Chapter 15: Chosen

Dear Lark,

My boss did something kind for me behind my back. I can't tell if I'm grateful or if I've been robbed. Both feel true at once.

Stuck in Seattle

Marguerite didn't look at the memo.

She looked at me and took one slow breath.

Then she sat down on the edge of her desk.

"Yes," she said. "I wrote it."

"All of it."

"All of it. He signed it."

"In his own name."

"In his own name, in his own hand."

"He signed whatever I put in front of him on Fridays, because he wanted the column more than he wanted to read."

Her voice was dry and careful, and it did not shake.

I could see it costing her.

"You wrote that I was afraid of the interview," I said.

"You wrote that you were."

"In a letter."

"In a letter, twenty-one months ago."

"You said you had applied to a magazine in Pioneer Square."

"You said you were going to throw up in a planter."

I remembered the planter.

I had made a joke of it, because I was ashamed.

"You read that," I said, "and you walked into the editor's office and put a memo on his desk."

"I thought, if she is good, she should be in the room."

"I thought you were in the pile and nobody would read past your résumé."

"That was true."

"It was. So I got you the interview."

"You got me the job."

"He liked you in twelve minutes," she said. "I did not tell him what to think of you. I told him what to ask about."

"The ferry."

"You wrote about the ferry for a whole month."

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