A beat-up fuchsia leather purse thuds on the bartop next to Iris. Jasmine, one of Fender’s afterwork regulars and Iris’s current flirtationship, slips onto a barstool.
“I think I just set a record for how fast you can get the hell off Long Island,” Jasmine says. “All the cousins have kids now and won’t do edibles with me anymore, so I was there sober, while my aunt told us about all the wart removals she’s had this year. And it’s been nearly a decade since I’ve come out and my dad still thinks that if I ‘give football a chance I’ll really like it.’” She looks at me with wide, pleading green eyes. “Please help me not be sober anymore.”
Coming to the rescue, I make her a Negroni while she and Iris chat.
“Here,” I say, placing the deep amber cocktail in front of her.
“Iris is saying you might stay in New York a bit longer.” Jasmine cocks a brow.
“Not you, too,” I groan.
“All I’m saying is, I wouldn’t be mad if you stayed,” Jasmine says, coyly, as her eyes flick to Iris.
“I’ll get to it faster if people stop reminding me. And there’s nothing that says if I leave you have to go with me,” I tell Iris.
I hate the feeling that I’m holding her back, but she never complains. I don’t do relationships, but she does. Yet, she always cuts them a month or so before we move.
“Nope, you’re not getting rid of me anytime soon. I worked my ass off to be your friend and I’m getting a return on my investment.”
At first, I was determined to make sure she was just a normal roommate, but she made it her mission to get to know me. She’s the only person I’ve opened up to about how I really feel about what happened the winter of my sophomore year of college with my dad and how everyone in my old life stopped talking to Mom and I the moment the news broke.
“God,” Jasmine groans. “My roommate’s the same way. He’s planning on moving home after the holidays.”
I point between them. “See if we both leave then you could live together. Now if you'll excuse me, I have drinks to make.”
3
Liam
Once late November hits, pitch meetings atSpitfirebecome a competition for who can come up with the most inventive ways to use the company card for their personal gain.
It’s the Monday after Thanksgiving, and all of the mid-level and senior staff writers are seated along a narrow gray conference table with their notebooks splayed in front of them. I stand with the three other junior writers to the side with our backs to the bay of windows, awkwardly cradling our notes in our arms.
“Jasmine, go ahead and start that piece on styling clothes from high school for the holidays,” Fallon Saito, our editor in chief, directs. She’s in her late thirties—young by industry standards—but was able to secure her position and the development ofSpitfirethrough consistent viral success. Her black hair is tied back, out of her face, in a high ponytail. She commands the room as she writes down approved pieces on index cards before securing them with magnets to a whiteboard. “We’ll be getting a shipment of pleasure accessories later today. I expect everyonewho is comfortable to pick one up and submit their review by next week so we can finalize the listicle for the start of ‘Horny for the Holidays.’”
A few people let out whoops at this. We continue to go around the table, throwing out gift guide themes and holiday excursions and pop-ups to try out in the city. We’ll be putting out twice the content as usual, which also means a peak in ad dollars from the digital site with a push for material featuring sponsored items.
When I got my MFA, I didn’t aspire to work at a fashion and pop culture magazine. There aren’t exactly enough writing jobs out there to be picky about where you land, but I love it here. Sure, there’s pressure surrounding deadlines or pushing past creative blocks, but it’s an environment that embraces joy.Spitfirehas a primarily female audience, but it’s a space for anyone if they want to be a part of it.
Fallon directs her focus on me. “Liam, what do you have for us? Excellent work on the Thanksgiving list, even if I did have a heated call from Bide’s owner this morning.”
A few annoyed glances shoot my way. The person who writes the review list each year is selected at random so they aren’t recognized by the restaurants and given preferential treatment. It’s a coveted spot, partly because of the free meals and partly because if you succeed you’re on Fallon’s radar for the upcoming year, which means more freedom with the pieces you take on and the potential for promotions. Because I’m leavingSpitfire, following in the steps of three generations of Hughes men before me to move home to help run my family’s ski hill in Dulcet Point, Colorado after the New Year, other staff members thought it was a waste to have me write the list.
“Christmas cards with friends or roommates, moving away from the traditional family card and moving toward something more aligned with the modern trajectory of people in their twenties and thirties,” I say.
“Great!” Fallon says. “Touch base with whoever you want to bring along with you and talk to the fashion department about styling. I’m thinking ugly retro, but follow their suggestions. That’s all I have for you all. Remember, look over the sex toys but do not fight over them. Wedo notneed a repeat of the Valentines Day incident.” Grabbing the rest of her note cards, she taps them into a neat stack and puts them into her bag.
The room fills with the swooshes of chair legs on thin pile carpet.
“You better pick me for the holiday card,” Jasmine says, crossing the room to join me.
She and I started around the same time atSpitfire,both of us coming from MFA programs and working our way up from being interns. She moved up the ranks six months ago, being given her own column focused on sex and psychology, rooted in her personal mission to help people understand they aren’t alone in what they feel or what theythinkthey should feel. We live together in a cozy rent-controlled apartment in Tribeca that she lucked into when she first moved here.
“Why? Because you look great in tinsel trimmed polyester?” I ask. When we reach the door, I hold it open for her.
“Because if you don’t, I’m revoking your best friend status and will be wildly offended.”
“Sorry, I thought you knew that I was just using you for premium rent.”
