Free The Book of Jonah by Joshua Max Feldman

facile frown on her face that she always wore when they disagreed—as if she were neither angry nor culpable, simply tolerating the unpleasantness—her small, symmetrical nose ever so slightly flared at the nostrils. When they argued, it was easy for him to understand her success in a male-dominated industry. She could project formidable intensity in her face, in her five-foot-five frame. He guessed she’d developed this visible toughness from a lifetime of dealings with her father, but that relationship and its consequences she didn’t like to talk about. “I am truly happy for you, Jonah,” she finally said. “I am in the middle of a thousand things, but yes, I am truly happy for you. I’ll have Linda make us a reservation at Le Bernardin tomorrow night to celebrate.”
    The last thing he’d wanted when he called had been to argue, and so he accepted her offer to move the conversation in a more amicable direction. “That sounds great,” he said. “I just wish you were here to celebrate with me tonight.” And before she could start to answer, he added, “And I know it’s not by choice. It’s only, y’know, too bad.”
    â€œYou are an excellent lawyer. You deserve this.”
    â€œWe can tell the broker we can look at six-thousand-dollar places.”
    â€œThat’s true,” she said. “There was the loft on Bond Street, remember? I emailed you?”
    Lofts weren’t his preference; he had an affinity for closing doors. But he said, “Yeah, I remember. That place was great.”
    â€œIt’s exciting, Jonah.”
    â€œI’m going to be in Boston a lot.”
    â€œWell,” she said, “it’s an hour on the shuttle from LaGuardia.” And this reminded him of something he loved about her: how undaunted she was by circumstance, how adaptive and capable, in such contrast to—well, other people.
    â€œLook, Syl, I know things haven’t been perfect lately,” he said.
    â€œI can’t talk about that now,” she answered quickly.
    â€œI know, I know, I just. I think we’re going to have a great future together.”
    She didn’t answer for a moment. Then she said, in a hushed, measured tone, “That means a lot to me, Jonah.” Then, more loudly, “Anyway, I should get back.”
    â€œWere you in early, too?”
    â€œOn the treadmill at four-thirty, in the conference room at six.”
    â€œJesus. Hang in there, Syl.”
    â€œI’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
    â€œI love you.”
    â€œDitto. See you tomorrow.”
    He hung up—reaffirmed, he felt, in his decision to end things with Zoey. He didn’t deny that an affection for her that had lasted nearly a decade would likely always be with him, in some form. But did she have any idea what it took to become a partner at a major New York law firm? Sure, B-girls worked long hours. But there were long hours, and then there were 17,500 hours. Sylvia could tell him he deserved to make partner and it meant something. She worked brutal hours in a brutal industry, too. She was a peer in that sense.
    The bottom line was that it really wasn’t meant to be with Zoey and him. Maybe it could have been, once—but there were things you couldn’t control. For ten years they had been going nowhere, circling around the inescapable fact of their ultimate incompatibility. He and Sylvia, on the other hand, continued to steadily reach recognizable markers of relationship progress: from blind date to weekly dates; from weekly dates to thrice weekly; to (professed) monogamy and exclusivity; and now they were moving in together. No, things between them hadn’t been great lately, but they both concluded that that was because they didn’t see each other enough, and living together would help. And yes, he had fucked up with Zoey over the last several months. But he could call that the last reflexive