Three
Danica
The brisk San Francisco morning nips at my cheeks as I weave through the sea of pedestrians, each one a blur of ambition and caffeine. I’m halfway to Red Rabbit, the social media scheduling startup where I work in HR, dreading the load of tasks that awaits me, when my phone buzzes in my coat pocket. I fish it out and swipe to answer.
The face of my older sister, Yardley, pops up on the screen, her excitement practically leaping through the digital divide. “Danica! You won’t believe what was waiting for me when I got to work today!” She bounces in her chair in her office.
When I moved to San Francisco three months ago, she sent me the best care package. It was all about Seattle, where we grew up—our favorite coffee from Victrola, a Mariners mug, a starter spice package from MarketSpice in Pikes Place, a bright purple blanket and socks from the University of Washington where I went to school, and a beautiful journal to write memories of my stay. That gift started a fun back and forth of care packages that we try to open together on a video call.
“Let me guess, a care package from your incredibly thoughtful sister?” I tease, steering clear of a cyclist who whizzes by, leaving a trail of muttered apologies.
“I didn’t want to open it without you.” Yardley lifts the box onto her desk, the cardboard corners worn from travel.
“Go ahead, open it! I think you’ll like what’s inside,” I say, moving past a street performer who is starting his routine nearby, drawing a crowd. This city never ceases to surprise me.
Yardley pries open the flaps, revealing the treasures within. First comes a porcelain mug, painted with intricate Chinoiserie designs that gleam even through the phone’s camera. “Wow, Danica, this is gorgeous!” she exclaims, holding the mug up for a closer look. “And there’s a lid too?”
“Yep, doubles as a coaster or for resting the teabag,” I reply. “Keep digging.”
She sets the mug aside and delves back into the box, uncovering a packet of fancy, loose-leaf green tea. Following that, she retrieves a handful of Chinese rice candies, my new addiction. But it’s the final item that makes her gasp—a long strand of freshwater pearls.
“Danica, these are beautiful! They can hang straight or double as a choker.” Yardley drapes the pearls around her neck, her eyes dancing. “I love them. I want to come visit. I miss you so much!”
“You know you can come any time. You can even bring Jack with you,” I say with a smile. Seeing her so genuinely delighted makes the perfectionist in me very happy. For once, I’ve managed something flawlessly—or so it feels.
“Thank you,” she says, her gratitude reaching across the miles. “Really, thank you.”
“Anything for you.” And I mean it. Yardley made it possible for me to be here. I’m staying in her best friend’s condo and taking care of her cat while she works in Paris for a year. I’d never afford the rent on such a nice place otherwise.
I shift the phone to my other hand as I navigate the bustling sidewalk. “So how’s life in the U.S. Attorney’s office these days?”
“Busy as ever,” Yardley sighs, her eyes tracing something off-camera, probably another stack of case files. “The work never ends, but honestly, it’s better than Jack’s schedule.” She smirks. Jack Bailey is her long-time boyfriend and a relentless worker bee. “He’s always buried in briefs and motions at his law firm.”
“Still in that all-work-and-no-sleep mode, huh?” It’s a familiar pattern, one I’m too often guilty of myself.
“Perpetually,” she confirms with a nod. “But enough about me. How’s the new job treating you?”
My steps slow as I approach the entrance of Red Rabbit. I can’t dive into the mess that is my new reality right now. Not when Yardley’s morning has started on such a high note. “It’s...a lot,” I admit, swallowing the gritty details of our financial turmoil. “I’ll fill you in later. It’s too much to unpack with just a few minutes to spare.”
“Understood.” Yardley nods, her smile understanding. “I’m here to listen when you’re ready. You’ve got this.”
“Thanks,” I murmur. “Have a great day, and drink lots of green tea. They say it’s good for you.” I hope we can end the call before doubt creeps back in, before the fa?ade might crack.
“Sure thing. Call me later!” Yardley’s image freezes for a moment, then disappears as I end the call.
Stepping through the glass doors of the office, I draw a deep breath and gather my strength, waiting to discover who has quit today.
