After a small infinity, the editor-in-chief of Rolling Stone, a man named Tommy—keeping his once-rock star persona name, instead of just switching to Tom—cracked his chair back and began a long trek to Quentin’s table, deciding to bend to Quentin’s ego.
This was a victory.
Quentin’s eyes turned toward Tommy the moment he appeared at his table, as if he hadn’t noticed him before. He flashed a quick smile before rising and swiping his hand into his, shaking with professional strength. Tommy’s band had never gone as far as Orpheus Arise, but Quentin still remembered the little strappy guy at the occasional gig, seeming to falter to the floor with the weight of his guitar around his neck.
“Tommy. Good to see you.”
“And you, Q,” Tommy responded, his voice deeper than it once had been, when he’d been a man in his twenties. “How’s it going over at MMM? Holding down the fort?”
“Trying to,” Quentin answered. “Have an issue coming out next week, so you can imagine the panic at the office.”
“Sure. We just released, so we’re out celebrating,” he said, lifting his thumb toward the table behind him. “Would still love to do a feature about Orpheus Arise’s comeback soon. Some of our interns are still really into your shit, listening to your albums while they write. I try to tell them what a bum you were back then, but I can’t say they believe me. Your swagger is timeless. Surprised they ever wanted to write for Rolling and didn’t just go straight to you.”
“Ha. Well, your magazine has the ultimate prestige,” Quentin said. He felt his daughter’s eyes upon him. Did she still see the “swagger” from the mid-2000s? He hoped she only saw her boring dad.
“Anyway, interns are assholes to have around,” Tommy continued. “They think they have all these ideas, but they haven’t been around the block long enough to know what the scene was and is really like. They’re just cocky. They’re fucking exhausting.”
“Language!” Morgan cried from below before slurping at her strawberry milkshake, her eyes large, like saucers.
“Sorry,” Quentin said, placing his palm against her head. “She’s learning what to say in public and what not to.”
“Well, with a dad like Quentin McDonnell, I’m sure the lines become blurred in the best ways,” Tommy said, chortling. He shook Quentin’s hand a final time before spinning back to his own table, making a final comment. “If you ever want to talk shop, man to man, we should grab a drink.”
Quentin nodded. As he sat, slumping in his chair, he realized he wasn’t top dog over people like Tommy any longer. The game board had changed. Screaming little indie grunge rockers had lurched ahead of him, in some respects, and become top-tier editors at major magazines. His heart burned, yearning to fight to make MMM a better, more sophisticated magazine—one that could blast past that sort of competition. One that could become an institution.
“Dad. You’re lost in your thoughts again,” Morgan said, sighing. Ketchup spattered itself across her cheeks, making her look clownish. “And you look like you need another beer.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Quentin said, hailing the waitress. “You always know me best.”
The next night, when Morgan was no longer with him, burning curiosity sent him down the hall to Charlotte’s. He rang the bell, waiting, his heart hammering against his chest. Normally, they fucked every single day, at least once or twice, and his cock pulsed heavily against his crotch, wanting to dip within her, to fill her.
Charlotte answered the door after a long pause, her hair swept up in a ponytail and her eyes blackened, singed with tears. A pen twirled in her fingers, showing her manic anxiety. “What is it?”
“I wanted to check in on you,” Quentin said. The sadness in her eyes burned into him, making him recognize this was his fault.
“Just writing. Still,” Charlotte murmured.
“You’ve been writing since I sent you home yesterday morning?” Quentin asked, incredulous.
“Well, yes,” Charlotte said. “And I’m not going to stop until it’s perfect.”
There seemed to be a boundary between them now. Quentin tucked forward slightly, trying to bend it back, to kiss her soft, pillow-like lips. But she ducked away, stabbing panic pins into his chest. She shook her head, almost imperceptibly, like a child who refused to leap in the pool.
“I can’t. I have to get back to this,” she murmured. “I have to remember what’s important to me. And right now—this is it.”
“Charlotte,” Quentin began, shoving his hand against her door, trying to keep it open. “Let me read over what you have so far. Let me see if I can help you.”
“No,” Charlotte said, her eyes flashing. “I need to do this on my own. I got caught up in—in whatever this is, and I lost sight…” She trailed off, ducking behind the door. “I’m sorry, Quentin,” she breathed. “I’m really sorry.”