Chapter 2
AMY
Ishould have known better than to have a piece of cake.
My body always reacts strangely to sugar, and now the stuff is buzzing through my brain, making me feel like a shaken-up soda pop.
Normally, I wouldn’t go for something like the sugary, Bluey-themed birthday cake in the middle of the table, but there’s something about being around Rae and Jordan that makes me feel loose and reckless.
“Again!” Rae pleads, laughing and jumping up and down, throwing her little hands in the air toward me, the universal baby sign for up!
She’s wearing a sparkling pink dress—which coordinates with Jordan’s sparkling blue overalls—and there’s a huge pin on her chest that reads Birthday Girl. A smear of frosting on her cheek, her messy hair, and the wild look in her eyes tells me she’s had more than her fair share of sugar today, too.
“Okay,” I say, reaching down for her, because I’m physically incapable of saying no to these kids. For the next three minutes, I run Rae throughout the party, holding her up and making plane noises as she “flies” through the air, giggling and screaming.
“Me next!” Jordan cries, appearing when I stop, huffing and puffing in the middle of Kirstin’s streamer-strewn living room.
He’s the spitting image of Rae, except he has a tiny scar over his right eyebrow from a jump-roping incident, and his hair is in close curls, while Rae’s cascades down her back.
And both of them look just like Kirstin did when she was little.
“I think we need to give Aunt Amy a break,” my sister says, appearing and taking Rae from my arms, who shrieks with glee as her mother kisses her chubby little cheek.
“I think Aunt Amy needs to work on her cardio,” I say, folding over and putting my hands on my knees, turning my head and looking up at her through my hair. “I don’t know how you carry them around all day.”
Kirstin laughs, then rolls her eyes, saying, “You sound just like Mom.”
I know she’s talking about the “working on cardio” part. Our mother is not the type of woman who skips a single day at the gym. She can hold two lattes, power-walk through a city’s downtown, and juggle phone calls without even breaking a sweat.
And she’s not here today—overseas to negotiate a new international deal between various manufacturers. In her place, she sent both Jordan and Rae a set of designer clothes that Kirstin pulled out, rolling her eyes even as the other moms oohed and aahed.
Now, Kirstin sets Rae down, who toddles away with Jordan, back to the pile of new toys sitting in the corner of the room.
The party is dying down, the floor littered with little scraps of wrapping paper and cardboard, though the pinata still swings from one of the ceiling’s artfully exposed beams, ready for a kid to swing at it.
“Come on, Aunty,” Kirstin says, tugging on my arm. “Let’s get you a glass of water.”
A moment later, we’re standing in the kitchen, each with a glass of wine, me leaning against the island and Kirstin leaning against the counter.
Outside the window, my sister’s neighborhood glitters with Christmas lights and icicles, the roads paved with a perfect sort of precision that arrives with a higher tax bracket.
“Your house is gorgeous,” I say, meeting her gaze. “Did I tell you that already?”
“Yes.” Kirstin rolls her eyes, bringing her wine glass to her lips. I know she’s been frustrated with me lately, so I made coming to the birthday party today a priority. I even arrived early to help put up decorations.
But, according to the look on her face, it still doesn’t make up for the fact that I missed their housewarming party. And their New Year’s party. And that I had to leave our mom’s house before dessert on Christmas for an early work meeting the next day.
Technically, our mother lives in Denver like us, but she’s hardly ever here. Kirstin comments frequently on the ways I’ve been following in her footsteps.
“Now that you’ve seen the house,” Kirstin says dryly, taking a quick sip of her wine, “does that mean you’ll actually come to a dinner party?”
“It’s not about the house. It’s about time. You know I want to,” I say, working hard to maintain my composure. It should be easier than this. After law school, nothing should be able to get under my skin.
But this is a conversation Kirstin and I have been going around and around with since I decided to go back for an MBA, and then after I switched to this job and started working even longer hours than I put in during school and with internships.
“When are you going to start living your life?” she presses, shaking her head, eyes narrowing at me.
“I’m living my life,” I return, taking a long sip of my own wine before going on. “My career is important to me, Kir.”
Now it’s Kirstin’s turn to look like she’s holding back, probably not liking my insinuation that her career isn’t important to her.
She got her degree in accounting and was working for a prestigious Denver firm before deciding to take time off and focus on being a full-time mom. Her husband, Greg, is a civil engineer and earns more than enough to support their family without her at work.