By the afternoon, I’m slumped in my chair, the office’s fluorescent lights casting long shadows across my desk. The Red Rabbit logo, once a beacon of vibrant innovation, now seems to mock me with its cheerfulness. I’m the sole survivor in HR, an isolation created by the slow exodus of colleagues who saw the writing on the wall before I did.
I rake a hand through my hair and exhale deeply. months. That’s all it’s been since I walked into this startup, bright-eyed and ready to make a difference. Now, as I stare at the empty chairs, I feel the weight of impending decisions I’m unqualified to make. Who knew HR could feel like standing alone on a sinking ship?
The screen in front of me blinks with an unread email. It’s from the finance department. “Urgent” is stamped across the subject line in red. I click it open with a sense of dread that has become my constant companion, and the words confirm what rumors have whispered all day. No third round of funding. My heart sinks. Without that money, Red Rabbit’s pulse will flatline, and I’ll be the voice that pulls the plug.
“Danica, still here?”
The voice startles me, and I swivel to find Brandon Hatch, the founder of Red Rabbit, leaning against my door jamb. His face is drawn, the usual spark in his eyes dimmed by the day’s revelations.
“Yeah,” I manage, forcing a smile. “Just wrapping up.”
He walks over, perches on the edge of my desk, and sighs. “Hell of a day, huh?”
“Feels like hell, all right.” My attempt at humor falls flat. “I’m sorry all the work you did to get that VC to invest didn’t pan out.”
“It sucks. I don’t have to tell you how bad it is.” Brandon’s gaze holds mine, earnest and apologetic. “We’re going to have to make some tough calls if we can’t get some money in the door. And soon.”
I nod, my throat tight. Layoffs . The word hangs in the air between us, unspoken but understood. “I’ll do whatever’s needed,” I tell him, though I’m not sure that’s true.
“Thanks.” Brandon gives my shoulder a squeeze, then stands. “Go home, get some rest. We’ll regroup tomorrow.”
“Sure.” I watch him retreat and gather my things. I’ll go home to Mischa, Anna’s black and gray Maine Coon cat, and the quiet judgment of my own thoughts. But first, a drink with Marisa, my best friend, might dull the sharp edges of today. We went to the University of Washington together, and she’s a fifth-generation native of San Francisco and the reason I moved here. Maybe tonight I can pretend control isn’t just an illusion, and that for once something will go according to plan. I send her a quick text. After a moment, she agrees to meet up and we make a plan. Kind of a crazy one, actually. Why not?
Drinks at Empress by Boon—Marisa and I need this. I tug at the hem of my dress, adjusting the fabric that clings just right, hoping to mask the turmoil inside me with a fa?ade of silk and confidence. I head downstairs, and we meet in front of my office to take a rideshare together.
The car pulls away from the curb, through the thrumming heart of San Francisco as dusk falls over the city. We’re committed now, dressed to impress, with the thrill of the chase coursing through our veins.
“Danica, you know I can’t swing a hundred-and-fifty-dollar martini on my city paycheck,” Marisa mutters as we push through the heavy doors of Empress.
“Come on, it’s not every day we treat ourselves to saffron-infused gin and Japanese bitters,” I say, trying to sound more buoyant than I feel. “Besides, we’re not the ones paying.”
Her lips twitch, but concern still furrows her brow.
“With all the tech billionaires in this town, there has to be a guy willing to spend three hundred dollars on two beautiful women,” I add.
She rolls her eyes but can’t hide the reluctant spark of hope within them. “Fine, but if this doesn’t work, I’m ordering water.”
We take our seats at the bar, in the soft glow of ambient lights. We scan the room, a tapestry of potential. San Francisco’s finest, all gathered in one place, the air heavy with opportunity and the clink of crystal. My gaze locks on the rolling cart making its rounds.
I lean closer to Marisa, lowering my voice as I share the plan. “We find our mark, flash a smile, and—” I gesture to the cart. “—Empress martinis all around.”
“Or we end up washing dishes in the back,” she quips. Marisa’s always been the realist to my idealist, but tonight, we’re both playing the game.
