She almost laughed out loud at that last line. She didn’t think that she’d ever talk to Beau Towers, let alone soon. She’d probably be sending him progressively more and more unhinged emails every two weeks for years to come.
The thought of that made the smile drop from her face. How much longer could she do this? Her first year at TAOAT had been hard, yes, but still new, exciting, thrilling every day to work with books all around her. But as certain parts of her job got easier, other parts got harder and more overwhelming. Marta gave her more and more work to do—more details to manage, more manuscripts to read, more authors to talk through their work with, cheer up, or get to chill out. And all those new responsibilities were great, and she felt like she was good at most of them, but they were all in addition to her regular work, and sometimes she felt like she was drowning. And since she was one of the few employees of color here, on top of everything else, she was always getting pulled in to give advice about diversity this or inclusivity that or to meet that one Black author who was visiting that day. She had to put a smile on her face and do it all, but it was exhausting.
Plus, what really mattered was whether Marta thought she was good—and when it came to that, Izzy had no idea. She tried to remind herself every day that Marta was brilliant, that she’d learned so much from watching her and listening to her, that she was lucky to have this job. But while that was all true, it was also true that Marta was hard to work for—often curt, not at all friendly, not particularly encouraging, and she rarely, if ever, gave out compliments. What Izzy wanted was to get promoted to assistant editor, and then, eventually, to editor. Not immediately, but someday. After all, Gavin had been promoted after two years, and her own two-year anniversary was fast approaching. But Marta hadn’t dropped a single hint to her that promotion was in the cards.
Very occasionally, Marta would throw a “Good job” in Izzy’s direction, and each time it would thrill her. She would work harder for the next few weeks, in the hopes that Marta would notice her and praise her again, and when no praise came, she would give up in despair. One time, after a particularly curt email from Marta on an edit she’d worked so hard on, Izzy even went so far as to update her résumé. But she’d never done anything with it. Why would she, when she had no idea if she was doing anything right? And that was one of the most depressing things about this job—she wanted guidance, mentoring, a way to get better at her job, a way to someday become the kind of editor Marta was. She wanted to edit great literary fiction, commercial fiction, and memoirs. But she had no idea if she’d even been learning anything.
And, yes, she’d wanted to write some of that great literary fiction herself. But she hadn’t written a word in months.
She’d started to question if she really belonged here, if this job, if this career, was really for her. Something she barely wanted to admit to herself was that working at TAOAT had spoiled her previously uncomplicated love for books and reading. Reading used to be her greatest hobby, her source of relaxation, comfort, joy. Always reliable, always there for her. Now reading felt like homework, in a way that it never had back when she was in school. Now she felt guilty when she read for pleasure, because she knew there was always something else she should be reading, always another manuscript out there, always something Marta was waiting on, an author was waiting on, an agent was waiting on. It made reading stressful, when it never had been before.
Izzy sighed. She might as well deal with that pile of books she’d shoved to the side of her desk.
A few minutes later, Marta walked in, chatting with Gavin. As they got closer to her desk, it was clear they’d run into each other skiing over the weekend. Ah, that’s why they’d both left early on Friday.
Izzy couldn’t help but envy Gavin’s relaxed, easy relationship with Marta, who still completely intimidated her. Even though Marta stressed her out constantly, Izzy wanted so much to impress her. She wished she had any idea how to do that.
Marta nodded at Izzy on her way to her office. That was more of a greeting than she usually got; Marta often didn’t even seem to notice her there. Gavin stopped by her desk on the way to his own.
“Hi, Isabelle. How was your weekend?”
Izzy smiled at Gavin. “Good, thanks. How was yours? Did I hear you saying you were skiing?”
Izzy had heard the whole conversation—they hadn’t been quiet— but she’d let Gavin tell her about it. He was always a little pompous and long-winded, but he’d also always been kind to her—he’d given her lots of advice about working with Marta and had always been something of a mentor for her. Lord knows Marta wasn’t.
Months ago, Gavin had found her in the office, after hours, printing out the draft of her manuscript, and had asked to see it. She’d been nervous to show it to him—she hadn’t really shown it to anyone at that point and had only really told Priya about it, but she’d handed the printed copy over to him then and there. He’d given it back to her a week later without any notes on it and a pat on the shoulder. She shouldn’t have asked him what he thought; she’d known from the look on his face, but she couldn’t help herself.
“It’s a really sweet first effort, Isabelle,” he’d said. “But . . . I’m not sure this is your path. I . . . could tell you were trying to be literary, but, well . . .” He stopped himself. “I don’t want to hurt your feelings. I shouldn’t say anything more.”
And because Izzy was a glutton for punishment, she’d asked him to say more, and he had. At length. She hadn’t written a word since.
Izzy shook that memory off and tried to pay attention to whatever Gavin was saying about Vermont or wherever he and Marta had been.
“Oh,” he said after a few more minutes of talking about how he’d ridden up a ski lift with Jonathan Franzen. “You know how you were wondering last week about whether you’ll get promoted this year—when I saw Marta on the slopes, we talked a bit about that, and . . . don’t tell
Marta I told you this?”
Izzy could barely breathe all of a sudden. “Of course not, I wouldn’t,” she said.
He smiled at her, but she could tell from his smile the news wasn’t good. “Not this year, Isabelle. Maybe not at all, from the way Marta talked about you.”
Sudden tears sprang to her eyes. Why did that hurt so much? She hadn’t realized how much she’d still hoped until just this moment.
“But you know how she can be,” he said. “Are you okay?”
Izzy refused to let anyone here see her cry. She put a smile on her face. The bright, cheerful one she always wore at work. The one she knew she had to wear.
“Oh, I’m fine. Yeah, I know how she can be. Thanks, Gavin, for letting me know what she said.”
He smiled at her one more time and walked over to his desk.
Izzy turned to her computer and let the smile fall from her face. She wanted to leave the office, go outside to scream or cry, but it was too cold outside, and she couldn’t cry in the bathroom where everyone could hear you. Instead, she clicked over to her travel itinerary. That made her smile for real. She needed some sunshine, she needed an adventure, she needed an escape. Even though she was only going to California for a few days, she would do everything she could to make them count.
