Chapter 21
California
“Simon really thinks he can kill me off like that? Just—poof—and I’m disappeared? Does he know who I am?” I waved my glass of red wine around, and it sloshed a little over the rim as I jabbed the air with each word. “I’m not some problem he can erase. Like a bad tattoo.”
I was pacing and slurring my words, wobbly but determined.
“I’m a fucking phoenix. I’m a goddamn Avenger. I’m—” I raised my hands, more wine splashing. “I’m the McRib. You can’t cancel the McRib. It always comes back. Because the McRib is scrappy. It’s tenacious.”
And it was true, I could come back, but first, I would have to get myself out of the loop I was stuck in.
It had been like this for almost two weeks now, ever since Simon left me that cowardly note.
I’d gone straight home, propped the note up on my coffee table like some fucked-up art installation, and hauled a bottle of tequila out of my freezer.
Inevitably, the drinking turned to processing, which always spiraled into me defending myself—having full conversations with Simon’s stationery card.
Some nights, I cried. Other nights, I begged.
Tonight? Tonight was for rage.
I was humiliated. Besides Gemma, my social life had been consumed with Simon and his crowd.
Anyone I might have thought about calling would be on his side.
And while Delia was understanding, suggesting I come to New Orleans to get back on my feet, she found things like disappointment and heartache to be “very pedestrian.” Not to mention bad for frown lines.
I wished I could call my parents. I missed them so much, there were moments it physically hurt to draw breath.
Instead, as always, I was alone.
“All because I brought you the acquisition you wanted and you blew it up? You weasel.” I glared at the heavy card stock, drunkenly musing about taking it to a psychic to have it cursed, to somehow throw Simon’s life into chaos with bad energy.
Eventually, I passed out on my couch. Again.
I dreamed I was back at my desk in Simon’s office, trying to wade my way through a sea of emails.
And it felt like a relief. After weeks of being home, alone, people finally needed me again.
Every Slack or text was a hit of adrenaline.
A rush of validation. A tiny little fire only I could extinguish.
James was late with his report. Simon was lost on his way to lunch, and for no reason, Delia showed up to hand me a sweater.
At some early hour the next morning, I woke up sweating and gasping, completely lost.
It was all a part of the cycle. I’d wake up sometime past noon, try to do something moderately good for myself—like drinking water or going for a walk—and then catch sight of the note card.
And instead of doing anything productive, I’d sink right back into the gaping wound that was my ruined career.
Of course, not totally ruined. I could look for another job.
But I didn’t have enough experience to vault too far past the title and tenure I had with Simon.
So whatever job I landed would feel like starting over.
Clawing my way up the ladder all over again.
Impressing new people, doing grunt work, saying yes to everything.
I’d already done the all-nighters and the whirlwind trips.
I couldn’t stomach the thought of going back to the starting line and cutting my teeth again.
A few weeks ago, I had a five-year plan—an airtight, bulletproof, underdog-takes-the-moon plan.
Getting a great degree and then the perfect job and then insulating myself with power and money were the sum total of my mission. And every now and then the thought crept in that I hadn’t felt this lost since my parents died. Or maybe ever.
Because when my parents died, I had the thought of some perfect job to distract me.
Now, all I had was a recycling bin full of wine and tequila bottles. And a note card I worshipped at like it was some kind of shrine.
Another fun feature of my post-Simon life? Midnight panic attacks.
At some early hour the next morning—after I passed out on my couch—I started awake, heart pounding. My head throbbed like all the red wine I’d had was trying to punch its way out of my system.
My phone was ringing from somewhere on my coffee table. It was Delia.
“Hello,” I croaked.
“Morning, darling,” she said in that breezy voice of hers. “I haven’t heard from you in a few days.”
We didn’t catch up with any kind of schedule—she wasn’t partial to tradition—but she happened to call two days after Simon let me go. Calling more than once a quarter was about as maternal as she got.
“Sorry,” I said, rubbing at my eyes. The lights of my living room were on, but my vision was clouded with sleep. “I’ve been—”
“You’ve been wallowing. I can hear it in your voice.” When I didn’t disagree, she tsked and added, “Go get a blowout. Buy a new dress. You’re young. You should be enjoying it.”
Slap a smile on and keep it moving, that was Delia’s doctrine.
Nothing champagne and a jazz bar can’t remedy.
