Chapter 22
I spend the next day in a daze. When I finally draw open the blackout curtains, the sun is already high in the sky. I slept later than I have in ages. My body feels like it got hit by a semi, so I forgo a workout and crawl back into bed.
I scoffed when Maral insisted we not schedule anything into our calendar for today or tomorrow—she’d reasoned that we’d be bushed from the tour and back-to-back events—but now I’m grateful.
Well, grateful that I don’t have to figure out how to put on the public persona today.
Not grateful for yet another reminder that Maral is brilliant and regularly saves me from myself.
My apartment is a maze of Maral triggers—the den where we record podcasts, the kitchen where she and only she ever cooks anything, the closet filled with clothes that are at least a third hers. She’s come here practically every day for the past five years. And she was no stranger before that.
How on earth am I going to survive without her?
Beyond the heartache, I can’t face the fact that I’ll have to find a new brand manager.
That someone other than Maral will run the SPOY brand, handle my entire calendar, have access to my whole life, be my right-hand woman.
It’s laughable that anyone could measure even halfway up.
She gets it. She gets me. We grew up in the same house—in the same room.
She knows how to talk me down when I’m spiraling.
And, more importantly, she knows when to leave me alone.
Except now, when her name is blowing up my texts like it’s the end times. Which, hell, it is.
I slump out of bed and to the kitchen, find my stash of edibles, and pop a gummy into my mouth. It takes effect pretty quickly on my empty stomach, softening the edges on my emotions, dulling my racing mind, and allowing me to doze for the rest of the morning.
When the door buzzer sounds, I snap awake, disoriented. I shuffle toward the entryway, expecting Maral on the threshold, but instead find the doorman, Henry, holding an elaborate bouquet of autumnal flowers.
“Afternoon, Ms. Movilian.” Afternoon? I feel like a teenager—sulkiness and all. “These came for you. Shall I bring them inside?”
I take the vase from his hands, vaguely aware that I haven’t showered or even brushed my teeth yet today. “I can take them, Henry, thanks.”
I bid him a good day and carry the arrangement to the kitchen island, where I pluck out the card.
Congratulations on week 2 on the NYT list! xx, Nadia
Well, shit. The things you miss when you ignore your phone for an entire day.
I can’t help the pang at how differently the news hits compared to last week, when Ryan showed me the email from Meredith. When both of them were still at Woodsworth. When I felt like I was on top of the world—on tour for a successful book and savoring the best sex of my life.
It feels like another era. Has it really only been a week?
I dig my phone out to text a quick thank-you to Nadia, and the number of notifications makes my eyes water. Normally I’d hand this machine of overwhelm to Maral and have her triage the situation. But that’s no longer an option. And further, she’s added to the stress with a dozen texts of her own.
can I come over?
ayn, talk to me.
i’m sorry. please understand.
boyid mernem.
I navigate back to the messages menu, chest pinching when I see Ryan’s name, unbolded and way down the list, our last exchange from two days ago when I was on the train home from Boston.
Jacob’s name, by contrast, is bolded with an unread message whose preview shows a series of emojis that would make me blush if I were anywhere near the mood. I can’t imagine touching another man again. Except the one crowding my mind like he owns the joint.
I turn off the screen, leave the device on the counter, and crawl back into bed.
By Thursday morning, I’m sick of my bed, my apartment, my own maudlin company. I am not built to be alone for long periods of time, and a full day of self-imposed solitary confinement feels like a month.
I pull on my running clothes and venture into the muggy late-September air.
My usual route—east to the park and then a loop around the reservoir—doesn’t feel like enough today, so I add some miles through the North Meadow.
I set a punishing pace, my loud breaths overpowering the comfort read I plugged into my ears.
Still, Michelle Obama’s voice as she recounts her college counselor telling her she wasn’t fit for Princeton, even half heard, is a better companion than my own unfiltered thoughts. I’ve had quite enough of those.
I wind my way back through the park toward home, panting, my legs weak and wobbly.
Henry opens the door as I approach, a broad smile on his face. “You have a visitor,” he tells me. “I been wonderin’ where she’s been! Usually see her every day.”
On the bench near the elevator bank, settled in like she’s been waiting for hours, sits Maral.