It made sense for them to organize their lives this way.
But I don’t have a Greg, a guy she met and clicked with while at college.
I never fell in love, which means that now, when I want to find a guy to settle down with, it’s going to become another entry in my agenda, another thing on the long list of tasks I have to complete.
We can’t all be so lucky as to have a perfectly decent man fall in our laps.
“I know it is,” she says carefully, letting out a sigh, some of the harshness melting away from her features. “I just worry that someday you’re going to look up from your desk and realize it’s too late for you to pursue the other things in life that are worth having too.”
“Kir, I—” My words die away on my lips when the watch on my wrist starts to buzz gently, my eyes darting down and taking in the name before I have a chance to check my reaction.
Don.
I’ll have to answer it. Even though it’s a Saturday.
Even though I’m with my family and this is the first weekend I’ve had “free” in over a month.
For just a second, my heart starts to skip uncomfortably, a precursor of anxiety.
It’s fine, I tell myself, forcing in a deep breath through my nose. The image of calm.
Kirstin stares at me, clearly having seen the name that popped up on the screen, too. She knows all about Don, all about the boss who has little care or regard for the concept of business hours.
“This is all very Devil Wears Prada,” Kirstin mutters, rolling her eyes at me and finishing off her glass. “Well, go ahead. I know you’re itching to answer.”
“I’m not,” I lie, even as my hand twitches toward my back pocket where my phone sits snugly in my jeans.
I’m already thinking through a game plan for whatever Don needs. If I’m coming into the office, I’ll have to use my go-bag in the trunk, with slacks and a blouse, the professional outfit I keep ready at all times for a situation like this one.
If he doesn’t need me to come into the office, I can stay in this outfit—jeans and a form-fitting T-shirt.
When Kirstin gives me a look, it’s like she can tell I’m already doing the mental gymnastics, figuring out exactly how best to submit to Don’s beck and call.
But she doesn’t understand.
“Sorry,” I whisper quickly, more because I know it’s going to upset her than because I think I’m doing something wrong. Slipping my phone from my pocket, I step out onto the front porch for privacy, wrapping my arms around myself against the frigid January air.
“Amy!” Don booms my name like he always does when he answers the phone, like he’s presiding over a boys’ club and I’ve just swaggered in. “I’m glad I caught you. Are you busy?”
“I’m at my niece and nephew’s birthday party,” I say, guilt creeping in as I think about the inevitable sadness on their faces when they find out I’m leaving early. Again. “So—”
“Perfect!” He cuts me off like he always does, seemingly without even realizing that’s what he’s doing. “Meet me down at the office. I’ve got a great new opportunity to discuss with you. Big one—we’re talking, after we pull this off, we might be looking at some promotions for anyone involved.”
It’s the same carrot he’s been dangling in front of my face from the moment I started at McKay Capital Management. And even though I’m ashamed to admit it, it’s still working. What I wouldn’t give to have my own team, to be able to lead projects how I see fit.
Half the projects in the company could be more efficient, more effective, if I were the one organizing them.
And then I would have plenty of time for family—if I could just influence work to be a bit more time-efficient.
There’s no doubt in my mind. But every time I send an email detailing inefficiencies, the replies are vague, dismissive, or nonexistent.
“Right now?” I ask, and the line goes deafeningly silent on the other end. I can see Don’s face—surprise, amusement, melting into disappointment.
“Unless you’d rather I loop someone else in on this one…”
“No. I’m already out the door.”
It’s true. I’m standing on Kirstin’s porch, shivering, staring out into the opposite yard where some precious little kids all bundled up in their snow suits are sledding down a particularly steep and spacious backyard.
My heart squeezes, and for just a moment, an image of me, in my own coat, laughing as my kids sled down a hill, flashes into my mind.
“Great.” Don’s voice draws me out of the vision, and I shake my head, like I can physically clear it away.
When I go back inside to say goodbye, the twins are sad but mostly distracted by their toys. Kirstin gives me a tight-lipped smile and pushes a goody bag into my hand.
As I tuck myself into my car, which is still slightly warm, I turn up the radio and turn down the street, eyes flitting to the sledding kids.
Someday, that life will be mine.
Just as soon as I square away my professional life, I can slow down and be the mom in the snow.