Have we met this date? I asked, changing the subject, digging around for dirt.
Nope! was all she offered.
Well at least something good came out of that nightmare, I wrote back, cringing as I remembered the look on Hayes’s face when I’d made that dumb sex joke.
Cleo chimed in with a GIF of Kevin from The Office laughing.
It was also no surprise that Lola was being somewhat coy with the details. She was often tight-lipped about her sex life, and her day-to-day in general. She fed off other people being open books—and she’d made a career of it—but sharing someone else’s drama gave her cover to hide her own.
OK so you guys will come bail me out if this date is a bust? she wrote. I’m meeting her at Firefly at 7.
Yes. The period at the end of Cleo’s reply hinted at her irritation. “Duh,” it seemed to say.
We all know the drill! I added.
Here’s how our friend code worked: First, we texted each other the locations of our dates, because safety first, obviously. Then, a postdate checkin, mostly just to review the levels of awkwardness that ensued, with the occasional hot make-out story mixed in. And if things were truly going to shit, we always bailed each other with a text or a phone call, or hell—both.
Back in the day when we all lived together, we’d slide into a booth at the dive bar down the street from our fourth-floor walk-up, order a round of tequila shots, and share the gory details about what had gone horribly wrong. Which—let’s be real—first dates often did. Throughout the years, we’d even gone so far as to check on each other in person, peeking our heads into bars and clubs, coffee shops and parks, just to make sure everything was cool. This, after all, was what friendship was about.
Teaching until 9, will check my phone on my break, Cleo texted.
I’m about to meet Grant and Nate in Soho re: nursery, I wrote back. I was headed to meet Lola’s coworker and his husband at Cafe Gitane, a tiny café off Prince Street. She’d connected me with them over email, because they were looking for someone to design a bedroom for their new baby. It was my first real meeting about a job after getting laid off, and I felt giddy with possibility.
Well if you don’t hear from me in an hour or two, send out the guard dogs, Lola replied.
I sent her a GIF of a golden retriever sniffing a cupcake, which she liked with a heart, and then she went radio silent.
*
Cafe Gitane was quiet at 5 p.m., before the dinner rush started in earnest. It was a tiny spot, and we were now crammed together at a small circular table right next to the front window. Nate’s arm was wrapped tight around Grant as he sipped a cappuccino.
“I’m so pumped about possibly working together.” I shifted in the wooden chair, sitting up, trying to look like someone who’d had meetings like this a million times before. “I’m envisioning something bright and colorful, but minimalistic. I think we could have a lot of fun playing up colors and shapes, which can be both childlike but also very chic. And possibly adding a mural of some sort.”
Nate and Grant both “oohed” at this idea, and it felt amazing to get positive feedback in real time. At Spayce, we’d get a request from a client through our app, do a consultation over text or chat, and then create a mood board with links to items and suggestions for layout. This would finally be an opportunity to shape a space with my own hands, from start to finish.
“So our gestational carrier is due in two months,” Grant said, pushing his gold wire-rimmed glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “Not a ton of time, especially because we know you have your plate full.”
Nate slid his free hand across the table to tap my wrist playfully. “We saw you on New York News,” he said, a knowing smile on his face.
Grant rolled his eyes. “Nate is obsessed with local news,” he explained. “That guy who gave you his jacket was a piece of work, huh?”
“He was.” I forced a laugh. “Well, the good news is that my schedule is now wide-open,” I said, puffing up my chest. I’d had a few inquiries come in through the website my friends set up for me, and one had resulted in a phone consultation that felt promising. But this was my first real meeting, the actual inception of Franny Doyle Design. I didn’t want to appear too desperate for work, but I needed something to get the ball rolling. Something to prove to myself that maybe I could actually do this. And more importantly, something to put in my bank account.
Nate leaned forward with his chin on his hand. “And do you feel like you know the ins and outs of what a nursery needs?” he asked. “I know you don’t have kids, but have you ever worked in kids’ spaces before?”