Chapter 2
2
Eleanor
A psychic once told me that in a past life, I was a squirrel who died in the middle of the road. I laughed it off then. Sometimes I still do. But on nights like this, when it’s just past one in the morning, and the only thing keeping me company is the ever-present NYC traffic eighteen floors below, I see that squirrel. And it’s not so funny anymore.
I shouldn’t text him.
I won’t.
My fingers begin drafting a message to get it out of my system. I won’t press send. A late-night You up? text is for the lonely. That isn’t who I am.
I, Eleanor Elizabeth Chapman, would rather be by myself forever than suffer through the agony of having a real relationship with someone wrong for me. My standards are so high it’s impossible for anyone to meet them. There’s no use in even trying anymore.
Yet here I am, all thoughtful calculation, typing out, Any chance you’re around right now?
He knows I’m never off the clock. Some of my best work happens between the hours of one and three in the morning. This is when my thoughts are the clearest. If I don’t sit down and do something productive, I will think of that damn squirrel. Plus we text enough outside of office hours that maybe I do need to reach him on something urgent. If I send this, it could be about business.
Tomorrow morning—this morning, technically—the Broadway PR firm I work for has set up a last-ditch press event for our biggest flop in recent memory, Hannity Banks and the Great Escape . It’s an original musical that has about a dozen terrible reviews from all the major outlets and ticket sales that continue to plummet, and Anthony is a lead producer on it. The show’s star will be singing her money number during the eight a.m. hour of one of the morning shows. Most of our team will be showing up to the venue at five a.m. to do a sound check ahead of the live taping. We need all hands on deck to make sure it goes well, somehow charming thousands of theater enthusiasts in the flyover states into booking immediate tickets to New York to see this marvelous spectacle as soon as possible. There are many scenarios that could merit me reaching out to him a few hours ahead of time.
When my thumb presses send, it’s easy to convince myself I don’t mean to deliver the text. That’s what my half-empty glass of wine tells me. It was an accident. You’re not in your right mind, Eleanor.
The wine and I both know I’m only buzzed. We’re conspiring to believe otherwise.
So I texted him. What of it? If it’s not me sending this kind of message, it’s him. We hook up when we’re bored. It’s a mutually appealing situation. Just because I’m not going to date him doesn’t mean we can’t have fun together.
When a full hour passes without a response, and the conversation between the wine and me becomes much more sincere, I do what I tell myself I shouldn’t—I pull up his social media. Like me, he posts about once a year. If tonight isn’t the time for his annual update, maybe it’s the moment for mine.
Three old take-out boxes fall off the edge of my dining table as I jerk upright. There is indeed a new picture on his page—one of those joint posts between two users. The first image is of a hand. A left hand. Displaying a diamond ring.
The caption reads, After four years together, he popped the question tonight in front of our closest friends and family. I love you so much, Anthony Michael Teller. I can’t wait to be your wife.
Wife.
Girlfriend.
Four years.
I haven’t even known him more than one.
“Fuck,” I say to my two cats dozing on my couch. It feels important to vocalize my disbelief, in case another psychic sees this moment while reviewing the past lives of my soul’s next iteration. I want them to comprehend the hot burn of shame engulfing me. These tears that fill my waterline are ones of pure disgust.
She’s posted the requisite follow-up shots. Anthony on one knee. Kelsey—her name is Kelsey—with her hand over her mouth. If I squinted, I could mistake her for me. We are both above-average-height white women with blond hair. She’s tanner and blonder than me, but she’s in an outfit I would wear—white tank and dark jeans with an oversized cream blazer on top. Expensive bracelet on her left wrist. If I ever took a vacation somewhere tropical, let my hair grow past my shoulders and the sun kiss my skin, this might be who I could become—someone you’d propose to at a rooftop bar with your loved ones around to celebrate the everlasting beauty of your love.
I had no idea Anthony had a girlfriend. She has never tagged him in a post before. I would know, because I vetted his social media the first night we met, and I check up every few weeks to confirm. She hasn’t attended any of the countless press events for Hannity Banks . I even asked Anthony once if he was single. He told me yes.
“Oh my god,” I say aloud.
This feels like being pantsed in front of a crowd to reveal holes in my underwear and a tattoo across one thigh that says naive and one on the other that says expendable . Kelsey doesn’t deserve what Anthony has done to her. What I’ve done without knowing. The wine starts talking again. Send her a message. Tell her the truth.
“Not yet,” I say out loud. I have to be sure the wine hears me.
Hands shaking, I grab my work laptop, never more than a few feet out of my reach. CONGRATULATIONS, ANTHONY! I write in the subject line of a new email.
Hey, team,
I know it’s late, but I want to be the first person to send my warmest regards to our lead producer, Anthony, and his beloved Kelsey on their recent engagement. We are so thrilled for you here at Garber and Link. You two make us believe in real love.
Cheers to the happy couple!
Eleanor Chapman (she/her)
Press Agent / Garber and Link
I send it out, cc’ing my entire firm, as well as every other collaborator on the musical. Then I chug my wine, write a direct message to Kelsey before I can think better of it, and finish off my night by looking up the symbolism of squirrels.