On instinct, I hoist up the nearest object, which is…a whisk. A not-scary, ineffective whisk. What am I going to do,beathim to death?Ba-dum-tss.
“Who are you and what are you doing in my apartment?” The whisk wiggles in my hand. I’ve imbibed and I’m scared, which is a bad combination.
“Mr. Baker. It’s me. Antoni. Your first assistant.” He’s wearing a checkered button-down, navy-blue chinos, and an expensive-looking belt. He holds a tablet, a stylus, and a glass of water.
I set down the whisk. “Firstassistant?”
“Yes. I’m the daytime assistant. Jerome is your nighttime assistant.” He hands me the glass of water. “Jessalynn said you might need this. Drink up.”
“There’s nothing in here, right?” I’ve lived in New York City long enough to know not to accept drinks from strangers. Except in this instance, I suppose Antoni isn’t a stranger. If he’s to be believed, he’s got my whole life cataloged on that tablet.
“No, there’s nothing in there. Just filtered water.” He flashes a trustworthy smile.
I gulp it back. “What do I need a nighttime assistant for?” I ask, wiping my mouth on the back of my forearm.
He checks his notes. “Uh, well, I’m not here to know for sure, but Jerome has logged: booking cars, VIP bottle service, spontaneous trips, off-menu room service, after-hours gym access, and the occasional bedtime story.”
“Bedtime story?”
“Yes, you’re really into the Game of Dark Dissension series, but you say reading gives you migraines and the audiobook narrator”—he defers to his iPad, reading directly—“sounds like someone you used to know and never want to think about again as long as you shall live.”
It has to be Drew. Sometimes, when he read a passage in a book he really loved or one that made him laugh, he’d come bursting into my room without knocking to read it aloud to me. No matter the time of day. No matter how long the excerpt. I loved that.
Sadness ties a tight bow around my heart. “I really said that?”
“According to the log.”
“You keep a log?”
“For general records, upkeep, taxes, and your business manager.”
“Jessalynn?”
“No,” he says, starting to sound spooked by my game of Twenty Questions. “Jessalynn is your talent manager. You have a business manager who’s solely in charge of your finances. Are you sure you’re okay? Should you lie down?”
I seriously wish everyone would stop asking me that. Of course I’m not okay. Seven years have passed overnight. I’m lucky I’m not curled up in a ball on the floor right now.
“No, I’m just hungry. I get confused when I’m hungry.” I clutch my stomach to really sell it. “A poke bowl would be excellent.”
He’s already putting on an indigo jacket and grabbing his bag. “The usual okay?”
All I do is nod, having no idea what the usual is. Some strange part of my brain is wondering how much my taste buds could have changed in the intervening years. When I was a kid, I hated soup, but practically lived on grilled cheese and Campbell’s tomato when I first moved to New York. What if I’m into slimy squid now or something else revolting?
Without time to harp on that, I decide now is the moment to snoop for answers. I finally find my phone in the bedroom. Scrolling through my contacts, I search from my go-to’s. Mom is mysteriously missing. No Dad either, but a plethora ofDaddyvariants. Daddy Steve. Daddy Mark. Daddio.I really must get around.
When I try the number listed for CeeCee, I get a woman named Cécile who I apparently met four years ago in Provincetown while singing along to a Billy Joel cover concert. Sounds about right, but not who I was looking for.
Since my parents never did social media, I scavenge for signs of CeeCee on all the apps I have downloaded and am already logged into. Some, with their eye-catching logos and confusing interfaces,make me wonder how I ever learned to navigate these newfangled grids and no-scroll feeds. After clicking away from several CeeCee Bakers who aren’t my sister, I find who I’m looking for.
In her profile photo on an app with a French-looking name I can’t even pronounce, CeeCee and James smile brightly in front of a calm ocean. Tapping to see more, I come to the hopeless realization that I’ve been blocked. On every app. You’d think after seven years we’d have reconciled our stupid fight over a missed speech.
My recklessness reared an unfortunate end. I had been hoping the wedding would bring us closer together, but my rash decision clearly ultimately severed our already weak connection. I feel mortified, crushed, and completely alone.
Seven years lost over a few hours and a career gained. Suddenly, I’m not sure I’d do it all over again, even if it did net me millions.
That petty fight reminds me of the second big fight I had last night. Or whenever that was at this point.
Apparently, I hate Drew so much that I can’t even have somebody working near me who shares his name. I’ve spent seven years without my best friend, and I have no memory of them, but that doesn’t make it any less awful.
