“Yessss.” Lola clapped her hands together, bouncing in her seat like a toddler. “Come on, you’ve wanted to do your own design work forever. Remember when you got hired at Spayce? You were convinced you’d stay for a year and then bail and go work on your own.”
“Yeah, you stayed for way too long,” Cleo blurted. And then, realizing she’d overstepped, she muttered, “Sorry. But you know what I mean.”
“It was a good job.” I picked at the corner of my sock, where the cotton had rubbed almost bare. “I lucked out. And I’ve only done, like, five freelance jobs on my own.”
“And they were all amazing,” Cleo said confidently. “I was at Patrick and James’s housewarming party, remember? It was perfection. James literally cried over that French wallpaper you picked out for their bathroom.”
“James was drunk,” I reminded her.
She ignored me. “I’m sure he’d write you an amazing review. Make some referrals. He knows, like, every rich artsy downtown person in the city.”
“Franny, Franny, Franny,” Lola cheered, shaking her fists in rhythm with her words. “I love this for you.”
“Me too,” said Cleo, pleased with herself. “If we help you find some clients, will you at least think about it?”
“Oh my god, you two are too much,” I groaned.
“Sorry, we can’t help that we’re your biggest fans,” Cleo said, a faux-defensive tone to her voice.
“Yeah, it’s too late because I already made FrannyIsFuckingAwesome.com, and our fan club has, like, a billion members,” added Lola, with extra sass.
“Who, you two and my mom?”
“Yeah,” Cleo quipped. “And Hot Suit.”
“Oh my god, Hot Suit. He’s probably somewhere living his best life, in his town house on the Upper East Side, eating caviar with his equally hot model wife.”
“And their fifteen perfect golden retrievers,” Cleo added, chuckling.
“And his butler, which he spells with two t’s.” Lola paused for comedic effect, arms outstretched. “Get it?”
“Oh my god, Lola.” I buried my face in my hands, half cringing, half laughing. “You literally have the same sense of humor as Jim.”
My stepdad was stoic, but he always laughed at dumb jokes, especially when they were slightly dirty.
Cleo stood then, stretching her arms overhead. “I should get home. I have a conference call at eight tomorrow morning before I go in to teach, and I have to participate in this one. I can’t just put myself on mute and fall back asleep.”
It was after nine, which, ten years ago, would have been right when we were heading out to a bar. But tonight, work called, responsibilities hovered in the back of our brains. Except for me, I thought, excited by the one upside to this whole shitty day: I’d get to sleep in tomorrow.
“I’ll go with you,” Lola said, yawning as she rose.
“Me too,” I chimed in quickly, and they both turned to look at me. I shrugged. “I just need to get some fresh air.”
After a round of bathroom breaks, we tumbled out of my apartment, into the small foyer and then out onto the street. Every block in my Brooklyn Heights neighborhood was lined with giant trees sprouting bright-green leaves. Set against the brick town houses and the cobblestone streets, they almost sparkled with color. The subway station was just a few blocks away, and as we walked we chatted about the rest of our week, the possibility of getting together over the weekend, and Lola’s coworker who had just adopted a tortoise, of all things.
I headed back home after hugging them goodbye, and forced myself to not look at my phone for the duration of the walk. For the first few steps, it felt impossible, but then I noticed my breathing slowed, my chest unclenched, the muscles down my back relaxed, just a bit. I let my focus fall elsewhere: the places where tree roots had cracked the sidewalks, the ancient gas lamps that still flickered outside some of the austere homes in the neighborhood, the daffodils that suddenly seemed to be everywhere. For the first time today, I felt good. Normal. I was going to be okay.
A few steps from my front door, I reached for my phone out of habit, without thinking. There were alerts everywhere. In my texts, messages from reporters at the Daily News and NYN. In my email, messages from a producer from CNN, and from some German newspaper, the name of which I couldn’t quite understand. And a message from Lola—no surprise, the British tabloids love u—with a link to the Daily Mail.