“Thank god the audio from our coffee date wasn’t recorded,” I said with a sigh. I didn’t normally get hung up on stuff, and it was starting to annoy me that I couldn’t shake the weird feelings our fifteen minutes of fame had stirred up. “It was so uncomfortable. I asked her what books she read.”
“And?” Eleanor asked.
“I don’t know. She said something about a cult book, and I kinda froze,” I said.
Eleanor cringed, her shoulders shooting up to her ears. “I love books about cults,” she said, and while Eleanor’s reply didn’t surprise me, I was still having trouble wrapping my mind around Franny and cults. The fact that I was trying to was worrisome in and of itself.
“Well then, you should go on a televised coffee date with her,” I replied, the snark evident in my tone.
“I would,” she said as she sipped a can of seltzer water. “We could discuss wallpaper. She seems supercool. Definitely my type.”
Eleanor raised her brows at me, waiting for my reaction. Instead, I just took a giant bite of my food, not giving her the satisfaction of getting a rise out of me.
“Maybe you just need to go on a real date,” she suggested. “Like a palate cleanser.”
I shook my head. “I can’t deal with dating apps right now.”
“Let me set you up, then.” She perked up at this idea, a smile on her face. “It’ll be fun. I still have some cool, hot friends you haven’t met yet.”
The idea of recalibrating sounded appealing. I needed to get rid of this awkward, restless feeling, and fast.
“Go for it,” I said. Eleanor relished a challenge. “Do your best.”
We ate quietly for a minute until I realized we hadn’t actually discussed her bad news. “Hey,” I said through a mouthful of food. “What was the other thing?”
Eleanor sighed, a resigned look on her face. This wasn’t a good sign. “Damien Yi just quit.”
My stomach dropped. “What do you mean, he ‘quit’？”
“He got hired to go do some socialite’s new apartment in London,” she explained, clearly annoyed.
“But we had a contract.” I kept my voice calm, steady. Even when the news was panic-inducing, I never panicked. At least not in front of other people. But my brain was already in overdrive, working at a clip to try to figure out how we could solve this.
“We did, but the new offer was competitive, and in his favor. We had a cancellation clause in the contract, so we’re getting our money back, if that’s any consolation.”
“Fuck.” I ran a hand through my hair. Our new office space was set to open the first week of August, and we’d already pushed back the move by five months because the architect needed more time.
With all the disruption of the impending move, we’d let most of our small team work from home, but the office was the heart of our operation, and I was eager to get everyone back and in person in our new space. The build-out had just wrapped, and we were scheduled to have a call this week with Damien, the darling of the sustainable design world, about furniture and load-in dates. It was all supposed to culminate in a party showcasing our new office, which would highlight our commitment to sustainability, right down to the desks we used.
“I didn’t put up a stink, because he’s someone we’re going to want to work with in the future,” Eleanor explained pragmatically.
“I get that,” I said, “but we’ve already had the kickoff meeting. He’d said he was planning to source all the deliverables this week. It’s a huge pain in the ass.”
Eleanor took another bite and nodded in agreement, tapping her fingers against her lips in thought.
“We can figure it out,” I said, trying to muster up some blind confidence. After all, this is what Eleanor and I did best: problem-solve, throw water on fires, tackle a crisis and bear-hug it to the ground without anyone noticing. But Damien’s leaving was an enormous—and unexpected—challenge, and it threw our perfectly curated timeline and schedule off track.
My mind flashed back to what Franny had said as we sat across from each other, coffee steaming in those stupid NYN-branded mugs: It’s about creating experiences. I wondered, just briefly, how she might shape this one. She said she was booked solid, though, so that was out of the question. Also, I’d insulted her on TV. Not just in front of half of New York City, but her mom too. There was no way she’d ever want to talk to me again, much less work together. I tried to steer my mind in another direction, but it got stuck imagining what her hair looked like right this second. If it was tucked behind an ear or falling into her eyes.