On better days, I admired her indomitable spirit and the way she made being alone look heroic. But today, it only sharpened the truth: In this world, I had no one to lean on when I was broken.
“A new dress,” I mumbled. “I’ll try that.”
“Do you want me to call someone? Find you something new?”
Delia had been a doer. Someone with little use for feelings. Emotions were distractions, and Delia never let herself be distracted for long.
“I’m just going to take a little time, and—”
“Wallow.” She sighed. “Well, all right, but don’t waste too much time on regret. There’s not much any of us can do with that.”
Right.
I hung up and thought of the last time my life detonated like this.
Delia plucked me from the chilly Boston suburbs and dropped me in New Orleans.
Never to return. And since I’d moved to California, I hadn’t been back to Louisiana.
Another clean break. Now, as I reached for my water glass on the coffee table, I wondered if California should be next on the list of places I’d abandon for good.
Sitting back with my water in hand, my fingers grazed the stem of a day-old glass of red wine. I heard the top-heavy wobble and lunged.
Shit. Fuck. Fuck. Shit.
The wineglass tipped toward the note card.
Pinot noir sloshed up to the edge of the glass before I managed to get my hand underneath it.
But just in time, stem in hand, I righted it.
Only a few drops had escaped, landing on the bottom-right corner of the note card.
A tiny stain, blooming like a drop of blood.
The thought of the note card being ruined spurred genuine fear. But why? Why did I want to stay stuck in this moment?
I’ve got about three more weeks before this note card becomes my whole personality. Delia’s right. I need to snap out of it.
I peeled myself off the couch and decided to try acting halfway human again. I cleaned my kitchen. I washed my face. It was pathetic how much that felt like progress.
But I wasn’t ready to face the world yet.
A few days later, though, Gemma called, and it was like someone tossing me a tether back to real life.
Gemma had been a confidante since that day James botched the numbers on his advertising budget and I had to rewrite half the board deck in a three-hour panic.
Afterward, I shuffled into Greenleaf near closing, and Gemma sent me home with a bottle of wine and a to-go charcuterie box labeled Emergency Cheese.
“On the house,” she’d insisted.
Maybe Gemma is the friend I need right now.
“Hey,” I answered, hearing the limp enunciation in my words.
Her tone edged toward worry. “Are you sick?”
Am I?
“No,” I said.
“Well, where have you been? It’s been like three weeks. Simon’s been in, but I haven’t seen you once. Your usual stool is gathering dust. Are you okay?”
I took a deep breath. “Simon fired me,” I confessed in a voice that didn’t sound like my own, saying words I never thought would be true.
I heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. “What the fuck was he thinking?”
I didn’t answer. Because if I did, I might cry. And then I’d be back to yelling at a note card.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“I’m at home.” The last word wobbled a little.
“Right,” Gemma said, her voice firm now. “Listen, I’m still working, but come here. I’ll pour you something decent, and you can tell me what happened. Or, you don’t have to tell me. But don’t sit in your apartment alone, Este. It’s too sad.”
Something in my chest loosened by a fraction.
“Okay,” I said.
It was close to noon, and I told Gemma I’d be there soon. Then I showered for the first time in days and put on jeans—real pants, a triumph. Then, I made my way to the bar.
Maybe the fresh air will be good for me.
But the light flooding Greenleaf and the din of conversation were a riot of sound and sensation after weeks alone in the hollow silence of my apartment. It was like I was reentering Earth’s atmosphere after weeks on the moon.
The bar looked the same, but I was different. My phone didn’t buzz with urgent work messages. My T-shirt and jeans were a far cry from my usual designer-label business casual. And I was pretty sure the light behind my eyes was permanently dimmed.
Simon fired me.
Gemma was behind the bar, eyes trained on her phone.
“Hey,” she said, still scrolling. “Hold on. I’m in the middle of something.”
I slid onto my stool. “What, sexting?”
She barked a laugh. “Please. I’m trading.”
“Trading?”
“Investing.” She went quiet again for a second, her thumbs tapping away on her phone, and then she tapped hard, her eyes returning to me with a smile.
“A few executives from WeWork were in here last night moping in their beers about the quarterly report they were going to have to release today, and I just made a thousand dollars.”
I stood on the footrest of my stool, craning over the bar to see her phone. “You’re serious.”
“Everybody’s got a dream, right?” she said, tucking her phone into her back pocket.