Page 78 of The Seven Year Slip

I tore my eyes away from the letter, and shoved it into my purse. “Fine,” I replied too quickly, and tried to steady my breathing. “I’m fine.”

He didn’t believe me, but the rain had let up and sunshine poured onto the street between the clouds, and it was my chance to leave.

“Have a good day, Earl.” I waved to him as I slipped out of the revolving doors and into the hot and muggy Saturday afternoon to take a walk, and try to clear my head.

That evening, I calledDrew and Fiona to dinner for an emergency meeting. Drew wanted to try this new Asian fusion place down in NoHo, but when we got there, the line was out the door and the wait to be seated was at least an hour. Fiona didn’t want to wait an hour, and Drew hadn’t thought it’d be so busy on a Saturday evening that we’d have needed to reserve a table, since it was new and no one had heard about it yet. Turned out,Time Outhad written a killer review for the place a few days ago, so now everyone wanted to try the sriracha egg rolls.

“Maybe there’s somewhere else around here,” Drew muttered, pulling out her phone, but it was prime dinner time and I was sure almost everywhere would be relatively busy. The muggy afternoonhad given way to a warm and summery evening, clouds rolling across the orange and pink sky like tumbleweeds.

“Maybe somewhere with outdoor seating?” Fiona asked, looking over Drew’s shoulder to skim Yelp.

I tilted my head back in the sunlight, waiting for them to decide where to go, since I wasn’t all that picky, and Fiona had the most dietary restrictions out of all of us. They were arguing over whether or not we should just cut our losses and skip over to another restaurant in the West Village since Fiona didn’t want to keep wandering aimlessly, when I spied a familiar bright yellow truck at the far end of the street, parked exactly where it had been last night—at Washington Square Park.

Catering to the summer college crowd, as usual.

I said, “How about fajitas?”

They gave me a confused look. Drew said, scrolling through her phone, “Where is that...?”

“What’s the rating?” Fiona added.

I turned them around and pushed them down the sidewalk. “Trust me, where we’re going, we don’t need ratings.”

They tried to argue with me until they caught sight of the food truck and the line curling down the sidewalk. Most of the people in line were either students from NYU or tourists who found themselves down by the Washington Square Arch, drawn in by the smell of grilled meats and nineties pop songs.

“This place soundsdelicious,” Drew said as Fiona found the food truck’s Instagram handle and took a photo to tag them. “How’d you know about it?”

I had dinner with James Ashton last night, who just so happens to be a not-so-old flame of mine—it’s complicated—and his friends own this truckis what I would have said if not for... everything. Though I figured if Ididsay that, then it would just open up a can of worms,and Drew would start asking questions about how I knew James Ashton, when I met him—things that I couldn’t exactly lie about because Iactuallymet Drew and Fiona seven years ago, and they would have remembered a guy like James back then.

So a somewhat truth it was.

“Don’t get mad, but James actually showed me this place last night after the cooking class.”

Drew’s eyes widened. “The chef?”

I nodded and Fiona gasped, “Clementine!”

“It was just dinner! We were both still a little hungry, and my Uber failed to pick me up and... anyway, the people who own this food truck are his friends.”

Drew seemed a little hesitant, something I understood because, let’s face it, if the other imprints found out that I’d been spending time with the author outside work functions, it would look...

Well, there would be rumors, to say the least.

In PR, any publicity was good publicity, but not in this case. In this case, it would look highly unprofessional, and Drew knew I wouldn’t sacrifice my career that way. At least, I hoped she did.

As we waited to order, Fiona asked, “So, why did you call for an emergency meeting?”

“Oh!” I’d almost forgotten. I reached into my purse and drew out the letter. “I got this in my aunt’s—in my mailbox at the Monroe,” I quickly corrected.

“A letter?” Drew muttered, and then her eyes widened when she read who it was addressed to. “Your aunt?”

“Who’s Vera?” Fiona added.

“Vera was a... she and my aunt dated thirty-something years ago. My aunt never talked much about her, but Vera was very, very important to her.” So important that she chose to let her go instead—afraid that what they had could only get worse. Becausepeople changed over seven years, and Analea and Vera were no different. It was like how Iwan had changed into James. How I would change in the seven years to come. “I don’t know what to do. Should I return it to sender or just keep it?”

“It’s dated only a few days ago,” Fiona noted. “I don’t think she knows your aunt is gone. Maybe you should tell her? In a letter back to her? Or, since you have her address, in person?”

“But what would she say?” Drew asked, and then shook her head. “I’d just return it to sender.”

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