The Other Black Girl(49)

“Not too sweet?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I went to college in the land of sweet tea, Richard. This ain’t nothin’,” she quipped, using the same exaggerated sassy tone that she’d used with Owen when she joked that she’d been raised by the streets. A passing glimpse of the bronze frame behind Richard’s head made Nella second-guess the daring move she’d just pulled. Pulling it out in a professional setting risked misunderstanding: One might think she was either a Black girl who actually did roll her neck in corporate settings and didn’t know better, or a Black girl who was making fun of other Black girls who did—and Nella wasn’t sure which was worse. What would Kendra Rae have thought about Nella’s performance?

She had no way of knowing. But what she did know was that Richard was drinking it down with the countenance of a child who was finally about to have that eerie noise he’s been hearing in the basement explained to him. Nella had delivered the perfect neck roll, apparently, and the precise amount of sass. She felt the air ease between them, felt the tension fall from her shoulders.

And so, she took another sip, set her cup down, and ventured to admit, smooth as honey, how badly she wanted to become Wagner’s next great Black editor.



* * *



Nella could use a cup of warm tea now, but she settled for a deep, centering breath as she rose from her desk, trying to summon the confidence she’d had the last time she and Richard had sat down to talk. What she was about to do could very well blow up in her face. She wasn’t even sure Richard knew anything about the Colin incident at all. Nella had double-checked Colin’s Twitter to make sure he hadn’t tweeted about it to his five hundred thousand followers, and Vera had always rejected the idea of reporting her business to anybody—especially a man. Chances were, Richard knew nothing, and if Richard knew nothing, she risked blowing up her own spot for no reason.

But she continued toward Richard’s office anyway. The most practical thing for her to do was explain everything and apologize for the misunderstanding. She’d take control of the narrative, fall on her sword. She’d do it so beautifully, so selflessly, and he’d admire the way she did it, just as he’d admired her sassy neck roll in their first meeting. He’d be convinced that Nella was still that plucky, mature employee he’d met two years ago. He’d see she had upstanding moral character and decide he didn’t want to swap her upstanding moral character for someone else’s.

Nella approached Donald’s desk with her head held high and her mouth open, ready to ask if Richard was free. But she abruptly closed it when she saw that Donald wasn’t there. His Discman was, but he wasn’t.

Nella peered across the hallway. Richard’s light was on, and the door to his office was wide open. She could hear him speaking, but his voice was so low that it sounded like he might have been talking to himself.

She glanced at Donald’s chair again, as though he might have suddenly materialized in the last two seconds. But he was still nowhere to be seen. So she moved closer to Richard’s office, prepared to knock on his open door and ask for a few minutes of his time. But something caused her to close her mouth and swallow her words whole.

It was his tone, hushed and stern.

“—middle of the day. I can’t say more right now. I told you email was better.”

Silence.

“Yes, I know. But—”

Richard sighed. When he spoke again, his voice was biting.

“Look, you don’t get to suddenly grow a conscience. Remember whose idea this was?”

An even longer silence.

“Fine. But just remember, you put the ball in motion. You chose to deal with Kenny the way you did, and now you—”

Something about the way he’d spat out the words “deal with” turned Nella’s blood cold. But then she remembered Kenny Bridges. Of course. She’d heard through the grapevine that this particular author had been giving his whole publicity team trouble. His agent hadn’t been keeping him in check, which explained Richard’s uncharacteristically angry tone. The realization thawed Nella’s thoughts as she waited impatiently for Richard to finish his call. If someone were to walk by her at this very moment, it would look pretty damn incriminating.

“Fine,” she heard him say. “But do us both a favor and stop pretending you don’t need a little assistance, alright? Okay. Love you, too. Bye.”

There was the click of a phone, followed by the soft muttering of the word “Dammit.” But Nella was fixated on the L-Word. Had she misheard Richard before? No. Deal with Kenny, he’d said, clear as day. She’d been so sure he was talking to Kenny’s agent.

So where did “love” come from? Everyone knew Richard’s wife managed a chain of candle stores that stretched from SoHo to the Hamptons. Richard’s wife dealt with fragrances, not fussy authors. It didn’t make sense.

Unless that hadn’t been Richard’s wife on the phone. And he and Kenny Bridges’s agent were…

Nella gasped, covering her mouth. She’d clearly overheard something she wasn’t supposed to, and this something had propelled Richard into a foul mood. Now was definitely not the time to barge in and start talking about how she’d fucked up with one of Wagner’s most important authors—especially if he was still in the dark about all of it.