Natasha snorted. “Did you see her face? She truly thought we’d help her out. As if she did anything but give stupid feedback on your designs.”
“Natasha …”
“I know, I know…” She traced patterns on his forearm over his jacket with her index finger. “Still, she added nothing to the graphic rebrand.”
“Please,” Lincoln replied, his voice dripped with condescension. “She was so desperate to prove herself.”
“I almost feel bad. She worked hard. You could tell.”
My stomach twisted, and I put my hand on the wall to support myself, vision blurry.
Lincoln shrugged. “You shouldn’t. She isn’t cut out for this.”
Natasha stepped into Lincoln, and he stepped back, their chests a hairsbreadth away. “Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you’re out of your depth.” She laughed. “How are you feeling? After that, you’re pretty much the only pick for associate creative director.”
Lincoln smirked and pulled her red curls to one side of her neck. “I was the best all along, Tasha.” His jaw ticked, and Natasha shrugged his hand off her shoulder. “Don’t you doubt that.”
She tilted her head. “Jeez, Linc, you could at least pretend I have a chance.”
“Why?” Lincoln said, dropping his hand. “You don’t. It was always Nina or me.”
She closes her eyes, the wrinkles at their corners sharpening with the tightness of her eyelids, but Lincoln’s not looking at her. She then adds, “What do you think she’ll do now?”
He stepped away from her. “Why do you care?”
Natasha shrugged. “I don’t.” She shifted subtly, closer to him. “But I thought she was your friend or something.”
“Please,” Lincoln said, turning away from her. “Her cousin is my friend. She’s not. All she does is work hard. She would’ve cracked under pressure, anyway.” His back was to her. “It’s all she did in high school, doesn’t even have a sense of humor. How’d she thrive in a cutthroat environment like marketing? Maybe she’ll beluckysomewhere else in the world…and I get to keep thiscompanyfor myself.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s almost a small mercy.”
My ears and face burned, his words too close to those of the song I’d been listening to when I’d first met him. The melody sprang in my memory, soft and slow, aching to comfort me.When I met Lincoln, I’d been seventeen, lost, and alone. About to move in with my cousin Vinny and his parents—Lincoln’s neighbors. I was dragging because crossing the threshold to their home somehow made it more real that my parents were truly never coming back. Lincoln came up and stood next to me. “Songbird” played on my phone as he moved in front of me. His eyes shone with worry and a sadness so familiar I thought it was my own. Vinny had told him about my parents, so he asked if I wanted to take a walk instead of going inside their house right away. He hadn’t been charming or extravagant, he’d beenreal. Something about my pain spoke to him. Looking into his sorrowful blue eyes, I thought maybe I’d have a friend there. Maybe I’d be okay there.
So I took one more night to mourn my parents and decided come morning I’d embrace the lifeline he’d thrown at me. I told him not then, but we’d do it another time.Soon.I even smiled at him, basking in his concern for me, in the way I’d felt drawn to his sorrow that mirrored mine. And even after I said no, he gave me a dimpled smile, fooling me into believing it was the beginning of a friendship, but it’d been the start of my torture.
Recalling my first time meeting him only made his words ring sharper, colder. The original lyrics carried a sweet tune, but it soured as his words plagued my mind, echoing the verses with the mocking truth that anywhere I went, I wasn’t wanted. That I should just goanywhere else.
It’d happened today, too, I thought I’d start something, and all I got was more torment. And again, Lincoln’s at the core of it. Mocking and teasing. I’d lost something important, and my name was trashed.
Once again.
2
Nina
Ididn’t remember walking home. One minute, I was stepping out of the office building, a few personal belongings rattling around in a box, and the next, I was fumbling with my keys at my apartment door. With a low groan, I bumped my hip against the door, and it swung open, hitting the scuffed wall behind it, and I just… stood there.
I stared at my cluttered tiny studio, just a single room and a bathroom. To my right was a decent-sized closet and a small coffee table in front of a secondhand recliner. About a foot deeper into the apartment, my full-size bed was pressed against the back wall. To my left was a narrow kitchen, with a two-burner stove and an oven. There was barely room for a table and two chairs. The oven and stove set off the carbon monoxide alarm, so technically not usable. The bathroom was disproportionately large, with a giant tub and no outlets.
I took a deep breath, and air thick with a dampness slithered into my lungs. Feeling the tightness in my chest, I went straight to the nebulizer. The cracked window at the foot of my bed had beads of condensation trailing down the glass, pooling at the windowsill and dampening the corner of my bedspread.Overhead, the water-stained patch in the ceiling had deepened in color, mold feathering outward from the leak no one had come to fix even though the landlord had promised to “take a look” months ago and then again last week after I knocked on his office door.
As the machine pumped mist into my lungs, I sank onto the edge of the bed next to the darkened spot. My place wouldn’t be much to anybody else, not even the landlord cared, but it was mine. The only home I’d known since I was seventeen.
My phone buzzed in my purse. I stared at the string of work notifications on the screen. Nobody had bothered to stand up for me or the work I’d produced. Riding that wave of jadedness, I deleted every 3D’s-related app I, then, swiped to LinkedIn, and Lincoln’s face popped up under the “People You May Know,” all blue eyes and crisp collar. He’d be the one leveling up.
My stomach growled. Loud, angry, hollow. Ordering delivery would be nice, but with rent due in fourteen days and only getting one more paycheck, I had to be smart moving forward. Who the fuck knew how long it would be before I found another job. Only finding hotdogs and a lime, I closed the fridge door and leaned my forehead against the handle, its vibration sinking into my skin.
The humming surrounded me, transporting me to my parents’ kitchen at seventeen. Our fridge had been making a rattling sound Dad never had the chance to fix. Flowers covered the kitchen counters and table—so many bouquets, we had to put some on top of the fridge. Trays of food were lined on every surface in both the living room and dining room. Everywhere I looked reminded me how loved my parents were.
Our house was filled with the familiar faces of their friends whose kids weremyfriends.Family.They all wanted to stay in touch with me, however, my aunt and uncle disagreed. They saw themselves as the only family I had left, even if I’d only seenthem once a year and saw my parents’ friends most weekends. My aunt and uncle were more like strangers than the family they’d proudly claimed to be.
