very hard.”

The tension in my brows loosens slightly. “Yeah, it is,” I acknowledge. “It’s not as easy as they make it out to be on TV.”

“How many books have you written, if I may ask?”

“A few.”

“Are any of them published?”

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