Page 60 of The Seven Year Slip

If, if, if.

There is no easy way to talk about suicide.

Sometimes the people you love don’t leave you with goodbyes—they just leave.

“Are you okay?” Fiona asked softly, putting her hand on my shoulder.

I flinched away from her, blinking the tears out of my eyes. “Yes,” I said, sucking in a lungful of breath. Then another. Fiona had the package in her hand, and I took it. I wasn’t going to open it. “I’m fine. It’s just... unexpected.”

Drew eyed the package. “It’s pretty small. I wonder what it is?”

“I need to get back to work.” As I left, I discarded my lunch—and the package—in the trash can, and returned to my cubicle, and drowned myself in work like I used to. Like I should.

Two hours later, when mostly everyone had left the office, I returned to the trash can to dig out the package from beneath four-day-old lo mein and half a tuna sandwich, but it wasn’t there. The package my aunt had sent me was gone.

25

Best in Show

The rest of theweekend and into the next week passed in a blur. The apartment felt empty without Iwan in it. Every time I opened the door, I hoped to find him again, but the present always greeted me, and I started to wonder if it would take me back again at all.

Days passed without much fanfare; Drew and Fiona preparing for their parental leaves as the baby neared, getting everything sorted, until suddenly I found myself sitting in an Uber as it pulled up to the sidewalk in front of the Olive Branch. The sign on the door said that it was closed for the evening for a special event—and that special event? The cooking class. Editors and their teams from all across publishing were supposed to be here. Faux and Harper and some Random Penguins and—rumor had it—the new publisher for Falcon, Mr.Benji Andor himself. Through the open windows, I could see a few people already mingling in the empty dining space.

“So, here’s the plan—I do all the cooking, you do the chopping,” Drew specified, probably because she didn’t trust my cooking skills as far as she could throw me. Which, fair. I also didn’ttrust them. “And if we come across Parker, we hog-tie him and toss him in the bathroom.”

Fiona poked her head out of the passenger seat of the SUV. “Knock ’em dead, ladies!” She gave us the finger guns as the Uber pulled away again, bound for the Lower East Side to drop her off at home.

Drew and I waited until the SUV had turned the corner before she smoothed down the front of her button-down. “How do I look?”

I straightened her medallion necklace and put my hands on her shoulders. She looked about as nervous as I felt. “You are going to kick ass in there.”

“Weare going to kick ass,” she reminded me. She pulled her arm through mine, and gave a shiver. “Ooh, I’m finally nervous! Can we back out? Tell Strauss I fucked off into the woods instead? Become a hermit? Live off the land?”

“What happened to the editor who said she’d kill for James Ashton? Also, you’d hate living without instant hot water.”

“You’re right. I’ll just fuck off to a castle in Scotland instead.”

“It’s probably haunted.”

“You like ruining everything, don’t you,” she deadpanned.

I rolled my eyes and guided her gently in the direction of the front door.

Inside the restaurant, I spied editors from all different publishers, some big names, some I didn’t recognize at all. I hadn’t been to any mixers in the last however many months—well, since my aunt died, at least—so Drew gave me the 411 on all the different people. There was a table set with glasses of champagne, and we both grabbed one and went to go haunt a corner of the restaurant until it was time to start our culinary journey.

“This is mission impossible,” Drew muttered, darting her eyesabout the room. “We are deep in enemy territory, two spies in the jungles of—oh, Parker, hi.” She quickly straightened as a lanky white guy with too-big glasses and slicked-back hair swaggered up to us. He had what I’d call that guy in your MFA syndrome. Constantly acting like he was the smartest guy in the room, favorite book was something by Jonathan Franzen or—worse—Fight Club. The kind of guy who would look at the meme phrase “she breasted boobily to the stairs” and nod and go,Yes, yes, this is indubitably quality literature.

He wasthatkind of guy.

“Drew Torres, nice to see you,” Parker said with a smile that was probably as genuine as his hair plugs. “Excited for the class tonight?”

“Oh, absolutely. Can’t wait to see what we’re cooking!”

“It isn’t every day you get to learn from one of the best chefs in the industry. Why, just the other week I was talking to Craig over there”—he pointed at the executive editor of Harper or Simon & Schuster or something, a flex if I had ever seen one—“and we were comparing James’s ever-changing menu. I’m thrilled he has such a wide range of skills.”

Drew gave a nod. “Oh, yes, he’s very talented.”

“He’ll be great over at Faux. We have so many fantastic resources—though, I’m sure Strauss and Adder will try its best, won’t it?”

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