Getting up in front of a crowd, feeding off their energy, usually gives me the kind of high that carries me through hours of creative output, inspiring ideas and clarifying execution like the best drug money can buy. But if events are drugs, this afternoon’s was a dud batch.
The Elevate reading wasn’t a flop, not at all. In fact, it was, overall, a success. If that snob wanted to throw me off my game, he’d have to try a lot harder than that. I’m used to being underestimated. It happens a lot when you’re a woman, when your “exotic” looks (read: dark hair and eyes, olive skin, hooked nose) can mean that people don’t take you seriously.When condescending journalists or book reviewers portray you as a hack. Or when you forgo an illustrious career path in favor of becoming an internet personality and your family reacts like you’ve chosen to suck dick for nickels. When you’re confident enough in yourself, you learn tobrush it off, to rally. After all, there are far worse things people have to endure in this world. Maral’s and my parents reminded us of this at every turn growing up, as earthquakes and political unrest and threats of further genocide caused undue suffering to people in our homeland while we got to live this ridiculously privileged life in America. As our parents left behind everything and everyone they knew to build a life of more opportunity for us.
Do you know how lucky you are?Maral and I repeat our parents’ oft-used refrain whenever we face champagne problems now. And an event that didn’t goperfectlyis nothing.
But that doesn’t stop the low-frequency doubt from reverberating in my deepest recesses. Picking out truths in the lies.Something of value. Meaningless.The man’s voice morphing into Mom’s when I told her I was quitting my residency.Dropping out of medicine to, what, talk to people through their phones?The disbelief, the disparagement, echoing in my mind, dampening the ideas that usually ping off one another like rainbow-colored gumballs. Not even the audiobook of my favorite Gloria Steinem biography has helped, and that’s usually a slam dunk for revving the old engine. But the cursor on the screen continues to taunt me.
Upon returning to the hotel, we retreated to our four separate rooms. Maral could tell I needed downtime. She’s no stranger to me withdrawing when I’m not at my best. She knew all I wanted tonight was to enclose myself in my room, peel off my suit and “confidence underwear”—what we call bra-and-panty sets that are senselessly expensive, sexy as fuck, and make us feel so powerful they may as well be armor—and change into sweats and my threadbare Harvard T-shirt. Habits akin to a power-down switch. She didn’t even ask about getting dinner or doing any Chicago-y stuff before we leave tomorrow. Just assured me that it was a successful event and that the coming ones will only get better, then squeezed my hand when the elevator reached her floor and headed toward her room.
Ryan doesn’t know me, however, and paused for an inordinate number of seconds before stepping off the elevator at his floor, eyes speaking when his mouth didn’t. But I wasn’t about to answer with anything but a curt “good night.”
Now, in the heavy quiet of my room, his words from the Q and A come flooding back.
Her work makes people feel less alone in a lonely world,empowers them to take emotional control of their lives, gives them hope where it’s becoming increasingly difficult to find. If that doesn’t matter, I don’t know what does.
Is it possible that he actually thinks my book is worthy? That I’m not just some trifling internet personality? I lean back in my chair, hitching my knee up against the desk, trying to reconcile this possibility with what I’ve believed of Ryan all along.
Not only did he subvert my concerns about bad luck, but he actually resolved the only thing that went wrong all night.
What he said was one thing. The fact that he said it was a whole nother.
I don’t need anyone to fight my battles for me. I have an arsenal of mental weaponry that I’ve unsheathed countless times over the course of my life. You don’t go down an educational path populated by extremely privileged people without learning a thing or two about how to elbow out space for yourself. I would have wrecked that gremlin—charmingly, of course…there was still an audience to endear myself to—but then, there Ryan was. Defending me.
Well. Defending my book, anyway.
It should have rankled. Who was he to think I needed some knight in shining Nordstrom to ride in and save the day?
But what might otherwise have infuriated me…didn’t. In fact, it felt nice. Like having someone else in my corner hadn’t diminished my strength, only reinforced it.
A soft knock comes from the door. I briefly consider pretendingI’m not here—Ididhang theDo Not Disturbsign on the knob when I got back. But Mar would only disturb me if it’s important.
When I throw open the door, however, it’s not Maral on the threshold.
It’s Ryan.
He’s the most dressed-down I’ve ever seen him outside the gym, in a heather-gray Henley and worn jeans. Nowhere near rumpled, but not quite as prim as usual. Semi-casual looks a little too good on him.
“Oh,” I say, not even registering that I should hide my surprise.
He’s silent, his eyes flickering from mine for the briefest of seconds to take in my clothes, which are so casual they may as well be pj’s—the worn tee feels entirely too snug against my unsupported chest—before he quickly casts them away from me.
“Hi,” he says, clearing his throat. “I—I wanted to see how you were feeling.”
“Fine,” I say.
He nods, very interested in the doorjamb. “Good. I’m glad. I wasn’t sure if…Is Maral here? Or Shanthi?”
“Nope, just me.” I remember my manners. “Um, do you want to come in?”
He hesitates, still not looking at me, tension radiating from him as he considers my question thoroughly. As though I asked,Hey, you want the nuclear codes?instead of just politely inviting him into my room so he doesn’t have to stand in the hallway.
Finally, he nods. “Thanks. I thought, uh. I thought maybe you’d…want their company.”
“Why?” I ask.
The door closes behind him and he finally makes eye contact. “They’re familiar. People you’re comfortable talking to.”
“Talking to about what?”
