Chapter V
V
Marin
“You never make time for yourself.” Sloane’s lecturing me during my commute home to Tribeca from my office.
Most nights, I opt out of the comped Uber to give her a call while I walk the thirty minutes back to my place.
Tonight’s topic: my inability to let loose.
“One night a week where you’re not glued to Slack isn’t exactly balance , Mar.
Violet told me you’re going into the office on Sundays, too.
” There are perks to Sloane being nearly as close as I am with my little sister; them teaming up on me isn’t one of them.
“I’m fine. I promise I’m fine. It’s just temporary. And I’m way better now that I’m with Gabby, I promise.” Even with the sounds of traffic, I can hear her sigh.
“I know you think that—and I’m glad you do—but you’ll make yourself sick if you keep this up. Come back to Iowa for Violet’s show choir showcase. We all miss you.”
Something catches in my throat, and I ignore it, barreling through a crosswalk beneath a blinking hand. “I know, and I really want to, but this deal is important. I’ll be home for Christmas.”
I’ve been working at FourVC since my internship, and now I specialize in consumer research.
Which is like being paid for the shit talking Sloane and I used to do after Mug Night at Donnelly’s.
“No one wants to smoke cigarettes anymore. When did Gatorade make a comeback? If I see one more med spa pop up in an empty bank...” That sort of thing.
They put a full-time offer in front of me right after the fitness start-up I’d convinced them to back sold to a giant athleisure conglomerate less than a year after they’d invested in their Series B.
That this sort of thing comes naturally to me is both a blessing and a curse: I’m on the fast track to becoming a partner at the firm, but everything else in my life is in the slow lane.
Sloane lets it go, asks when she’ll meet my mysterious quasi girlfriend, and signs off with our signature “See you soon,” even though it’s been almost a year since we’ve been in the same room.
I fire Gabby a text, suggesting takeout at mine, despite it being well before the commonly acknowledged booty call hour of 9p.m. I like spending time with Gabby, and I do it a few days a week, but I’m not sure I’m committed to her so much as to the simplicity of our dynamic.
Engaging in something serious feels impossible right now, but I like her and have yet to tire of her after a few months in.
There’s no running back our sex like a movie scene in my head, sure, but it’s comfortingly uncomplicated—and that’s good for now.
“Be there in twenty,” she writes back. I hustle the rest of the way home, fluff sofa pillows, and give my apartment as objective a once-over as I can.
My job has its cons— namely, that it swallows up all my time and most of my friendships—but it also has its pros, including a salary I didn’t know was possible at twenty-five.
One that, growing up in Iowa, I assumed only existed in magazines.
And one that allows me to order Gabby’s favorite sushi any random night without thinking about it.
“This week ,” Gabby says as she walks into my apartment, kisses me, and drops a bottle of chilled red on the counter.
She’s my age, runs the social team for a presidential hopeful, and has a body that should be immortalized in marble.
We met on Raya, and we never talk about life outside of work or when we can see each other next.
I barely know anything about her family, and I prefer it that way.
I’ll share about my dad when it comes up, and it hasn’t yet.
The last time I told someone new about him was on a highway outside of the state of New York, and I’m happy to keep it that way.
Dressed in a leather jacket and ripped-to-shreds jeans, Gabby pulls a corkscrew out of the drawer by my fridge and leaves it next to the wine.
“Here’s the plan.” Gabby reaches for my wrist and tugs me toward the sofa.
She kisses my neck, and with every contact, I feel the tension headache I’ve been carrying since my second espresso soften.
“We’ll fuck. We’ll drink this wine. We’ll eat.
And then we’re going out.” Unzipping her pants and tugging at her shirt, I silence everything but the present moment.
Afterward, it’s two quick glasses of Lambrusco, a spread of hand rolls, and a half-assed outfit change as she hustles me out the door.
My hair’s falling out of a braid, and Gabby laughs as I wrap a huge cashmere sweater over my shoulders and stuff my keys and cards into my pockets.
“You’re dressed like someone who can’t wait to get back home. ”
Smiling, reminding myself to be here, now, I pull her into me. “Trust me, I can’t.”
Teddy
When Carter calls, I’m on my way to Judicial Oversight—my law school cohort’s weekly reunion at Josie’s on East Sixth Street—and ready to forget about work.
My former roommates like to give me shit for not upgrading to a doorman building with a poolroom when we all landed Big Law salaries, but low rent and proximity to dives like the one I’m headed to can’t be argued with.
“You won’t guess who I’ve been emailing with,” Carter says. I pause. Knowing him, it could be truly anyone. He’s still in Nevada, hiking most weekends and FaceTiming me whenever our schedules allow. “Sloane. From undergrad? Your eternal crush?”
Of course I recall, but the eternal feels long expired. I can tell he’s waiting for a reaction. “What have you been emailing about?”
“A desert apocalypse short film. She posted about it. I’d seen it—it was shot around here—and reached out.”
“Ah, of course. A desert apocalypse short film.”
“Her best friend, remember her? The tall one you gave a lift to after graduation? She’s still in the city too, apparently.”
My lips turn up toward a smile, but I force them down.
Remember her? Grave understatement. Most of the time, though, I wish I didn’t.
Hearing Carter casually mention a person who’s been trapped in my head for so long lands me right in my body.
Like she’s real again. I feel the pull of my jacket across my shoulders. I tug my ear. I cough.
It’s been three years since I dropped her off on the Upper East Side, and I’ve never been able to forget about Marin Voss for very long.
Sometimes, when I’m drunk enough, I still get off thinking about that night outside of Chicago.
Nothing happened—or almost nothing happened—but the memory remains crystal clear, ready to be conjured.
“Marin,” I say, stopping outside of the bar.
“Did you ever see her after the road trip?”
“She was pretty adamant about that drive being the start and end of our friendship.” My tone’s more defensive than I mean for it to sound. Carter knows me better than anyone, and this is a dead giveaway.
“Ah. It was like that.”
“Carter.”
“Ok, well, she has some big job now just like you have some big job now. And you’re both still there.”
“We have so much in common.”
“I’m just saying.”
“Listen, I gotta go, but next time, you’ll tell me more about what you’re ‘just saying’ to Sloane.”
He laughs. “See you soon.”
My usual crew of former classmates and plus-ones waves from the booth in the corner. After doing close readings of contracts for five hours, I welcome this release with people who’ve been heads-down on the same type of thing and have zero interest in talking about it.
I give cheek kisses to the women and awkward half hugs to the men. “Anyone need anything?”
Cleo, who I know from my first internship, squeezes my elbow. “When you’re back, remind me to tell you about someone else I want to set you up with. If you’ll give me a second chance at matchmaking.”
“Of course,” I say, but my heart isn’t in it.
It never is. I like meeting new people, but by the third date, it almost always becomes clear there isn’t much there.
I try to remind myself that it takes time—and that feeling connected to someone doesn’t just happen.
But I either get too depressed about the prospect of talking about what TV shows we’re watching and end it early or accept inertia, let a relationship take hold, and wait to be broken up with a few months later for “being distant.”
As I stand at the bar and wait for my beer, I try to shake the malaise that’s come over me during the last half hour.
You’re here to catch up with friends. Don’t get like this.
I grab a black napkin and fold it once, twice.
When my eyes scan toward the booth, they snag on the back of a head I’d recognize anywhere.
I tell myself it’s someone else, that there’s no reason she’d be at a linoleum-floored downtown bar playing Merle Haggard.
But then she turns to face a beautiful woman in a leather jacket, and I see her T-shirt: “Sacred Heart Girls Get On Their Knees.”