The glass doors slide open again, laughter spilling in and footsteps moving closer, then fading as someone closes them behind them. The air between us feels charged in a way it didn’t out on the terrace. Maybe it’s the close quarters, maybe not.
“That’s my cue,” I say, turning around to leave in the opposite direction I came in. “See you around.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “I hope so.”
I don’t let myself smile until I’m two blocks away.
1
MANUELA
MONDAY
Present day
The elevator joltsjust enough to make me wonder if today’s the day it finally gives up on me. A fitting metaphor for this dreary Monday, honestly.
By the time I reach the seventh floor, my canvas tote bag is digging into my shoulder, my hair is frizzing from the late summer humidity, and I’ve mentally drafted three different versions of my resignation letter—all of which I won’t—can’t—actually send, because this job is the reason my permanent residency is still in progress. Toxic boss and all.
I swipe into the floor’s modern turnstiles, past the wall of glass awards our creative agency likes to brag about, and head straight for my desk. April from strategy gives me an exhausted smile, and I nod in return. She used to be friendly with me, even inviting me to brunch with her friends on the weekends and the occasional post-work happy hour, before I got moved onto the Horizon account and jumped from the strategy team into managing accounts. Now she simply winces sympatheticallywhen I’m in her vicinity, like someone watching a car wreck happen in slow motion right before their eyes.
“I swear to god, this week is testing me,” Elle Winslowe, my friend and coworker, says. She’s been repeating the same combination of words once a week since she got engaged a little over two years ago. She sets her large designer purse on the desk next to mine and takes a sip of whatever drink she’s enjoying on this balmy fall morning, ice shaking as she moves around the space.
“What happened?” I say, just as my phone pings consecutively at least eight times. I place my bag under my desk in the only small space my tiny cubicle can accommodate. Elle’s desk is sandwiched between mine and a large window overlooking the Hudson River and, if you squint and do some Olympic-style gymnastics, the Statue of Liberty.
“The wedding is in three weeks,” she says with an exhale, hooking up her laptop to the monitors in front of her and clicking her mouse an exorbitant amount of times. I open my mouth to say something, but she interrupts, continuing with her venting session that is so common at this hour, no matter the day. “Mind you, I’m leaving Wednesday,” she emphasizes, her eyes widening for dramatic effect. “Wednesday.”
“Is there something I can do to help with wedding stuff?”
“Oh, no thanks, babe,” she says while she glances at her buzzing phone on her desk. “I already added them to the list.”
I laugh, shaking my iced coffee to get the last few sips out from the bottom. New York City in the late summer is muggy and overwhelming. And although Buenos Aires was very similar, the pace in this city and the sheer number of tourists add an additional layer of anxiety that has me on edge the majority of the time.
“How was your weekend?” I ask, moving in a similar way to what she’s doing. This has been our routine for the past yearor so since I got promoted into a new role and our boss, James Jameson, decided it would be better suited if Elle and I sat right outside his office. Sometimes, when we are at work way past closing time, Elle and I like to theorize about why he’s such an anal-retentive prick. Other times, we go inside his office and move his sticky notes a fraction of an inch towards the edge of the desk.
It’s highly unprofessional but also a very good way to unwind and destress, even though our jobs are anything but. We work at a creative agency that caters to non-profits specifically, so the work is low stakes and low urgency but highly rewarding.
“I got my nails done,” she says, wiggling her fingers in my direction, “and touched up the tox on my forehead and crow’s feet, you know, just in case.” She does something weird with her face, trying to show me the unnatural ways the muscles of her face don’t move at all.
“That’s nice,” I say, although I can’t really relate. I don’t think I’ve ever gotten my nails done since I moved here, choosing instead for a more do-it-yourself approach since everything is so expensive in this city. And Botox? Yeah, that’s just a pipe dream at this point and something I should be saving for, just like I should be saving for a down payment for a house. “Are you all packed?”
“Yeah, Jack’s parents flew out yesterday, so they took a suitcase with them,” she says absently, moving her mouse and opening her email app. The new messages load fast, hundreds and hundreds of them populating the screen in front of her. “My dress is being delivered tonight to the house, and the shoes should be, fingers crossed, in by Wednesday at the latest.”
I smile and nod, just like I do most of the time Elle talks about things I can’t, quite frankly, understand. The way some of these people talk about their lives and their money just astounds me at times, and it’s nothing like what I’m used to. I come froma small town in the mountains in Argentina, where the majority of the people are middle or working class. I’m a first-generation college graduate and worked very hard to get where I am, and it’s a shock to hear these things sometimes.
“Are you excited for the trip?” Elle asks without looking at me. She’s scrolling through emails, half-distracted. “I think it’s going to be so good for you.”
“Yes,” I say quickly.
But the truth is I’m feeling a little anxious about it. Two whole weeks before Elle’s wedding, stuck inside a house with the same group of people that makes me feel slightly out of place on a regular basis? Not my idea of fun.
“I mean, Ilovethe idea of ninth-wheeling this romantic vacation in the Alps.”
“You jest,” she says with a lopsided smile and a slight glance in my direction. Her long blonde hair is tied in a low bun like usual, a sharp, crisp line down the middle of her head and her strands pulled back with such tightness I’m surprised she can even think. “But honestly, babe, who even cares about that? The house is amazing, and you’ll be able to relax and not think about work for two whole weeks.”
I nod, even though she’s not looking. I’ve already made peace with the fact that I’ll be a background player in this group—the kind of person who’s in all the photos but gets cropped out when they make it to someone’s feed.
“Oh! I forgot to tell you?—”
