Gramercy Nights (The Argo Press Trilogy Book 1) (27 page)

“I don’t know if I’m going to show it to Megan.”

“You have to show her,” he whispers and I just take another sip of my beer. “This is important. Even if it doesn’t end up being published, it’s important.”

“I’m scared.”

Connor rests his hand on my thigh and for a moment, he’s quiet. “Good. You’ve spent too much time pretending you don’t feel a thing. Scared is a start.” I stare at Connor in surprise. “Not to terrify you further, but, what are your plans? You quit your job, which by the way, I think was a terrific idea. That place was sucking the soul out of you. But that advance isn’t going to get you too far.”

“I’ll probably apply for a million grants. The Institut Català has a travel grant for translators, which would be amazing. I’d love to go back to Barcelona for a while.” I shrug. I’ve been giving it a lot of thought recently, but for once, I’m not too concerned about the future. It helps that for the first time in my life, I have more than a few hundred dollars in my checking account, but that’s not it. For the first time, it actually seems possible for me to do what I want to do.

The bar is filling up by the time we order our second round so we take our drinks upstairs to the lounge. The crowd is mostly college kids, and it’s hard to believe that only two years ago, we were just like them. They seem so young, so inexperienced and carefree.

“I feel old,” I lament. “When did it become socially acceptable to wear midriff shirts in public?”

Connor glances over at the blonde girl sprawled out on one of the nearby benches. He turns back to me. “Honestly, I don’t think it’s ever been acceptable. That said, you’re twenty-five, not thirty-five. No need to get all curmudgeonly on me.”

“Don’t be an idiot. You’re twenty-five, not thirty-five.”

By drink three, I’m officially drunk. I check my phone, surprised I haven’t heard from Sebastian. Oh well. He’s probably still at work. It’s either time to eat or time for me to stop drinking. Either way, I’m meeting Megan tomorrow afternoon and I’d rather not look like I’ve been spending all my time holed up at a bar. Definitely not the sort of impression I want to make.

When I tell Connor I should probably head out, he blinks those puppy dog blue eyes of his and I find myself agreeing to one more drink as long as he doesn’t mind if I sneak out to grab some samosas from one of the street meat vendors that line Union Square. He gives me a thumbs up, saying he’ll hold down the fort. I fish some cash out of my wallet and venture out, surprised to see night has fallen completely.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m sitting cross-legged on the bench next to Connor, a fresh beer on the table in front of us, and we’re both stuffing our faces with vegetable samosas. In Union Square, where a sandwich can easily set you back ten bucks, food cart samosas are a poor girl’s savior. Seriously, does life get any better than a deep fried savory pastry treat?

“This is exactly what I needed,” I say, sighing with pleasure. I brush the crumbs from my thighs and lean back, closing my eyes, full and warm and happy. Connor’s hand rests casually on my thigh and I can’t help but wish it were Sebastian sitting next to me, not that I can really imagine him here, eating street food and drinking cheap draft beer. No, we’d probably be somewhere with candles on the tables and linen napkins. Maybe it’s because it’s all I’ve ever really known, but I’m comfortable here. I’ve been coming to bars like this since before I could legally drink. There’s something about the smell of cheap bourbon and stale beer that appeals to me, no matter how gross that may sound.

I open my eyes to reach for my drink and some movement to my left makes me turn slightly towards the stairs. Sebastian is standing perfectly still, his eyes trained on us, the muscles in his jaws tightly clenched. I blink twice, trying to make sure he’s actually there and not a beer-fueled hallucination. Nope, he’s definitely still there. And the look he’s giving me makes it clear he’s not in a playful mood. His eyes linger on Connor’s hand, still resting on my thigh before returning to my face.

Something flashes in his eyes and then he’s moving, striding over on powerful legs, dropping his briefcase to the floor next to me with a dull thud. Connor stops speaking, his hand tightening on my thigh slightly. I want to push it away but I can’t seem to move.

