A Second Bite at the Apple (24 page)

“Why? What happened?”

He lets out a sigh and rolls his empty glass around in his hand. “Apparently the
Chronicle
is running a story on Green Grocers and the horsemeat scandal.”

My breath shortens. I open my mouth to speak, to tell him everything I came here to tell him tonight, but the words get stuck in my throat, and I sit across from him in stunned silence. Why can't I tell him? What is wrong with me?

“The timing couldn't be worse,” he says. “My project was just coming together, and now . . .” He trails off.

I clear my throat, making a second attempt to speak, but before I can say anything, Jeremy's phone rings and buzzes on the table. He glances down and sighs. “Sorry, I have to take this.”

He picks up the phone and presses it against his ear, but when the noise around us becomes too loud for him to hear, he rushes out of the restaurant. I watch through the front window as he paces back and forth, alternately running his fingers through his hair and rubbing his chin. After he has been outside for a good five minutes, he hangs up, comes back inside, and grabs his briefcase off the floor.

“I hate to do this, but I have to go.”

“Now? What's going on?”

“Green Grocers has called us in for crisis management. I'm on the last flight out to Chicago tonight.”

“Tonight? You're kidding.”

“I wish I were. They want all hands on deck. I'm going to see what I can do to salvage the farmers' market partnership, and the other guys are going to work to minimize reputational damage when the story comes out.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “This is really bad, Sydney. Really, really bad.”

“Not necessarily . . .”

“Yes, necessarily. Bob Young is panicking. The company's stock is about to take a huge hit. My bosses are up my ass, asking if I said anything. It's a total disaster—not just for the company but potentially for me, too.” He glances at his watch. “I need to get out of here. I'll call when I can.”

He leans in and kisses me, his soft lips pressing gently against mine. I pull away and fix my eyes on his. I want to tell him the truth—
It's my story! I found your e-mails! This is all for the greater good!
—but the words get caught in my throat again, and I can't.

“I'll text when I land, okay? Man, whoever leaked this story from within Green Grocers is about to get into some
serious
trouble.”

He gives me another peck on the forehead and then rushes out, leaving me at the table alone. And that's when I realize Green Grocers isn't the only one who's screwed. Apparently I am, too.

Everything is spiraling out of control. I should have told Jeremy the truth, but I panicked, and I didn't, and now he is in Chicago, and he is angry, and everything is terrible.

Heidi, of course, finds all of this endlessly amusing, a point she emphasizes repeatedly as we work together at the farmers' market Saturday morning.

“Didn't I tell you this would go nuclear?”

“You did.”

“If you'd stuck with Drew like I suggested, you wouldn't be in this quandary.”

I unload a stack of buttery shortbread into a basket. “If I'd stuck with Drew, I'd be telling you about the short-tailed albatross and habitat loss.”

“What's wrong with that?”

“Nothing. But I wouldn't have a story on the front page of the
Washington Chronicle
.” I dust my hands on my jeans. “And I wouldn't be with someone who makes me as happy as Jeremy does.”

“If he finds out you snooped through his stuff and wrote the story, my guess is you will soon be very
un
happy.”

“Not necessarily. I still have time to fix this.”

“How? By developing a time machine?”

I glare at her as I heave a crate of cinnamon raisin bread onto the table. “Remind me not to come to you for sympathy.”

She breaks off a small piece of one of Rick's snickerdoodles and pops it into her mouth. “Do you want sympathy or honesty?”

“Both.”

“Listen, it's hard to have a lot of sympathy when you went into this with your eyes open. It's not as if you walked into Jeremy's bedroom, and those e-mails jumped out and attacked you. You didn't have to take photos of them.”

“But people have a right to know the truth. It was the responsible thing to do.”

She hands me a piece of cookie. “Sure. But that was your choice. And it was your choice not to tell him and then to take your name off the story. I'm not saying those were the wrong choices, but I'm also not going to feel sorry for you for making them.”

I take the piece of cookie from Heidi's hand and stuff it in my mouth. “Fair enough.”

“Hey, what the hell are you two doing?”

I whirl around and face Rick, my mouth covered in cakey snickerdoodle crumbs.

“Are you eating my freaking cookies?” he says.

“It fell on the ground,” I lie.

He grunts. “Well, get back to work. I want this table ready in the next ten minutes. Got it?”

I hurry my way through unloading crate after crate: carrot cupcakes, strawberry ricotta muffins, blueberry lemon pound cake, oatmeal raisin cookies. The early morning clouds break around eight o'clock, and the warm, late-May sun shines bright in the pale blue sky, casting shadows from our tent down the winding dirt path. When the bell rings at nine, the market is already teeming with hungry shoppers, who stroll up and down the market thoroughfare, curly carrot tops and wild garlic scapes peeking out from their canvas bags. A customer passes carrying a box filled with baskets of strawberries, and the sweet smell of fresh berries trails behind him like perfume.

By ten o'clock, we've sold nearly half the chocolate chip cookies and almost all of the oatmeal raisin cookies, so I consolidate the two into one basket. As I bend down to tuck the empty one beneath the table, I see a pair of feet approach and stop in front of where I am squatting.

