Of course, at the very moment I was pulling my keys out of my purse, the door to the office building swung open, and he strode out. I could tell he wasn’t expecting to see me right there, and that it had actually taken him by surprise. He started to smile and say something, but then he stopped, as though remembering the last conversation that we’d had. There were about twenty feet between us, and we both just stood there, looking at each other, neither one saying anything. That’s when I realized he was going to wait for me to say something first, but I didn’t know what to say. And I didn’t want to say the wrong thing, so I just got into my car and drove away.
“Thank you for meeting with me,” Carl said. I was sitting on the couch in his office, which was a big, bright room lined with bookshelves. He was seated in an armchair that was next to the couch, and he turned the voice memo on his iPhone on and placed it on t
he coffee table, so the microphone was facing me. “Has your mother told you anything about the project?”
“Not really,” I said. “Just that you were writing a book about the quarter-life crisis.”
He smiled and nodded. He reminded me of a teddy bear, or one of those animal characters in a children’s fiction book, with a light sweater vest pulled on over a collared short-sleeve shirt with light blue checkers. He had a sandy colored beard and slightly disheveled hair. He was also wearing Birkenstocks. “Correct. And that’s good she didn’t give you too many details; I think that’s better for the subjects that I’m interviewing. Though ‘interviewing’ is perhaps too rigid of a term—this is really more of a conversation. I’d like to hear about your experience so far. I’ll ask you a few basic questions to get us started.”
“Okay,” I said. “Sounds good.”
“How old are you?”
“I’m twenty-four.”
“And did you graduate from college?”
“Yes, with a B.A. in creative writing.”
“And what has your experience been like since you graduated?”
“My experience . . .” I paused and took a deep breath. “My experience has honestly been nothing like what I thought it would be. I can remember being a teenager and being so excited to get to graduate high school and go off to college because I was certain that was when my ‘real life’ was going to start. And I spent a good part of my teenage years just waiting for this real life to start, thinking that I’d know when it happened because I’d feel like an adult. I would know that I had arrived because I would feel different. But I don’t feel different. I feel exactly the same—only maybe worse, because now it seems like something is wrong with me. It seems like I somehow missed the turnoff for the road to adulthood, because I feel like I’m just playing pretend.”
Carl nodded. “What sorts of things have happened that made you feel this way?”
“The jobs I’ve had since graduating have nothing to do with what I went to school for. Though I realize that a creative writing major might not have been the most practical thing—my mother was always very fond of telling me that. But I thought she, of all people, would have encouraged me to pursue my passion, not just what might have made sense financially. So I haven’t had much success with my writing, but that’s really because I haven’t been doing any writing.”
“And why is that?”
“Because I have a lot of other stuff going on that’s distracting me from it. I know that’s no excuse. But I have a stalker and—”
“You have a stalker?”
“Yes. My mother doesn’t seem to think it’s anything, but there’s this guy that I met at the gym and he randomly shows up at my apartment and thinks that we’re meant to be.”
“I’m sure that’s rather distressing.”
“It is! But he hasn’t done anything yet that would warrant calling the police. And then I got fired from my other job because I found out the manager was embezzling money, and then the next job, this guy I knew from the gym basically got for me, but . . . I ended up sleeping with the boss there. That wasn’t my plan, but I just felt this attraction toward him that I’d never felt with anyone else before. It was unreal, almost, and then the fact that he seemed to feel the same way. These sorts of things never happen to me. Life felt really exciting for a little while, like I was excited for it to be Monday, the start of the work week, so I could see him, because all I wanted was to just be around him. I didn’t care what we were doing. I felt like I was in high school again. And then I found out that’s basically what he does with all his secretaries. I know how that sounds. I’m not really like that at all, either. I was actually a virgin until I met him. I felt like we had this connection, and to be honest, I think we still do, but he recently told me the girl he slept with before me is pregnant.”
“That must’ve been quite the shock.”
“Yeah, it was. And it’s made me question everything that I was feeling before—like, can I even trust my own feelings? Which seems to go hand-in-hand with the fact that I have no clue what I’m doing with my life. Maybe that’s the whole reason why I don’t to begin with—I can’t trust my feelings.”
“What is it that your feelings are telling you?”
“That he and I have this connection. That we’re—” this was going to sound so stupid—“meant to be together.” I looked down at my hands.
“Granted, I don’t know all the details of your particular situation, but perhaps your feelings aren’t wrong. You did say the person he got pregnant is someone he was with before the two of you first got together, correct?”
“Yes,” I said slowly.
“And from what you’ve told me so far, that sounds like it’s the major reason why you’re suddenly questioning your feelings to begin with.”
“Well, that and the fact that this person also used to be on his secretaries. So I sort of feel like I’m just another in this line of secretaries that he’s slept with.”
“That’s a valid point,” Carl said. “But it’s rooted in fear and projection. Has he been with anyone else since the two of you got together?”
“Not that I know of.”