Layer Cake

Part One | Understanding

Monday, February 2, 2032

THE NEWS THAT BROKE

I’m sitting at my desk, resisting the urge to check my phone. It’s six-thirty pm and he hasn’t called. He hasn’t texted. Or emailed. Or messaged my assistant. There’s an ominous node of silence coming from him and I’m trying my best to not let the anxiety that is crawling over my skin consume me. To flip the switch that is desperately awaiting its moment of illumination, sending me into the tailspin I know the anger inside of me is craving. An emotional breakdown, an unwinding. I try counting my breaths, using the meditation app on my phone to recenter myself and help me wind down from the day, week–year really. They say, or rather the few who know say that it will all work out. Times get tough and you have to remain brave and fight for what matters but I’m not even sure what matters anymore. And further, who I am.

I give up on meditating and look at the document on my screen. 850 words, that’s all I need to write and send to Emily so she can get the issue to print before it hits the streets tomorrow. And yet, I can’t seem to find the words to write or know what topics I am willing to be vulnerable enough to share. The community cherishes my monthly letters to them, finding hidden gems of what’s to come for the magazine and I feel at this moment unsure if it’s time to be honest with them about my life, about what is going to come of it.

I allow my eyes to wander around the room. The wall to my right is covered in framed covers of every edition I have been the Editor-in-Chief at Covet. Fifty-two editions that somehow all managed to fit on the wall, framed in white. There’s a fig leaf tree in the corner besides a leather slingback chair. An orchid sits on my desk, one that my assistant keeps alive. One ice cube a week, she likes to remind me when she’s heading out on PTO. I can see the Seattle skyline through the floor to ceiling window behind my desk and opposite the gallery wall. The last embers of light flickering in the sky like candles in a darkened room.

I sigh, an audible exhale and shake my shoulders. Writer’s block isn’t novel to me. In fact, it’s becoming a recurring, prevalent issue in my life, threatening my ability to articulate my thoughts and allow my creative juices to flow. I feel lost, the way I did in college, all those years ago. Weighed down by a future so uncertain and unclear, my overly organized and punctual self sat in front of her laptop for weeks on end, almost failing the class, unable to write my final paper. And now all these years later, almost two decades, my life once structured and certain, is changing, morphing into something I had certainly never anticipated and I’m having a challenging time putting the words on paper. Finding space in my mind to encapsulate this month’s collection on love and heartbreak and Valentine’s day.

I grab a pencil on my desk, sometimes it helps me to write my thoughts before I type them out, deciding I’ll start with my parents story. Their love that spanned decades, continents and countless disagreements. Their imperfect marriage had been through enough, witnessed so much and yet, together they remained. I admired them for that. For their courage and grace through challenging times. For their ability to compromise and to kindly negotiate. I had believed that just like them, I too could have a marriage that would span decades.

A love that would last a lifetime.

My thoughts are interrupted when there is a knock at the door. I look up and see Cody Canberry, our CEO. He smiles his endearing grin and points to the door, asking if he can come in. I drop the pencil on my desk and motion him to enter.

He closes the door behind him and says, “Hey, I’m glad you’re still here. I was hoping to catch you before you left.” He smiles at me again, this time with less confidence. He always could see right through me. Straight past the veiled, cold exterior, into my fragile interior, the parts of me that longed to be seen and loved. “How are you doing?”

“Oh you know, writer’s block again,” I say with a moan. “When will this end?”

“Soon, I’m sure. You’re almost out of the woods. Just a couple more weeks and you’ll be free.”

I give him a forced, reassuring smile and turn away. Not sure free is the right word, not sure what is. There were still many steps that had to be completed before this was all over. And even then, would it ever really be over? Does one ever move on from a heartbreak like this?

When I remain silent he says, “Have you given any additional thought to taking that trip to Europe we discussed? Your sabbatical.”

I frown, taking in a gulp of air. No, I wanted to say but I knew his pale, freckled face, already ridden with sorrow and pity, would only transform into a furrowed brow ripe with disappointment. He would begin his monologue of why I wasn’t prioritizing myself. That I was pouring myself into work rather than focusing on my healing and recovery. That I was avoiding my problems instead of facing them head on. No, I didn’t have the capacity for his parenting, which he found himself doing to me quite often, assuming the role of a caregiver and mentor, iterating that the years he had on me gave him wisdom to pass down.

