Page 51 of The Seven Year Slip

I knocked on the side of Drew’s cubicle gently, and she glanced up from the manuscript she had printed out and was currently taking a red marker to. “Hi,” I said softly. “You’re going to be okay?”

“It’s not the first time I’ve lost a bid, Clementine,” she reminded me, setting down the manuscript, “but thank you for checking in.”

I tried not to let my regret show too much, because I was the reason he had passed. He had remembered me, after all. What if he ended up hating me after that weekend, or I had secretly annoyed him, or he didn’t want to work with someone he’d kissed, once, a thousand years ago?

I was the reason we lost this book. What if I became the reason Strauss & Adder folded? That was silly, I knew that was silly. Publishers didn’t fold because of one failed acquisition.

I was trying not to panic.

Drew glanced at the clock, and gave a start. “It’s five already? I can’t believe I’m leavingafteryou.”

“That’s why I asked if you’re okay.”

“Ha! Oh, thanks. I’m fine. I’ll see you Monday?”

“Don’t work too late,” I said, waving goodbye, and headed toward the elevator lobby before she could see the panic rising in my face. I made my way uptown to the large off-white building with lions in the eaves, and thought that maybe one breaking off and falling on me—a recurring nightmare I had when I was a kid—might actually be a welcome way to spend a few months in a coma before waking up, having forgotten this entire summer, and returning to work blissfully ignorant of James Iwan Ashton.

Today was one of those Manhattanhenges, and as the sun sank between the buildings, tourists and Manhattanites alike crowded the crosswalks, taking out their phones to capture how the oranges and yellows and reds burst from the horizon just beyond the street. I didn’t stop as I crossed behind the tourists. The phenomenon was only a few minutes long, as dusk settled across the city like a shimmery tequila sunrise, and by the time I pushed open the doors to the Monroe, it was over.

Earl greeted me as I came in. He was halfway through his next mystery—Death on the Nile. I just wanted to get to my aunt’s apartment, draw a bath with a bath bomb, and sink down into the water and dissociate for a while as I listened to theMoulin Rougesoundtrack.

The elevator was so slow to come, and when I got inside, it smelled a little like tuna salad, which... was just as unpleasant asit sounds. I leaned back against the railing, stared up at my warped reflection, and patted down my flyaway bangs, though the day had been so humid my hair frayed out at the ends.

There was no helping it.

The elevator let me off on the fourth floor, and I counted down the apartments to B4. I couldn’t wait to get out of this skirt. After a bath, I’d put on some sweatpants, take the ice cream out of the freezer, and watch a rerun of something terrible.

I unlocked the door and trudged my way inside, slipping my flats off at the door—

“Lemon?” a voice from the kitchen said, deep and familiar. “Is that you?”

22

Unsolicited Advice

The apartment smelled likefood—warm and spicy—and the soft sounds of a radio hummed through the apartment, playing a tune that’d been popular years ago.

That voice—I knew that voice. My heart swelled in my chest, so much so I felt it might burst.

I took a step in, and then another.

No way.No way.

“Iwan?” I called hesitantly—hopefully?

Was I hopeful, or was this weird feeling in my stomach dread? I wasn’t sure. I took another step down the hallway, slipping out of my flats. What were the odds?

The sound of footsteps rushed across the kitchen, and then a man with auburn hair and pale eyes poked his head out of the doorway.

And the door clicked closed behind me.

Iwan wore a dirty white T-shirt, the neck stretched out, and frayed jeans, so different from the uptight man who had sat down across from me in the conference room, devoid of everything thatmade him glow. He smiled that kind, lovely smile of his, as if he was glad to see me.

Because hewas.

Impossible, impossible, this is—

“Lemon!” he greeted me happily, and even the way he said my stupid nickname was different. Like it wasn’t a secret, but a sanctuary. He threw his arms wide and pulled me into a hug. I wasn’t that big of a hugger, but the sudden crush against his chest, the closeness—it made my heart slam into my rib cage. The dread turned into fluttering, terrible, hopeful butterflies. He smelled like soap and cinnamon, and I found myself wrapping my arms around him and holding him tight.

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