First Draft Romance

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Roz is strangely quiet on the walk to the sandwich shop a couple blocks over, Bee Yell Tee. Not that I can blame her, really. I think we both had a cry while she showered. I feel awful.

At least the walk is pretty, I guess. It's chillier out today as fall settles into Manhattan. The trees outside Roz's apartment began to turn last week. Their leaves have already started to fall. Cautiously, I navigate around small orange and yellow piles—you never want to step in a leaf pile in New York, a mistake I made my first autumn here—stepping instead on stray leaves already well-trodden so that they lie flush with the cement, yet so fresh that they haven't dried enough to crunch quite yet. With each step, my tote bag bounces against my hip, weighed down by my laptop and the rom-com Roz recommended to me last week.

I keep glancing over at Roz, wrapped in her trench coat, her damp curls held in a make-shift bun by her jumbo claw clip. She's not wearing any makeup, not that I can tell, but her Prada glasses and the chocolate-flavored chapstick I watched her apply in the elevator are more than enough. Her perfume, her body wash—whatever it is that makes her smell so good—is stronger than ever. I'd grown used to it over the past couple months, I guess, but now, it's pleasantly in my face.

When we get to Bee Yell Tee, she steps forward and holds the door open for me. My shoulder brushes lightly against hers and I grimace, barely managing to mutter a thank you as she follows behind me.

"So," she says—the first thing she's said since we left her apartment—"I'm gonna do the turkey. You?"

"Turkey sounds good," I say. It's mumbly. I'm so stupid. Why hasn't she fired me yet? I'm terrible at this job. The ultimate fuckup, truly. "Thank you."

I find us a table near the online order pick-up portion of the counter. The place is packed; I barely manage to snag it before two well-dressed finance bros get to it, earning me matching disapproving glares. I ignore them, rather pointedly, and set my tote bag on the bench next to me.

Roz makes her way over soon after, plopping her clutch on the table, alongside two murky hand-pressed ginger apple juices that she and I have had at least two rave sessions about since we last ordered from here.

She plunks down into her seat with a sigh. "I'm surprisingly exhausted," she says, pulling the hair tie out. "Paper fiasco aside."

"'Surprisingly?'" I echo. "You've been sleeping like a med student before an organic chemistry final. For at least two weeks. And you're exhausted, surprisingly."

She takes a sip of her drink, her brow furrowing as she does. I know her well enough to know she's being playful. Relief swells in my chest. She sets her drink on the table and gives me a challenging stare.

"Did I ask?" she asks.

"Do I care?"

"Touché." She glances behind her to the open kitchen, leaning against the back of her seat. She watches them make our sandwiches in complete silence. I try to follow suit, but before I know it, I find myself staring at her, at her sleeveless burgundy bodysuit and her slate grey slacks. Her arms are toned, and her jawline is pronounced by the way her head is turned. Her side profile is sharp, dignified, but there's this softness in the slight curve of her lips and in her wet, messy curls that manage to make her feel approachable, without dulling down the regality of her features.

One of the kitchen staff brings us our sandwiches, meeting Roz's thanks with an overzealous, "No, thank you, Ms. Lindbergh," before excitedly scurrying back to the kitchen with a wide smile.

"So," Roz says, unwrapping her sandwich and staring at it instead of eating. It makes me hesitate before taking a bite of my own turkey sub. "How's your book going, Marcella?"