GEMMA:Shit, just seeing this. WTF, Sadie? Also, Nick, kindly remember the actual hardworking half of us live in Brooklyn.
NICK:
I don’t bother to respond. After inhaling my pretzel, I manage to make my commute home, moving on autopilot, proceeding straight to my neighborhood liquor store as soon as I climb the subway stairs at my stop. Grabbing two bottles of wine, I head to the cashier before doubling back for a third and fourth. I pick up a basket, also tossing in a bag of Cheetos and a supersized pack of M&M’s.
My apartment is just a block away from the store, but lugging home all my loot makes it feel much farther. I trudge up the five flights of stairs in my nondescript brick building, my reusable tote full of booze and junk food hitting the back of my leg with each step, the smacks punctuating the negative thoughts racing through my brain.
Of course you got fired.
Who would want you to work for them?
It’s not like you workthathard.
Why do you think you’re so much better than everyone else?
Pausing on a landing to catch my breath, I shut my eyes and attempt to push the voice to the back corner of my brain.
I’ve lived in this building for almost a year, one of my longer residences since I moved to New York for college ten years ago. It’s the first time I’ve lived by myself, which is low-key my favorite feature of thespace. The apartment itself is clean and boring, nothing even close to Instagram worthy. I have a kitchen and a bathroom and a bedroom with a door, more than I’ve ever had to myself before. But I have zero outside space, not even a tiny balcony, and since I’ve always been a seriously dedicated, bordering-on-overzealous plant enthusiast, it’s a major downside.
So I filled the interior with plants that don’t require a ton of sunlight, and I spend more than I’d like to admit on fresh flowers from the farmers’ market each week. But my soul still itches for a backyard, or even a patio. Growing up in Southern California, outdoor space was plentiful and I always found solace in the garden of my parents’ home. It’s one of the only things I’ve missed since I moved to the East Coast.
“Now you’ll never be able to afford anything with a yard,” I mutter to myself as I finally reach my front door, sweaty and out of breath. You’d think after climbing these stairs every day for a year, I’d be in better shape. You would think.
I place my bottles of wine in the fridge, tearing into both the Cheetos and M&M’s, alternating handfuls of each in some disgusting sort of salty/sweet, cheese/chocolate rotation. Kicking off my shoes, I unzip my skirt and flop onto my sofa.
Really, as far as New York City living situations go, it could be a hell of a lot worse. Shit, I’ve been in a hell of a lot worse. But when I moved into this apartment, a guaranteed promotion was on the horizon. So while it was a bit of a stretch budget-wise, I thought it’d be a short-term stretch. Now even if I find a new job, I have no idea how I’ll continue to afford this place.
I swing my feet up onto the coffee table, wishing I’d thought to pour myself a glass of wine before sitting down. Technically, my leaseis up in a couple of weeks. And technically, if I want to get out of student loan debt any time before retirement, I should probably move. Again. But the thought of packing up another apartment, lugging boxes down five flights of stairs to a double-parked rented van, makes me want to puke up my stomach full of sugar and processed cheese. I unlock my phone and re-download the roommate-finding app I’ve used in the past. But even the simple act of logging in to my dormant account makes me want to curl up in a ball and take up permanent residence on this couch.
“Fuck it. I’ll just have to settle for being poor.” Though I do stop and wonder if investing in a roommate might keep me from talking to my plants.
My phone chirps with an email notification, and I automatically swipe to open it, despite the fact that said chirp is likely spam and not an urgent client email. Since I no longer have clients. Or a work email.
“No!” I declare to my fiddle-leaf fig, tossing my phone to the opposite side of the couch. “I am no longer tied to my phone.” And since the opposite side of the couch means only a foot away from me, I reach over and pick up the phone again, turning off all my email notifications. I’ve been jumping at the first trill of that stupid email chirp for the past six years, like a millennial Pavlov’s dog. It’s interrupted dates and time with my friends and countless hours of sleep. No more.
It’s Thursday night. I’m going to give myself a nice long three-day weekend to grieve and gripe and moan. And then on Monday, I’ll hit the pavement. I’ll be hired somewhere new and fabulous in no time.
“Now,” I say to my tiny room full of plants, “let’s get drunk!”
Two
Blueprint is packedwhen I step out of my Lyft two hours later. Should I have taken the subway? Yes. Did I pay an exorbitant rate just to save myself half an hour? Also yes. Was it worth not having to hike ten blocks in killer-in-more-than-one-way heels? Abso-fucking-lutely.
Harley waits for me out front, looking like she came straight from the office. She’s in a too-long black pencil skirt and matching blazer, accompanied by a white button-down and black ballet flats. She opens her arms and pulls me into a hug the moment I approach, and despite my towering over her in my heels, it’s the best hug I’ve had in a long time.
“I need some good news; tell me you kicked some lawyerly ass today.” I wriggle out of her embrace before it becomes embarrassing, blinking rapidly to dispel any tears that might’ve sprung into my eyes at this display of pure kindness.
“Today consisted solely of paperwork; sorry, friend.” She gives me a sad smile, and I find myself blinking again.
Harley has one of those smiles that touches her big brown eyes, like it truly means something. She’s stunningly gorgeous, with flawless dark brown skin and cheekbones that could cut glass, but she’s also by far the most compassionate and empathetic person I’ve ever met, and I really have no idea why she’s friends with me. Her job as a public defender—which she chose specifically to help those who can’t afford legal representation, despite getting offers from all the top legal firms—actually matters in the grand scheme of life, unlike the elitist cesspool that is my job. Was my job.
She sweeps her long black box braids over her shoulder. “Want to talk about it now?”
I purse my lips and shake my head. “I think I’ll only be able to say it once. Besides, we should put our name in, looks like there’s going to be a wait.”
She holds out her arm for me to link mine through. “I made a reservation.”
I bend down so I can rest my head on her shoulder. “Of course you did.”