“Sydney?”

My fingers begin to tremble at the sound of a familiar voice, a smooth baritone I haven't heard in years. I study the pair of feet in front of me, the size ten Nikes pointing at me, the bows of the laces staring at me like eyes. Only when my quads begin to burn from squatting do I realize I've been holding my breath.

I slowly bring myself to a standing position, and as my head rises above the stack of blueberry lemon loaves, Zach's face comes into view.

“Hey,” he says. “I hoped I'd find you here.”

He flashes a smile, the same goofy, sideways grin he had when we were fourteen-year-olds making out in his parents' basement. He still has the same doe eyes, big and round and dark as chocolate truffles, but his pin-straight hair, which for so many years stuck up in front with an unruly cowlick, is smoothed in a conservative side part. I'd be lying if I said I haven't tried checking up on him on Facebook over the years, but since I de-friended him, I've been limited in what I can see. Having his face so close to mine—those eyes, that smile—takes my breath away.

An uncomfortable silence hangs between us as we stare at each other, my heart racing in my chest.

“It's been a while,” he finally says.

“Five years,” I manage to say, my voice tight.

He nods. “Yeah. I know.”

I stand stiff behind the basket of cookies, unable to move or speak. Every time I think about opening my mouth to say something, a thick lump develops in my throat, and the words dissolve into dust. What do you say to the person who broke your heart? Who never gave you a proper good-bye? Who screwed you up for life?

“So . . . I'm living in DC now,” he says after another protracted silence. “Moved down last weekend from New York. I start my new job at DOJ on Monday.”

I nod, my lips pressed together. The one saving grace of our breakup was that he was in New York and I was in Philly, then DC, so I never had to worry about running into him. The idea of living in the same city is pretty much the worst thing I can imagine.

“Listen,” he says, after I've stood in silence for a good three minutes, letting him fumble in the awkwardness. “This isn't a coincidence, me running into you here. When I knew I'd be moving to DC, I Googled you. I saw you were writing the farmers' market newsletter and worked here. I wanted to see you again—needed to see you again.”

“Why?”

“Because I've been thinking about you. A lot, actually. I've had plenty of time to think over the past five years. What I did to you was really shitty. I still feel bad about it.”

“You should,” I say.

“I do.” He glances at his feet, then back up at me. “And I'm sorry.”

Those words—the words I've longed to hear him say for years—send a chill up my spine. “A little late for that, isn't it?”

“I guess. But I've changed.”

“Good for you.”

He takes a deep breath and presses his hands together. “I miss you, Sydney. I miss my best friend.”

I blink to keep my eyes from welling up with tears. “Yeah, well . . .” I trail off.

“I was hoping . . . Well, do you think we could grab a cup of coffee after the market? Just to talk.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Then you can just listen. Because I have a lot I want to say to you.”

I tear my eyes away from his. “I'm busy. Heidi and I already have plans.”

“What about tomorrow?”

“I'm busy then, too.”

“Monday?”

I let out an exasperated sigh. “What aren't you getting? I don't want to talk to you.”

He takes a deep breath and fixes his dark brown eyes on mine. “Okay. Then how about this: My new boss gave me two tickets to the orchestra next week as a welcome gift, and I don't have anyone to go with. Why don't you come with me? That way we don't even have to talk—we can just listen to the music, like old times.”

“Zach . . .”

“Please. I'm not asking you to forgive me. Just . . . don't shut me out.”

I gaze into his eyes, my heart racing wildly in my chest. Why should I give him a second chance? Has he earned it? Does he deserve it? My gut tells me no: I should run as far away from him as I can. Inviting him back into my life is only asking for trouble. But as I run my eyes across his face, the face I loved so deeply for so many years, the face that has tortured me in my thoughts and dreams, my resolve crumbles.

“Okay,” I finally say. “Okay,” because apparently I hate myself.

“I'm sorry,
WHAT?
”

Libby's high-pitched shriek blasts through my phone, nearly deafening me.

“Zach is taking me to the Kennedy Center next Thursday. They're playing Berlioz's
Symphonie Fantastique
.”

“I don't care if they're playing
Symphonie Orgasmique
. This is the worst idea I've ever heard. EVER.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

“Well, I mean, honestly. I can't be the only one who feels this way. Did you tell Heidi? What does she think?”

“She's . . . not a fan.”

In fact, Heidi's exact words were, “Why don't you just go stab yourself in the chest with Rick's rusty bread knife? It'll be faster and less painful.”

“See?” Libby grumbles. “Heidi agrees with me. Anyone in his or her right mind would agree with me. This is ridiculous. Zach is a lying, cheating asshole. Why would you forgive him so easily?”

“I'm not forgiving him. We're just going to the orchestra.”

“Oh. Right. ‘Just' the orchestra. And then it will ‘just' be his apartment. And then ‘just' his bed.”

“It isn't like that, Libby. I swear.”

“Then what is it like?”

“Everyone deserves a second chance.”

