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“Traveling, huh?” I say softly. “What does that look like?”
“C’mon.” He takes my hand and makes a beeline toward the front door.
“You’re not wearing a shirt,” I say. “They’re kind of big on people wearing shirts outside here.”
“We’re not going outside.” Smith pulls me into the building elevator. He pushes the ground floor button, but as soon as the elevator begins its descent, he presses the stop button. “We’re going here.”
“In the elevator?”
“Yes.” He takes both my hands in his and squeezes them tightly. “We’re having this conversation in the elevator where nobody can bother us. Is that all right with you?”
“Sure.” I glance at the mirrored walls surrounding us. “Although, it kind of feels like there are eight of us in here.”
“Well, it feels like there’s a thousand of us in my parents’ condo.” He lets my hands go and leans against one of the mirrored walls. “I haven’t told the magazine whether I’ll take the job. I told them I had to talk to you first about the details.”
“OK.” I breathe deeply. “And what exactly are the details?”
“Look, the company is a start-up. It’s literally two guys with a few computers and even fewer connections to the industry.”
“Sounds sketchy.”
“I thought the same thing, until I spoke with them and realized that these guys could build the next Rolling Stone. The one guy Marcus is so ridiculously smart when it comes to social media and search engines and all that geeky shit. He helped launch Instagram, and that thing is blowing up.”
“But what does that have to do with music?”
“His buddy Donovan is a savant when it comes to finding fresh voices. The guy was singing Bon Iver’s praises for years before he won Best New Artist. He saw Adele and Amy Winehouse perform in dive bars long before anyone in America knew who the hell they were.”
“OK.” I slowly exhale. “That’s exciting, but where do you come into all of this?”
“They’ve been functioning mostly as a music news source for the past year. They run a few interviews, but a lot of their stuff is reporting what other publications have already come up with. Once they saw my portfolio and my connections in the industry, they realized that I could possibly be the missing piece to their puzzle.” He pauses to catch his breath. “Pen, they want me to partner with them. They want me to build this thing with them, and then when I told them about you—”
“You told them about me?”
“That you’re a writer.” His eyes light up. “Well, they thought you’d be a great addition to the team too. We could work together. I take the pictures. You interview the musicians and write the articles.”
I haven’t seen Smith this happy in years. I don’t even think he was this excited on our wedding day, and that day included Elvis walking me down the aisle and a Madonna impersonator marrying us. I want to be happy for him. It’s what he wants and needs from me in this moment. He wants me to be excited for us, but I’m not. I don’t feel it at all.
I don’t want to write about concerts and bands. I don’t want to interview musicians. I don’t want to live out of a suitcase and travel from one coast to another. I want the plan that we came up with together. I want him to be able to work anywhere, like Dubai, and I want him to stay in that one place. I want to finish my novel and send it out to agents. I want to quit serving coffee to grumpy assholes who don’t realize what they’re actually ordering is a giant milkshake instead of real coffee.
“I know what you’re thinking, Pen.” He pulls me in close and drapes his arms around my shoulders. “And I promise you that your career isn’t going to take a back seat to mine. You’ll finish that book. We can both get what we want without having to compromise our own success.”
This is the part where I’m supposed to seal the deal with a kiss. I’m supposed to tell him that I’ll go anywhere with him and do anything to help support his dreams. It should be easy to say it. It should be easy to feel it. I mean, what woman doesn’t want to travel the country with her husband? What wife doesn’t want to support her husband?
He kisses the top of my head. “What are you thinking in that beautiful brain of yours?”
I should tell him the truth. I want to tell him the truth. It’s never been hard to be honest with Smith. He’s my person. He knows my flaws. He knows I can’t parallel park and that, sometimes, if I scuff a car in a parking garage that’s nicer than mine, I don’t leave a note or try to find the owner because they’re probably doing all right. He knows I usually cheat at board games just a little because I’m awful at them, and if he catches me, he’ll pretend he doesn’t notice. He knows I never remember to return library books and that I’m probably still wanted by Blockbuster for never returning Titanic.
Smith knows all the bad stuff about me, and he doesn’t care. He loves me unconditionally. How can I disappoint someone who loves me like that?
“When do we leave?” I whisper.
“New Year’s Eve.”
“OK.”
“OK, I can call Donovan and Marcus and tell them we’re in?” Smith asks, practically jumping up and down.
“Under one condition.”
