Writing Into the Void 📝

I’m not sure how July is two-thirds over or how I’m, once again, at the airport. But it is and I am. The last month has been an odd one. I’ve swum a lot of laps. I’ve watched dozens of World Cup matches and nearly eight seasons of Scrubs. I’ve experienced my home state enduring torrential downpours, smokey skies, and boiling temperatures. I also bought my parents one of those bird feeders with a webcam attached and it may have awoken a nature bug within me I didn’t think existed. That, or I’m getting old.

In newsletter-related news, I revamped the landing page for Now What. to help you find the content you want more easily. In need of a book recommendation? Looking for travel guides? Perhaps an impassioned personal essay or two? They’re all right there, waiting for you.

I’ve also had a lot of fun talking to some great authors and learning about what they do during their down time. Good stuff is coming in the next six weeks (Hayley Fleming! Sonia Feldman! gabrielle korn!), so stay tuned.

Offline, I’m drafting another novel; a follow-up to the romantic comedy I finished last summer, LAST SINGLE FRIEND. It’s set within the same universe but features different characters1, which means I’ve been revisiting that other book a lot. Trying not to hate it. Trying to remember that I have written books before and can do it again. I think it’s a reminder all authors require from time to time.

It’s taken me a few months to get one hundred pages that are adequate. What is usually the trickiest benchmark to hit. So, I shall continue onward, determined to overcome my fear of first drafts this year, one gruelling sentence at a time.

In this spirit, I thought it would be fun to share a little more of LAST SINGLE FRIEND. I hope you enjoy. And in case you missed it, the first two chapters with Layne and Macon can be found here.

“Let’s see. Thyme, onions, olives, crushed tomatoes, anchovy paste…”

My hand hovers above the prepared ingredients across the white marble breakfast bar. Since I haven’t been paying rent, I take care of dinner most nights for me and Isla. I don’t mind, especially in her kitchen, which is ten times nicer (and bigger) than any other I’ve seen in a New York apartment. With an eight-burner gas stovetop, double oven, oversized refrigerator, and ample counter space, I can create almost anything, especially with the help of her small, top-of-the-line appliances: the KitchenAid mixer, Ninja blender, and Smeg toaster, all in a shade of bright red to break up the otherwise neutral fixtures. There’s even a library ladder you climb up to reach the top of the two-tone cabinets, generously stocked with All-Clad stainless-steel pans plus nearly every piece of Artichaut green Le Creuset cookware in the catalog.

Isla doesn’t cook, and neither did her old roommate Dani, who both chose the apartment for its soaker tub, easy commuting location, and the way it made them feel like grown-ups after landing six figure jobs post-graduate school. But for me, this apartment is all about the kitchen. The first time I laid eyes on it I had a small orgasm while considering the culinary possibilities. It’s also the demurest part of the place since Isla has decorated pretty much every other room with thrifted furniture and vintage accessories, none of which match or are really my style and yet somehow work together in a way I like.

I lean toward the chicken thighs I’ve placed in a cast iron skillet on the stovetop, listening. There’s sizzle, the kind that happens as skin gets crispy when they’re almost ready to be flipped.

“Am I forgetting anything, HK?”

The corgi looks up from his bed.

“Come on, dude. You’ve made this with me before.”

Harry Kane drops his head next to his squeaky soccer ball, his ears flopping down.

I laugh. “You’re just like your mom.”

Seven years ago, Isla and I met working at an Italian ristorante in the Meatpacking District. Most of the time I was the dinner sous chef, but on weekends I got to curate the brunch menu, adding a little French flair. Steak tartare, truffle flatbreads, duck confit hash: just a few of the customer favorites.

Isla had just landed in Manhattan from Brighton, England for Columbia Law School. She wasn’t passionate about law so much as she was academically ambitious, excelling in the same jurisprudence courses her parents once took themselves and had guided her towards as a teenager. Isla had thought challenging herself with learning the U.S. legal system would make the subject more interesting, or at least open more options, and some inheritance money from her grandfather made that possible. But she’s never quite loved it the way her (or her parents) hoped she might. So, Isla spent her time outside of class exploring other interests. She couldn’t cook to save her life—still can’t, if we’re honest—but was fascinated by restaurant culture, so she picked up hostess shifts Saturday and Sunday. We often stayed late together, eating leftovers while mopping up and gossiping; something we’re doing once again as roommates.

Harry Kane yips as the apartment lock turns and the door opens. Isla stands there, the straps of three tote bags balancing on the shoulder of her green and white polka dot rain jacket. The corgi circles her feet, which in turn causes her to drop the tote bags plus a stack of mail.

“Oh, Harry! What have you done, darling…”

He licks the toes of her leather booties.

Isla bends down, petting behind HK’s ears. “Sometimes I wish you weren’t so bloody adorable. Would certainly make it easier to hold a grudge.” She kisses the top of Harry Kane’s head before he prances back to his bed, leaving her to pick everything up. “Food smells brilliant, by the way.”

“Poulet Provençal aux haricots verts et pommes de terre.” I prepare a pan where the chicken can rest then move on to tackling the sauce. “How was your day?”

Isla rolls her eyes. “SSD is getting sued again, another YouTube chef claiming they were the first person to come up with the idea for homemade potato milk.”

After finishing Columbia, Isla wanted to go into something more artistic than corporate, so she took a job on the legal counsel for Simply So Delicious, an independent cookbook publisher and digital recipe streaming platform. After four years, she’s leading the team, spending most of her days convincing top chefs not to fear boiler plate contracts, or fighting IP cases out of court, sometimes through bribery at the company’s events and tasting parties, Isla likes a challenge, and thought it would be less stress than being a trial attorney. She doesn’t make what her peers do, or anywhere close to what she could in a different position, but it’s still loads compared to me. Occasionally she can also influence who gets published. She’d pushed for a Senior Editor to notice Billet-Doux after the restaurant’s New York Times Sunday Styles feature, though of course the pandemic made that venture moot.

I nod toward the tote bags. “Sounds…heavy?”

“Oh, how I wish this paperwork was the most annoying thing I’m holding.” Easing off her coat and shoes, Isla walks into the living room with the mail. “Postbox was filled with wedding invitations. Five of them, in fact. All for me.” Isla sits on the couch, dropping the envelopes on the coffee table one by one. “My older cousin Siobhan in February. India from grammar school in May. Two of my Columbia classmates wedding each other come June. A co-worker next July. And my younger cousin Nora in August.”

I step out of the kitchen, glancing at the fanned-out pastel design. “What’s in your lap?”

Isla smirks. “That’s from the last wedding I attended. Friends from uni.” She hands me the light pink papers. “Go on, have a look.”