“Trust me,” I whisper. As we sit side by side, the weight of today’s disaster at Red Rabbit lifts, replaced by the electric hum of possibility.
“All right, let’s do this,” Marisa agrees, and just like that, we’re in it together—two modern-day sirens in a sea of Silicon Valley sailors. Tonight, control is mine to claim, even if it’s just a glass of extravagance.
“Let’s find our benefactor,” I say, raising an eyebrow playfully. I scan the opulent interior, feeling like a hunter in a forest of polished wood and gleaming glass. As I navigate between tables, my eyes land on three men lounging in a corner booth. They’re the picture of Silicon Valley chic—expensive jeans paired with shirts that likely cost more than my entire ensemble.
“Marisa, over there,” I murmur, nodding subtly toward the group. One of them has on a cashmere baseball cap, which screams money—but not loudly. Tourists, I decide. The kind with corporate cards itching to be swiped.
“Look at them, probably here on business. Expense accounts for sure.” I can almost taste the saffron-infused gin. As I size up our potential benefactors, my gaze snags on a familiar figure among them. Anna’s neighbor. The inconsiderate parking thief with an affinity for taking my spot, leaving me with a collection of fines. “Of all the gin joints,” I mutter, watching as he laughs at something one of his companions says. He’s dressed differently now—a tailored tweed jacket drapes elegantly over broad shoulders, a white shirt crisp against his skin, and those damn Ferragamo loafers, sockless, as if to flaunt his casual wealth.
“Who’s that?” Marisa asks, following my line of sight.
“That’s the guy who keeps parking in my space at the loft.” I let the words hang between us for a moment. “He owes me, Marisa. Big time.”
“Danica, I don’t know…”
“Trust me,” I say, locking eyes with her. “It’s just a drink. And it’s about time he pays up, one way or another. Watch this.” This isn’t just about a martini anymore. I wave to the server, who is busy with too many tables and not enough time.
She glides over, her smile perfunctory in the dim light. “What can I get you ladies tonight?” she asks, pen poised above her notepad.
“Actually,” I begin, my gaze drifting across the room to where Austin sits with his companions, “my boyfriend over there…” I nod toward him as subtly as I can. “He’s going to take care of our drinks.” I point to the menu, where the Empress martini beckons. Austin catches my eye, and I send him a nod so loaded with expectation it might as well be wrapped in gold leaf. To my silent relief, he nods back.
The server follows my lead without missing a beat, confirming, “So, two Empress martinis?”
“Yes, please,” I say, and she turns on her heel, off to prepare our order.
Marisa’s expression is a mixture of horror and awe. “Do you even know that guy?”
“Sort of,” I murmur. “We met this morning.”
“He knows where you’re living,” Marisa presses. “Are you sure this is smart?”
I shrug, feeling a flicker of rebellion. “He owes me.”
A few moments later, the bartender arrives with a flourish, pushing a cart that clinks and glimmers with the promise of liquid gold. He meticulously crafts the martinis right before us—saffron-infused gin, artisanal vermouth, and those exotic Japanese bitters combine under his deft hands. It’s a performance, and we are an enraptured audience.
Our server delivers a second round to the guys’ table, and they toast with a camaraderie that speaks of old friendships or lucrative deals sealed. Austin’s eyes find mine again as he raises his glass. There’s an unreadable question in that hazel gaze. I lift my own drink, acknowledging the silent toast, and take a tentative sip.
The martini is otherworldly, a perfect balance of flavors I’ll likely never taste again. I savor it, the richness enveloping my senses. This single, extravagant drink is my rebellion against the mess of Red Rabbit, a fleeting moment of decadence on a day that has given me nothing but dread.
“Delicious,” I confess to Marisa, who has been watching me closely.
Her eyes dance. “Better enjoy it,” she whispers, a smirk pulling at her lips. “Because after this, it’s back to reality.”
“Let’s not think about that yet,” I reply, taking another slow sip, committing the taste to memory. For now, I have this—a small victory, a sip of luxury, and a neighbor who unwittingly just settled a tiny part of his debt to me.
“See that?” I gesture with my martini glass. “That’s the taste of sweet, pricey revenge.”