Sebastian drops to the seat next to me, draping his arm casually around my shoulders, pulling me close. I know exactly what he’s doing. He’s marking his territory. I don’t know if I should be offended or flattered. But Sebastian doesn’t give me a moment to think. I don’t know who looks more surprised, me or Connor, when he gives Connor a bright smile and says, “I was beginning to wonder where my girlfriend had disappeared to.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Girlfriend. The word hangs in the air like a bomb about to explode and I’m holding my breath, almost afraid of what will happen. Connor is moving his eyes between us, the confusion clear in his bright blue eyes, while Sebastian tightens his arm around my shoulders, never bothering to look at me. Nope. He’s too busy boring holes into the center of Connor’s head.

I’m watching Connor. I don’t know why I’m so scared about how he’s going to react, but I am. Terrified. He was hurt when I didn’t tell him I’d quit my job. This isn’t how he should have found out I have a boyfriend.

Then again, it isn’t exactly how I should have found out, either.

I’m finally about to open my mouth when Connor throws back his head back and bursts into laughter. I was expecting hurt, or anger, something, anything but gut splitting laughter, and all it takes is one look at our confused faces to set him off again.

Finally, Connor wipes the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand and lifts his beer glass. “Cheers.” He takes a long sip. “No wonder you’ve been acting so squirrely.” He gives me an odd look but takes another sip of his beer. “I wish you could have seen your faces. Priceless.” He’s grinning like an idiot and if I weren’t so relieved, I’d punch him.

Connor reaches out his free hand. “Connor Stuart. It’s good to meet you.”

“Sebastian Casal.” They shake hands and I can feel Sebastian’s shoulders relax slightly.

Connor turns to me, a wide grin covering his handsome face. “Danny, you didn’t really think he was going to hit me, did you?” I give him an embarrassed shrug. It seemed totally plausible at the time. He’s never seen Sebastian angry before.

Connor chugs the rest of his beer and stands, brushing his thighs with his hands. “What can I get you?”

“Stella,” Sebastian says without hesitation.

Connor nods, satisfied, and trots down the stairs towards the bar, leaving us alone.

Sebastian turns to me, and gives me a serious look. “Why didn’t you get back to me?” he asks softly but I can hear the strain in his voice, like he’s struggling to keep his tone even and relaxed.

“What are you talking about?”

Sebastian runs a hand through his thick hair. “Don’t you check your phone?”

“Yeah, I didn’t see anything from you.”

“Really?” Sebastian lets out a frustrated sigh and grabs my beer, taking a deep draught. “Now I feel totally shit for storming in here.”

I can’t help but laugh at the embarrassed look on his face. It’s actually kind of cute. “I’m sort of glad you stormed in here.” Sebastian arches an eyebrow. “I didn’t know what to tell Connor and you saved me the trouble, though I wasn’t expecting you to call me your girlfriend.”

Sebastian looks at me sadly. “What should I have called you?”

Escort, lover, paramour. My mind is racing, but I don’t have a chance to answer because Connor reappears with the drinks, and I’m left wondering what I would have said, given the chance.

Of course Connor and Sebastian hit it off fabulously, which shouldn’t really surprise me. I think Sebastian has finally realized that there really is nothing going on between Connor and me. Which is good. Plus, it’s impossible not to love Connor, but after that brief moment of machismo chest thumping, it’s a bit unexpected. Still, Connor’s the type of laid back guy who can walk into the dullest party on earth and suddenly everyone is dancing and having a blast, the type of guy people respond to. Sebastian has the same magnetism: you notice the second he walks into a room, but while Connor is light and fun, Sebastian is dark and intense.

But they both move in the same rarefied circles and they know more than a few people in common.

It’s a world I’ll never fully be part of. As a translator, I’ll always exist on the periphery. Not a writer. Not a publisher. Some intangible entity that is both necessary and yet, at times, unseemly. The mistress at the party. The one no one wants to admit they need. How many times have people told me, with their noses held high, that they only read books in the language they were written in? I always smile back politely. When you translate a language spoken by only ten million people, it’s too easy to be frustrated by people’s stubborn proclamations.

