EZRA
‘ B UT YOU ’ RE OKAY , RIGHT? T HINGS ARE FINE? ’
‘For God’s sake, yes. ’ Edie huffs. ‘Why are you acting like me inviting you out for a drink is akin to a mental break?’
‘Okay, okay. I just – I’m kind of in the middle of something.’
‘How tantalisingly vague. You know, I had to swallow my pride to call you in the first place. You never got in touch after last time.’
‘Sorry. As unlikely as it sounds, I’ve had a lot going on,’ I say distractedly, running a hand through my hair as I cast my eyes around the courtyard. Audrey has already disappeared, which makes sense seeing as she practically sprinted away from me.
‘I’ll consider forgiving you if change your mind,’ Edie says airily. ‘We’re in Meatpacking right now—’
‘We?’
‘Me and some people from work. But we can go elsewhere, if you’d prefer.’
‘I can’t, Edie,’ I say, stomach twisting unpleasantly. ‘But have a great time, okay?’
‘Okay. Thanks for telling me to fuck off so politely, I guess.’
‘Edie, I’m not—’
‘You are, but whatever. I’m free on Monday night if you do actually want to see me.’
‘Sounds good,’ I say, repressing a sigh. ‘Look after yourself, okay? Don’t fall down a manhole or anything.’
‘As if you care,’ she retorts snippily, ending the call. I lower the phone, resisting the urge to bash it against my skull – the sky-high elation I was experiencing a literal minute ago has been tainted with cloying, sickly guilt, now. Edie only ever takes on that haughty, sarcastic persona when her feelings are hurt, because God forbid anyone suspect that she actually has any.
I take a deep breath, shaking my head slightly. I can’t deal with this right now. I need to find Audrey – need to pull myself together and then find Audrey, because right now my brain is so fried that the odds of me saying or doing something unhinged are dangerously high. I instinctively fumble for my cigarettes again, but it isn’t until I have one between my lips that I realise I probably shouldn’t be smoking – not if I want to pick up where Audrey and I left off, which I absolutely fucking do—
‘Do you have a spare?’
I turn to see a girl beside me. She’s about Caroline’s age with delicate black braids and golden-brown skin, deeply freckled.
‘I’m quitting,’ she adds by way of explanation. ‘Only my body hasn’t figured that out yet.’
‘Sure,’ I say, passing her the pack. and absently patting down my pockets.
‘No lighter?’ the girl asks, watching me. I shake my head and she reaches into the small, bean-shaped bag on her hip to produce one.
‘You can keep that,’ she says, lighting her own before passing it to me.
‘Thanks,’ I say, hesitating briefly before doing the same – it’s not ideal, I know, but I feel a little calmer already.
‘Thank you . I’m Demi,’ she says, offering me her hand. I shake it briefly – this must be the kind of networking that Maggie had in mind.
‘Ezra.’
‘And what do you do, Ezra? Can I guess?’
‘Go for it.’
‘Something creative. Talent management? Or photography?’
‘Uh – yeah,’ I say, taken aback. ‘Photography, sort of. It’s more of a hobby than anything else, but – how’d you know?’
‘You’ve got that artfully dishevelled look. And your girlfriend’s a model, right?’
My heart does something akin to a backflip, hearing her refer to Audrey as my girlfriend. I guess she saw us kissing, which – it’s nice to be reminded that it actually happened and isn’t just a figment of my fevered, lovesick imagination. We kissed. I kissed Audrey, and she kissed me back, and now – I don’t know what happens, now.
‘Right on both counts.’ I nod, abruptly lightheaded. ‘I mean – this is genuine dishevelment, but that’s impressive.’
‘It’s what I do.’ She grins, exposing a gap between her front teeth. ‘I’m a journalist.’
‘Ah.’ I smile back. ‘I was going to guess private investigator, but that’s almost as cool.’
“When I’m getting paid, sure.”
“You’re freelance?”
‘Uhuh. I do a lot for this website called Soil, though.’
‘I know Soil.’ I say, surprised. ‘It’s like … politics and pop culture stuff, right? My sister’s sent me a couple of your articles. I mean – maybe not yours specifically, but it’s good.’
‘Thanks.’ She smiles faintly. ‘What about you?’
‘Oh, I work in a restaurant. Waiting tables, mostly.’
‘I was a barista for four years.’ She nods. ‘Working a menial job for minimum wage is a rite of passage for any aspiring creative.’
‘Good to know.’
‘What about your girl? Is she on the struggle bus too?’
‘No, uh – she’s doing great,’ I say, glancing around as though I can somehow will her into reappearing. ‘Just wrapped some big, fancy campaign.’
‘Wow. Who for?’
‘Uh – Miranda something. Miranda Brown?’
‘Miranda Browning,’
‘Right, yeah. Have you heard of it?’
‘Unfortunately,’ she mutters, exhaling smoke. ‘I mean – congrats to your girl, but the brand is toxic. One of my friends interned there a few years ago and it was a nightmare.’
‘Oh, for real?’
‘Uh-huh. She was harassed the entire time she was there. The assistant art director was this notorious creep, but no one ever did anything about it.’
‘Jesus. Didn’t they have an HR ?’
‘Said creep was Miranda’s nephew, so he was pretty much untouchable. And he was apparently super nice, at first – had all kinds of advice to make things easier for her. But then it became pretty clear that he just wanted her to feel like she owed him something.’
I grimace.
Demi nods, flicking ash. ‘Mm-hm. She told her supervisor after he groped her at the Christmas party and got advised to “play nice” for a good reference.’
‘Christ. And he still works there?’
‘He rebranded as a photographer, last I heard. I mean – no offence, but the profession is a magnet for creeps, assholes and nepo babies. He just so happens to be all three.’
‘The trifecta,’ I murmur, distracted. My cigarette burns away between my fingertips, all but forgotten. A thought just occurred to me – a stupid thought, probably, but …
‘What was his name?’ I ask. ‘I mean – it wasn’t Julian, was it?’
Demi looks up at me then, eyes intent.
‘Jonah,’ she says after a beat. ‘But someone told me a while back that he changed it to Julian. Julian Mars.’
Something inside of me goes cold, my skin prickling. Demi is still staring at me, and I hastily drop my gaze, dimly aware that my hand is shaking as I take a final drag of my cigarette. I’m trying really hard not to jump to any stupid conclusions but lodged in my head is the memory of Audrey sobbing uncontrollably in the stairwell outside Julian’s apartment.
‘Was he—’ Demi begins, but I shake my head, dropping my cigarette.
‘I should go,’ I say, suddenly needing to be as far away from here as possible. ‘Have a good night – it was nice to meet you.’
‘I’m not so sure it was,’ she says quietly, and I don’t attempt to contradict her before I walk away.