Marisa snorts. “For every sleepless night, courtesy of your neighbor’s parking antics, you take one sip,” she teases.
“By that logic, I’m already three sips behind.” I laugh, the bitterness of the day dissolving.
Eventually, the last drops of gin and vermouth disappear from my glass, and I reluctantly set it down, signaling the end of our indulgence. We exchange a knowing look and rise from our seats, waving nonchalantly toward our mark’s table. He lifts his glass in return, and we saunter out, leaving behind the opulent atmosphere of Empress by Boon for the casual comfort of a nearby taqueria.
“Ugh, I could eat my body weight in tacos right now,” I confess as we settle into the much less glamorous but equally welcoming ambiance.
“Girl, same,” Marisa agrees, eagerly scanning the menu.
As we devour tacos, Marisa dives into stories from her workday, tales so absurd they almost seem fictional. “You wouldn’t believe this one city supervisor,” she says between bites. “He’s been dirty-talking not one but three different women via email.”
I raise an eyebrow. “As the group admin, he must know you read almost every email.”
“Oh, he knows,” Marisa confirms with a wry smile. “I told him outright. He had the audacity to ask if they turned me on.”
“Seriously?” I shake my head.
“Yep. And then he sent a dick pic.” She scrunches up her face, and I mirror her expression of disgust before we both dissolve into laughter.
“Tiny, huh?” I venture, popping a piece of carnitas in my mouth.
“Minuscule. It’s a good thing he makes decent money, or he’d be utterly dateless,” Marisa quips.
“Did you report him?”
“Better.” She leans in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial level. “I sent him this medical website that has the best positions for men with small dicks.”
“No way. There’s a website for that?” My eyes widen.
“Yep. And I posted the link on his group Slack channel,” she adds nonchalantly, taking a triumphant bite of her taco.
“Marisa! You could get fired for that!”
She shrugs. “What he’s doing could get him fired. And if I lose my job, so be it. I hate reading everyone’s email. I’m actually someone who wishes AI would take my job so I could do something more interesting.”
“Like what?” I ask, intrigued.
“Anything,” she replies. “Anything but playing nanny to city supervisors who think the laws are only for their constituents.”
“Fair enough,” I concede.
We finish our meal in comfortable silence, the weight of the day lifted by the absurdity of human behavior and the simple pleasure of good food and better company. When we’re completely stuffed, we hug our goodbyes and call rideshares to drive us to our homes.
I stumble through the door, my steps slightly unsteady, not from the martini, but from the day’s relentless emotional rollercoaster. The soft click of the lock behind me is drowned out by a familiar sound—the thud of heavy paws on hardwood.
“Hey, Mischa,” I murmur as the Maine Coon barrels into me with the force of a small lioness. “Missed you too, girl.”
She stands on her hind legs, front paws batting at my hands, demanding attention. With a chuckle, I scoop her up, all forty pounds of wild-looking feline majesty. Tufts of hair stand out from her ears and toes like little flags. For a moment, she allows herself to be cradled in my arms before wriggling free.
“Okay, dinner first, then cuddles,” I concede, heading to the kitchen. As I pour kibble into her dish, she circles my feet. “You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had.”
I tell her about Red Rabbit’s fate hanging by a thread and the weight of impending layoffs sitting sour in my stomach. I recount the tale of Marisa’s scandalous workplace saga, how it felt to sip that opulent Empress martini, and the tiny triumph over my parking spot pilferer.
“Tomorrow’s gotta be better, right?” I ask.
Mischa looks up from her meal, her large eyes seeming to understand. She finishes eating and jumps onto the couch, a queen surveying her domain. I sit beside her, and she stretches, her warmth seeping through my clothes.
“Thanks for listening,” I whisper, stroking her fur. I need to get some sleep. I move through my nightly ritual, and by the time I’m putting my feet between the covers, Mischa is right at my side.
“Let’s forget today, huh? Just you, me, and some peace and quiet.” My fingers find the tufts between her toes, and she purrs, a rumbling engine of contentment that lulls away the last of my tension.
“Goodnight, Mischa,” I say softly, closing my eyes.