“We were going to grab dinner, you should come,” I hear Sebastian saying as he polishes off the last of his beer.

Connor glances at me and then at his phone. “I should really head back across the river. Don’t want to turn into a pumpkin after all.” Like me, Connor lives in Brooklyn. Sebastian doesn’t push and I’m thankful. As happy as I am that they are getting along, I’m looking forward to having Sebastian all to myself again.

We all gather up our things and head out together. Outside, the temperature has dropped and I must shiver, because Sebastian deftly slips off his jacket, placing it around my shoulders and giving me an affectionate squeeze. It’s the type of thing you’d expect from a boyfriend, not the man paying you an exorbitant sum of money to sleep with him. I push aside the thought.

Connor pulls me into a warm goodbye hug, planting a theatrical kiss on my cheek, and I hear Sebastian grumbling something I can’t make out, but whatever it is, it only makes Connor laugh.

The two men shake hands, Connor pulling Sebastian in closer than necessary. “If you hurt my girl, I
will
kill you,” he says with a bright smile but it’s obvious he’s serious. Sebastian pauses, then gives him a curt nod of understanding, and I think he might just look a little bit respectful.

I will never understand men.

I’m not really hungry but Sebastian insists we get something to eat anyway, so we stop at a little hole in the wall Korean place and order bibimbap and vegetable dumplings.

I’m yawning before we even make it out of the restaurant, so we just get undressed and into bed back at Sebastian’s. He makes love to me, quiet and tender, covering my body in delicate kisses, and it’s perfect.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Megan is amazing, absolutely fabulous, and our four-hour meeting speeds by in a blur. With her messy bun and enormous glasses slipping down her nose, she looks every bit the absent-minded editor, but I quickly realize there is nothing absent-minded about Megan Thomas. She’s quick, organized – not that you’d ever guess it looking at the precarious stacks of papers on her desk – and terrifyingly intelligent. The type of intelligent that leaves you breathless.

I might be a little in love with her.

The first thing she does when I step into her office is send her assistant to get us coffee. Her specifications are that it’s black and enormous. A woman after my own heart. When she says, smiling, that she intends to hold me hostage for the afternoon, I laugh, but soon realize she’s entirely serious. Suddenly, I’m grateful she thought of coffee.

Megan reads through each of the 103 prose poems in Marc Serrat’s book. Her voice is clear and precise and she pauses only to jot down additional notes in the margins before pressing on. I’ve spent years on this translation and am taken aback by the number of suggestions and corrections she’s made. Even more surprising, I find I agree with most of them. She has the uncanny ability to pinpoint the exact moment where a simple shift of word order can bring an entire poem into crystal clear focus.

More than once she asks me to read from the poem in Catalan to get an idea of its original music, and each time I do, she leans back in her chair and closes her eyes, head bobbing to the sound of my voice.

Watching her work is fascinating, inspiring, and I realize how lucky I am to have landed her as my editor. She doesn’t mince words and she’s clear about what she doesn’t like but she’s just as free with her praise and it’s obvious from the way she barely glances at her notes that she’s read and re-read every single poem.

I’m both exhausted and energetic by the time we finish, but Megan looks just as fresh as she did when I arrived in her office hours earlier. It’s amazing.

“How’s the foreword coming along?” she asks, leaning back in her chair.

I feel a flutter in my chest. Nerves. Adrenaline. Too much caffeine. “I’m not sure,” I admit. I have the foreword printed out and tucked into my tote bag, but I’m still not sure I want to show it to Megan. Given the way she read my translation, I know that she’ll give it a fair read. “I wrote it, I just don’t think it’s what you’re looking for.”

Megan pushes her glasses up her nose. “And what do you think I’m looking for?”

I blush. “It’s really personal,” I admit.

“Hand it over,” she says, her voice kind and commanding. “I’ll tell you if it’s too personal.”