“No, they don't.”

“Oh, really? And what about Matt?”

She hesitates. “That's different.”

“How?”

“I don't even know whether Matt did anything wrong.”

“You still haven't confronted him?”

“Not yet.”

“Okay, and what if he did do something wrong?”

“It's still different.”

“Why? Because it's you and not me?”

“Because it's you and Zach. There's too much history there.”

I let out a bitter laugh. “Are you joking? You and Matt are
engaged.
”

“So?”

I rest my forehead on my hand and let out a loud groan. “You know what? Never mind. I'm sorry I told you.”

“You're only sorry because I'm not telling you it's a great idea. It's a terrible fucking idea, and you know it, and when he breaks your heart a second time, you'll have no one to blame but yourself.”

“Hey, Lib? This is me hanging up. Good-bye.”

I end the call and throw my phone on my couch, wishing for once I had a regular landline so that I could actually slam the phone down with force. I don't know what makes me angrier: that Libby is probably right, or that the irony of her admonition is completely lost on her. What gives her the right to choose who gets a second chance and who doesn't? What makes her so freaking special?

Heidi, of course, happens to share Libby's view, though Heidi also believes Jeremy never deserved a second chance either after his professional misdeeds. Frankly, the only person she encourages me to give a second chance to is Drew, the only man among the three with a conflict-free past and, whether despite or because of this, the only one in whom I no longer have any interest.

As I navigate my way through my very own soap opera, Green Grocers finally sends me a statement Wednesday afternoon, adding more fuel to my emotional firestorm.

The statement doesn't say whether Bob Young will remain CEO, but when I follow up to ask, the PR representative gives me a typically formal response about how the company stands behind its leaders—which, in my experience, companies do until they don't.

With Green Grocers' statement in hand, I finish writing up my story and shoot it off to Stu Abbott, who calls me in an excited tizzy a few hours later.

“We're good to go,” he says. “Legal is looking it over right now, but so far everything looks solid. We should be all set for Friday. Oh, and I'm going to help Charles with a piece for
The Morning Show
as part of our content-sharing agreement. He has some . . . interesting ideas.”

“He usually does . . .”

To be honest, I'd forgotten about Charles. Now that my name isn't on the story, he'll probably claim the whole thing was his idea.

“But you'll be happy to know my managing editor is thrilled with the story,” Stu says. “Once the dust settles, she wants to discuss bringing you on board in a more serious way.”

“Really?”

“Really. She's also impressed with your morals—taking your own name off the story to protect your source. That shows integrity.” He lets out a contented sigh. “You're a good apple, Sydney Strauss. We'd be lucky to have you as part of our team.”

My gut sours as his words echo in my ears, the words “morals” and “integrity” ringing like sirens, and as I hang up, I have to wonder: If I'm such a good apple, then why do I feel so unquestionably rotten?

 

Later that evening, Jeremy calls me for the first time in a week.

“Finally coming up for air?” I say, trying to mask the nervous edge in my voice. We've texted and e-mailed since he left, but without hearing his voice, I haven't been able to gauge how work is going or whether he knows about my involvement with the horsemeat story. I still want to tell him myself, in person, but the longer he stays in Chicago, the harder that becomes.

“Kind of,” he says. “It's total chaos over here.”

“Yeah?”

“To be honest, I don't know half of what's going on. We're all working in silos. All I know is I've been busting my ass for the past week, trying to salvage this pilot program, and from what I'm hearing, it's probably going to fall through anyway.”

My heart sinks. “Really?”

“That's the buzz around the office. I mean, publicly, they'll say all projects are going forward as planned, but internally they'll just keep postponing and postponing until everything falls through. Which, considering how hard I've worked, really pisses me off.”

“Wouldn't it make more sense for them to go forward with the program? So they could point to something good they're doing to take the spotlight off the horsemeat scandal?”

“One would think. But I don't make the decisions. I just do what I'm told. All I know is the
Chronicle
plans to run the story Friday, so I'm heading back to DC tomorrow night.” He lets out a long sigh. “But enough about me. I've missed you. Maybe we can grab a drink after I land tomorrow night.”

A knot develops in my chest. Tomorrow night I'm supposed to meet Zach at the Kennedy Center. “What time are you supposed to land?”

“Not sure. I think around nine? I can give you a call when I get in.”

“Okay. Sure.” Given that the performance begins at seven, I can make that work. And anyway, it will be good to have an excuse to get away from Zach—and to have a chance to talk to Jeremy in person before the story comes out.

“Great. I could use some Sydney time. I meant to tell you before I left, but everything was so crazy. . . . The past few months have been really special. Ever since I met you, my life has been . . . I don't know. Better. Fuller. I know that sounds cheesy, but I mean it. I'm the happiest I've been in a really long time.”

His words swell inside me and fill me alternately with joy and terror, seeming to sweep me away and knock me down at the same time. My hand shakes as I press the phone against my ear, my palms slick and my heart racing.

“Me too,” I say.

I'm not sure what scares me more: the fact that those words are true, or that in two days, they might not be.