“Look, I think it would be really good for you,” he started, the way he always did. Starting with what he thought would be good for me. I know he’s coming from a good place but everyone thinks they know what is best for me right not except for me. The voice inside my head getting overpowered by what others think I should do, how I should be. “I have a friend who has a chateau in France, you know Jean Paul and his partner, Robbie. You met them before, at our holiday party a few years back. Their from New York. Anyways, I called them earlier today and they said you’re more than welcome to stay there. They have a chef, a pool and a driver, if you want to leave the property but really you want. It’s stunning. What do you think?”

“I think I want to finish this Letter from the Editor and go home and take a bath.” I turn to face him and stand up from my chair, walking towards the glass window to peer out into the city. The fog had blanked the city by now, street lights turning on across varied street corners, illuminating people’s way home.

Cody takes a seat–something he only does when he means to stay longer than his welcome and wants to discuss a pressing issue–crossing one leg over the other and places a large orange envelope on the table. He plays with the color of his polo, making sure its cuffed over his Ralph Luaren sweater.

He gives me another sad, pitiful smile and says, “Give it a think and let me know.”

“Okay,” I say, making my way back towards my desk. “Anything else?”

“Yes,” he replies, dragging out the s in a way I know there’s something more. I mean how could I not. It’s January 31st, his birthday is tomorrow and somehow he’s still here. Talking to me about my problems. I take a big breath, attempting to hold back the agitation in my voice but it comes out anyways, my patience a thin string, already coming undone.

“Spit it out already, Cody. I don’t have time for this.”

“Jeez Gwen, calm down. I’m your boss, I can come talk to you and take my time with you if I so like.”

I throw my hands up in the air and roll my eyes at him. In our ten years working together, it’s never not been a safe space for either of us to speak our mind and argue, or as Cody likes to tell the wider team, negotiate, our opinions. That’s why this partnership has worked for so long, because we can be ourselves. I place my hands on my desk and stare at him.

“Just tell me or leave, I don’t have time for this.”

“Fine,” he reluctantly says. “Why don’t you sit down? Do you want a glass of wine?”

“Seriously? Are you not hearing me? Just spit it out.”

“Ok, ok,” he coos, waving his hands in the air in a plea. “I do think you should sit down.”

I roll my eyes again, crossing my arms over my chest and fall back into the chair.

“Open the envelope.” He points to my desk.

Larger than the traditional orange envelope, I pick it up and feel the weight of paper inside of it. Not any kind of paper but a collection of pages bound together like a magazine. I undo the clip, making eye contact again with Cody. My right eyebrow raises, as it always does when my curiosity is tickled. I pull it out and my eyes go wide. There it is, all my hard work and mentoring and editing and feedback, compiled together in February’s print edition. Number 57. Love is my drug. That was the slogan we had decided upon after countless rewrites and working sessions with the very best copywriters on the team. I see the sticky notes on the whiteboard. Us outlining the edition, what each page would say. How the reader would feel. The stories we were trying to tell encapsulated by five words, scribbled in sharpie. How to let love in. Learning to love yourself again. Tips on having great sex. And on and on. And now, the edition was here, printed and completed, without my letter from the editor.

I look up at Cody, my facing reddening, the way it always did when my boil was beginning to boil. The confusion which cascades anger is coursing through my veins. How could he do this? Why would he do this? This can’t be happening.

Through agitated lips I say, “How could you do this?”

I don’t hear his response, my mind racing from one thought to the next. Replaying last week. Were their conversations I missed? Or a meeting I had skipped? Had I misheard something? Or dropped the ball on a due date? No, I keep telling myself. No, I’ve been in this chair, this office all week. There is no way I missed something. I have never done that before.

I open the magazine and flip to page seven. My page. The glossy 8.5 x 11 sheet that is about me, from me and for our community. The place where my words are supposed to live, a piece of the magazine that is mine and no one else can take. And yet, as my eyes land on the page I realize a truth I could never have saw coming. Something I never anticipated. The floor being pulled from underneath me.

A letter from Cody.