Meternity

“Well, it doesn’t exactly seem like Paddy Cakes is your end-all-be-all career choice. Say the magazine folded tomorrow, and you could do anything you wanted—a secret dream—what would it be?”

I immediately blush thinking, if you only knew.

“Waiting, Buckley.”

I take another second. Up until this point, with everything meternity-related, I hadn’t actually taken much time to ponder what I really want, only what would keep me from getting fired. But to my surprise, the answer comes to me quickly. “Easy. Quit my job. Travel the world and write about it.” My shoulders drop in relief.

He immediately smiles and softens his eyes. “So underneath that gorgeous magazine editor exterior, you’re really just a frustrated travel writer. I knew it.” His compliment makes my cheeks warm, and I look away. When I return, I notice he’s looking at me, staring.

“It would be amazing if one day my blog MoveableFeast would somehow get picked up and turned into a book like one of Bill Bryson’s travelogues or Orwell’s Down and Out in Paris and London.” I’m not sure what makes me reveal this, but for some reason I feel like it will intrigue him. “But, I haven’t really been keeping it up. I’ve been so busy. And it’s not really that good.”

“You really know how to sell yourself, Buckley.”

“Huh,” I say, only now recognizing he’s right.

“I can tell you’ve got a book in you. You know, a secret adventurous side.” He winks, and his compliment makes me blush outwardly and gulp inwardly. This time I smile, feeling a little more courage.

“Okay, I’ll send you my next travel story tomorrow and you can tell me what you think,” I tell him.

“I’d love to read anything you’ve written,” he says, returning a more earnest expression, then smiling, as if he’s thinking about something.

“Okay, so what’s yours, Mr. Rising Star? Take over the network by bringing all of Paddy Cakes’ best stories to life?”

He scrunches his nose, as if to say “not even close.” He looks down for a few seconds. “Okay, don’t make fun of me, Buckley, but I’ve got a secret plan, too. After a few things fall into place, I’m going to quit Discovery,” he says, clearing his throat, “then once I raise funding, I’m going to produce and direct my own environmental documentary.” He pauses, interested in my reaction.

I can’t help but smile widely and there’s a look in his eye—one of hopefulness.

Then he gets suddenly quiet. “Did you know that there are actually about thirty-one forms of electromagnetic energy that are self-reproducing and completely sustainable? Companies are doing this right now, and if we were to switch over from petroleum and natural gas, we could power the world’s energy three times over.”

This sudden revelation of a geeky side makes my heart warm. “I thought it was just wind power and solar power.”

“Yes, there’s that, but there’s also this type of magnetic force field called a toroidal field. There’s a company out in Palo Alto working on it. I saw them give a TED talk last year and have been in touch with them since.”

“Really?”

“I pitched it to Discovery, but they turned me down. The huge oil companies are some of our biggest advertisers,” he says with a letdown look in his eye. “But don’t worry, I’ll get it out there—one of my buddies is a lawyer and is looking into coproducing with me, and our friend in finance is already helping us set up meetings with angel investors.” His passion incites something in me. Something I haven’t felt in a long time. Maybe not since my first big feature came out.

He seems to notice my pensiveness. “I’m not worried about you, either, Deputy Buckley. You’re just resting up before your training day comes,” he says with a soft wink, which gives me little tingles.

Then, he holds a finger up. “Sorry, gotta check this.” He takes his phone from out of his pocket and scrolls through email, punching a short reply into the pad with his fingers. A wince forms across his features. “Sorry, I, ugh, have to go.”

“Work?” I say, looking at him as he’s fumbling in his pockets for cash to pay the bill. I offer to pay, but he gives me a look that says “no way.”

“Yeah, ugh, okay, sure,” he says, taking a second to consider something. Then he gives me a strange exaggerated eye roll.

I sigh and try to cover up my disappointment with a huge smile. I plop my drink down, and we both get up and put our coats on.

“Well, uh, thank you for the drinks,” I say nervously, fidgeting with my coat as we wait for the bartender to come back.

“Yeah, we’ll do it again soon. Don’t forget to send me the blog link tomorrow!” says Ryan with a confident, eager grin, although behind it he seems a little worried. He flags the bartender down to pay. We walk out of the pub onto the rush of Eighth Avenue, and in two seconds he’s hailed me a cab. Once I get in, I look out and see he’s hailing one for himself. That’s weird; his work is only five blocks away. Great, maybe the work drama was just a cover. Maybe he has a girlfriend. This was just work drinks.

But still, for five quick seconds, I allow myself a daydream. One that has me by Ryan’s side on a film set and jetting around the world with him to interview people who are trying to make a difference. How sexy it all seems. It doesn’t feel like it has the weight of finding a PH. It feels like pure fun. I fish into my purse to check my phone, and there it sits. My second trimester. Shut the fantasy down, Buckley. Shut it down.

* * *

The next day at work, with thoughts of Ryan pushed far out of my brain, the realization of my impending doomed career, love life and incomprehensibly terrible baby scheme leave me with only one option: enter a state of total denial. Instead of using the rest of the afternoon to perfect my October lineup, then research new jobs, I spend the time reading a self-help galley that came to my inbox this morning: The New Super Mom: How to Effectively Balance Work Life and Home Life. Then, with about half an hour left before the end of the day, I brainstorm all new Shocking! Exciting! Glossy! stories, including an inspired “22 Ways to ‘Fake’ a Work-Home Balance,” then turn in my revised lineup with my fingers crossed.

I knew if I were Jules, I would have taken Cynthia’s feedback differently, making an Action Plan and plowing through it with complete aplomb. But I can’t motivate myself to do anything no matter how hard I try. My brain feels like a murky swamp. My nerves jangle left and right as reality starts to set it in. I know what to do. Putting aside the pileup for once, I head out the office door toward home, texting A and B.

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