The Futures(24)

This was it.

“Jules,” he said. He took a breath. “I can’t—I feel like I have to say something.”

I shook my head. I wanted—needed—this moment to happen, but I wanted the outcome without the procedure. Wake me up when the surgery is over.

“About last time, I guess. It was a long time ago. But I was a jerk. It was totally inappropriate. I should never have said or done those things. I’d like to think I’m a different person now, and I want to say—”

“Adam, it’s okay. We don’t have to talk about it.”

“No, I want to say it. I’m sorry, Julia. It’s been weighing on me, especially since—I guess that’s the real reason I never called. I was worried you wouldn’t want to talk to me again. I wouldn’t blame you for that.”

“It was just a misunderstanding.”

He tilted his head and smiled sadly. Apologies didn’t come naturally to Adam. “I’m not sure I deserve to get off so easy.”

“It’s fine. We’re fine.” A pause—could I say it? “I missed you.”

We talked about my job, about the last two years of school. Adam was the first person since graduation who actually seemed curious about my life. I didn’t realize how much I’d been holding back until he started asking questions.

“Well, she sounds like a character,” Adam said after I told him about Laurie’s soap-in-the-coffee bit. “I know the type. Probably spent too many years living alone.”

“It’s so strange. She’s smart—I can see that. I respect her. I want to like her. But it’s like I’m not there. It’s like she doesn’t even see me as a real person. I don’t get it.”

“That’s her mistake, Jules. It sounds like you’re too good for that place.”

I’d forgotten how much I loved the sound of Adam’s voice. “I guess I should stop whining,” I said, reaching to refill my glass. “At least I have a job, right?”

“What about Evan?” he asked. “What’s he up to these days?”

“Oh.” I was surprised that Adam had even remembered Evan’s name. “Evan.”

“You guys are still together?”

“Yeah. Yeah, he’s working at a hedge fund. Spire Management.”

“Spire? That’s a tough place to crack. He must be good.”

Relief washed over me. Back in college, Adam usually dismissed guys like Evan, if he noticed them at all. But now he was genuinely interested in Evan, in what he was working on. There was a warmth to his questions. Adam had changed. He wasn’t the same person he’d been the last time we’d seen each other. Evan was my boyfriend, and Adam respected what I’d chosen. It felt good. This, maybe, was the signal I’d been waiting for. I nodded vigorously when he suggested a second bottle.

“So you’re a reporter?” I said later. “How long have you been there?”

“It’s boring. You don’t want to hear about it.”

“No, I do.” He grimaced, and I laughed. “Come on. It can’t be as bad as my job.”

“About a year and a half now. I started as a stringer, and then they had an opening on the business desk. The editor said he would move me to politics before the election.”

“That sounds promising.”

“He changed his mind. Once the housing bubble started heating up, he decided he needed me to stay where I was. So.” He sipped his wine. “It’s annoying. I don’t like what I’m writing about. It’s the same news everyone else is reporting. I’m putting out feelers for other jobs.” He shrugged, looking resigned. “Not much else to say about it.”

*

In the following days, this gave me comfort. Even Adam didn’t have everything figured out? Unfathomable, a few years earlier. In college I was certain he was going to be famous. Adam McCard—people would know that name.

We knew each other from the campus magazine at Yale. In the first weeks of fall, freshman year, I crammed into a musty old office with two dozen other freshmen, lured by the promise of free pizza. The editors of the magazine made their pitch, telling us that joining the magazine would be the best decision we ever made. I thought I’d never go back. Me, the girl who hated English class, the girl who still recoiled from the memory of that bright red C on that stupid essay? But the next week, I returned. Already the people around me were finding their niches: Evan with his hockey, Abby with her volunteer work. I knew that I needed to hurry up and find my thing. I was assigned to write a short profile of the new football coach. I didn’t know the first thing about football. “I’m sorry. This is probably awful. I’m a terrible writer,” I told my editor, an older girl named Viv, when I turned in that assignment. “That’s okay,” Viv said. “That’s what I’m here for.”

My next assignment was to review a new show at the campus art gallery. “Julia,” Viv said as she read my draft. “This is really nice. Your descriptions are great. You must know a lot about this stuff.” The rest of my assignments from Viv were, thankfully, in that vein. I wrote several more pieces for the magazine that year. I wasn’t gung-ho about it, wasn’t angling to be an editor. But I liked walking into the office and feeling that I belonged. I liked the satisfaction that came from Viv telling me I had done a good job.