Chapter 2
Two Weeks Earlier
I shot John a look that I intended to say: They cannot be serious. We only learned about the deal that morning when Jasmine sent us a two-sentence email with an angry red exclamation point marking it as high importance.
John acknowledged my look with a slight shake of his head, but to the client he said, “We can do that.”
I controlled my facial expression until the call was over, but after we hung up, I dropped my forehead to my desk. Another weekend, ruined. I stopped keeping track a long time ago. And unlike most weekends, this weekend I actually had plans. I’m so tired of this.
After a minute I turned my head to the side and focused my gaze on the plain white wall of my little office and the UPenn and Michigan Law diplomas I had hung there.
I usually felt a surge of pride when I looked at them, but today my brain decided to fixate on the diploma that wasn’t there. The first one I ever really wanted.
Franconia Academy was nestled unassumingly in a small town in New Hampshire not far from where we grew up.
I was in sixth grade when Drew got in. The school looked like an idyllic small college with brick buildings, a state-of-the-art athletic facility, and a collegiate-level theater program.
Almost every student that went there gained admission to a prestigious college.
I wanted to go there desperately, too. I’d study and do theater and make friends and get into a great college, my younger self thought.
Whatever natural ability I lacked that Drew had, I would make up for by working harder than everyone else.
After that—I’d been told by my parents and teachers and society—I’d be on the fast track to success.
I’d be respected and admired by everyone I met, and my parents would be just as proud of me as they were of my brother.
Drew was home for spring break when my letter from Franconia arrived a few years later. I ran to the mailbox as soon as the mail truck pulled away. Back inside, I sat on the couch and tore open the letter, ready to read the word ‘Congratulations.’
My stomach plummeted when instead it said: We regret to inform you…
Hot tears built behind my eyelids. Thirteen years old, and I felt like the universe was telling me I wasn’t good enough.
You don’t get to be as successful as your brother and his classmates.
The thought burrowed into my psyche and set up a permanent residence.
Drew found me in the living room of our childhood home, holding the letter in my clammy hands, staring at that first line but unable to read the rest of it. He read it over my shoulder.
“I’m sorry, Val. That stinks. But some people find it really challenging there, you know. Maybe you’ll like public high school better.”
Whether he meant to or not, his suggestion that I’d find Franconia to be too challenging made the rejection sting even more.
“Please leave me alone.” Humiliation laced my tone with venom.
Drew slipped out of the room silently, and next thing I knew, my parents sandwiched me on the couch.
“I’m sorry, honey,” my mom said. “I know how badly you wanted to go there.”
My dad patted me on the back. “Going to that school isn’t the only way to succeed. Their loss. Stay the course, Val. Keep working hard and it will pay off.”
So that was what I did. I spent high school and college and law school grinding to get the best grades I could, and it all culminated with the rare, highly sought after job offer from Peters & Dowling, one of the top law firms in New York City, and the world.
In just three years, I would be eligible for the promotion to Peters & Dowling partner.
If I got it, I would make millions of dollars, and make a career of negotiating the most high profile, highest dollar-value deals.
The definition of success and financial security.
I pushed myself up from my desk and concocted a plan for how I’d make it to the birthday party I’d committed to that weekend and meet this client deadline.
Stay the course, Val, I said to myself.
It will be worth it.
Right?
The sun was far from up when my alarm sounded on Saturday morning.
I fumbled through the top drawer of my dresser and pulled out a well-worn, full-coverage, tan bra.
It used to be comfortable, but now it was too small.
I’d gained enough weight that I needed to buy new bras, but part of me held out hope that I’d find time to exercise again soon, so I didn’t want to replace them all just yet.
I clasped it behind my back and pulled each strap up to rest on my shoulders.
Besides, it didn’t matter that it was ill-fitting, I’d just be sitting at the desk in my living room. Alone.
My law school friends, Tyler and Erica, were having a birthday party that afternoon for their two-year old daughter, which was mostly an excuse for them to invite all of their adult friends over to their new house for food and cake and drinks. I’d been looking forward to it for weeks.
I hadn’t seen them in months.