Even though seeing her face feels like slipping into fleece pajamas right out of the dryer on a cold day, and even though some part of me wants so deeply to forget the past few days and rejoice in her company, I’m still deep in some feelings, and I can’t be letting them run me ragged with her here.
She stands, raising the strap of her purse to her shoulder. “Hi.”
I nod. “Hi.”
Henry’s head swivels between us before he gets the hint and steps back outside.
“Maral, I don’t think I’m ready to talk about it yet. I’m still processing—”
“I’ve given you enough space. Too much, I think.” She sounds…angry? Or something.
I thought you wanted to give me all the space in the world. Or the country, at least. I can’t control the thought but kick myself for my petulance.
Her tone softens. “Please don’t shut me out.”
At the shine in her eyes, the plea in her voice, my heart turns to mush. I relent, pressing the call button on the elevator.
Inside my apartment, Mar takes in the bouquet on the kitchen counter. “Congratulations on the New York Times. I called but you didn’t answer. Just like you didn’t respond to any of my texts.”
I pour myself a glass of water. “I kinda unplugged yesterday.”
She watches me take a sip. “I know. People have been calling me to ask where you are.”
“People?” I ask, knowing better than to hope that includes one specific person. Knowing better but hoping anyway.
“Nadia, Alison, Grayson from the Infinitude Symposium.”
Right. The conference I’m booked to speak at tomorrow evening. I’m grateful for my cousin handling work-related correspondence when I clearly haven’t been up for it. Who will run interference for me once Maral’s no longer here? My eyes prick again, and I crumple onto a stool.
“Does Shanthi know?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I didn’t want to tell her before talking to you.”
I make a face. “You told Meredith.”
She winces. “I’m sorry about that. She was raving about her new job, and how much happier she is working in educational publishing—how it was fulfilling this dream she’d forced into dormancy for so long.
I’ve been…” Her shoulders sag. “I’ve been feeling that myself, and I guess I just couldn’t hold it in. ”
“So you pulled an Ana?” I say.
She seems encouraged by my joke. “Blurters gonna blurt.”
I sigh. “I wish you’d told me.”
“Because you’d have been so receptive,” she says.
Her statement settles on my chest like a heavy stone.
Sweet Mar. She’s denied herself for so long, for my sake.
And the one person she should have been able to talk to wasn’t there for her.
My petulance retreats like the tide, replaced by guilt.
“I wish you’d felt comfortable enough to confide in me.
I’m sorry I wasn’t a safe place for you. ”
Her eyes dart up to mine, and there’s so much in them—hesitancy, anticipation…
hope. “I should have told you anyway.” She shakes her head.
“I don’t think I realized how much it was calling me until I forced myself to stop and, like, listen to it.
When I met with Kamila, she told me about this role they were looking to fill at the MPA, and it made it all seem so… possible.”
She met her grad school friend, Kamila, for lunch a month ago when she was here for some urban planning conference. Now that I remember, Mar was particularly pensive afterward, less talkative on the podcast episode we recorded that afternoon.
“You’ve been pursuing this for a month?” I ask. This has all been happening under my nose and I’ve been so oblivious. So self-involved that my favorite person in the world has been struggling with this life-changing decision without my support.
“The conversation started a month ago,” she says. “I had an introductory call with her team. But it’s been ramping up over the past couple weeks, lots of emails, defining the role, and then I met everyone in person when we were in Boston.” She looks appropriately contrite saying this last part.
And it all clicks into place. Keeping her phone close to her chest, being late for the train in Boston the other morning, wearing her lucky dress—not sex-lucky but interview-lucky.
Air judders out of my lungs, and my nose burns. Everything—all of this—without my even knowing. I should have been in her corner, cheering her on, wishing the best for her. She deserved at least that much from me.
I can’t go back in time and fix that. But I can do the next best thing—I can be here in this present moment. And in every moment after.
I round the counter and pull her into a hug. At first she remains still, in shock, then her arms come around me with such speed it’s as if she thinks I’ll disappear if she doesn’t clutch me to her.
“I’m so happy for you,” I say into her hair, my voice shaky with tears.
“Yeah,” she says slowly. “You sound real happy.”
“This is happy crying,” I wail.
She squeezes me, not letting go. “You don’t have to be happy,” she says. “I’ll settle for acceptance.”
“You’ve got both. And don’t worry,” I qualify, “I’m still very sad for me.”