I refused to let Jasmine’s request for a contract draft by Monday prevent me from going, so here I was, at 4:30 a.m. on a Saturday morning, firing up my computer and making a cup of coffee.
I had about six hours to read and revise every line of the 150-page document before sending it to John. Then I could get ready for the party.
But six hours later, I was still hung up on the indemnity section, agonizing over which representations and warranties should be considered ‘fundamental,’ and therefore result in enhanced damages for my client if they were breached by the tech company.
Eventually my drooping eyelids compelled me into the kitchen to make another cup of coffee from my little single-serve machine. The time on the stove glared at me. I was hoping to be in the shower by now, but I had another thirty pages to revise.
Should I text Tyler and Erica and tell them I can’t make it?
No. I clenched my fist. I need to show up for them.
Glass of water in one hand and boiling cup of coffee in the other, I only spilled a little as I ambled back to my desk. My trembling hands landed back on my keyboard. I rolled my shoulders and began reading the next section.
By 12:30 the document was in John’s inbox, and I was sprinting into my bedroom.
I skipped my shower, left on the ill-fitting bra, and threw on a pair of jeans and a blouse that used to look good on me, but now were a little too snug around my waist and hips.
My makeup routine got bypassed, too, replaced with few swipes of mascara and some tinted lip balm so I didn’t miss the train to the suburbs.
When I walked out of my apartment fifteen minutes later, I felt thoroughly disgusting, and not much in the mood to socialize.
Hopefully Chris doesn’t come to this party.
Enjoy it, the voice in my mind said as my boot-clad feet carried me up the walkway to Tyler and Erica’s front door.
You love your friends, and you haven’t seen them in so long.
Despite repeating these things to myself as my hand hovered over the door handle, I already knew what would happen once I went in.
I’d be surrounded by people I cared about, people I genuinely wanted to see and talk to, but at the same time, in a very real way, I’d be completely alone with the stress inside my own head.
Half-present. Pretending.
Erica spotted me the moment I entered their kitchen. “Val, I’m so glad you could make it!”
I rushed over to give her a hug.
“Wouldn’t miss it! It’s so good to see you. And look at this house!” Their white kitchen cabinets extended all the way to the ceiling, and the wide-planked hardwood floors gleamed.
“Thank you! It needs a few updates, but I’m so glad we found something with enough bedrooms and not so far outside of the city.”
“I think it’s beautiful.”
Erica smiled.
Tyler was talking to a few people I didn’t recognize on the other end of the kitchen. I decided not to interrupt.
“Help yourself to a drink.” Erica gestured to a bar cart in the living room. “And there’s a raw bar in the dining room.”
“A raw bar? Incredible.”
Erica rolled her eyes. “Please eat at least five oysters.”
“You don’t need to tell me twice,” I assured her, instantly glad I came. They clearly spent a lot of time and money on this party. It matters to show up, I told myself. Even if you’re exhausted and don’t feel like your full self right now.
I headed toward the living room and took out my phone, holding my breath while my inbox refreshed, that familiar little kernel of dread flaring in my belly. It dissipated when no new emails popped up.
I exited my inbox and texted Natalie to ask what time she was getting here before navigating around an L-shaped leather couch and several clusters of balloons to get to the bar cart. As I poured myself a glass of chilled rosé, my phone vibrated.
Natalie
Walking up the steps now!
Thank god. Natalie was my first friend in law school.
We did our first group project for Civil Procedure together, decided we liked each other, and then did almost everything together after that: events, parties, classes, and study groups for every class we had in common.
Natalie had tight black ringlets (a stark contrast to my golden brown, pin-straight hair), a heart-shaped face, and a round, button nose.
She was single, like me, so we had more time for each other than our coupled-off friends like Tyler and Erica.
She was Jewish and holding out for the right Jewish man to come into her life.
I was single for other reasons.
I pulled open the front door and Natalie immediately wrapped her arms around my neck, artfully avoiding the glass of wine in my hand. “I need one of those,” she said instead of hello.
“Follow me!” I guided us back to bar cart in the living room, uncorked the wine, poured it into a stemless glass, and slid it toward my friend.