"I'm going to the ladies' room," Emmy said, standing up. She needed a moment. He was being too agreeable, and it was making her nervous. "Just... think about what I said. About having someone who sees you, not the jersey."
The bathroom at the bistro was nicer than Emmy's apartment. Cloth towels, fresh orchids, gold fixtures.
And a woman crying near the sinks.
Early twenties, maybe. Frantic expression, server's apron, mascara migrating south despite heroic efforts with a paper towel. The tears were winning.
Emmy stopped. Her hand was already on the door handle to leave. She could walk away. She should walk away. She had a celebrity client waiting at the table and a career to salvage.
West, don't say it, she thought, imagining her brother's voice.Don't you dare say'Emmy to the rescue.'
She sighed. She opened her purse.
"Here," Emmy said, stepping up to the sinks. She pulled out a packet of blotting papers and a tube of high-end concealer—her emergency kit from her wedding planning days. "Dabbing, not wiping. Wiping makes it red."
The girl hiccuped, looking at Emmy with wide, watery eyes. "I look like a raccoon. I have a four-top of finance bros waiting for appetizers and I look like a raccoon."
"You look human," Emmy corrected. She handed over the concealer. Red-rimmed eyes, but the makeup was intact underneath—the crying was recent. Phone clutched in one hand. Server's apron but no food stains, so she'd been in here, not on the floor. Personal, not professional. "Boy trouble?"
The girl let out a wet laugh. She pulled a phone from her apron pocket. "He broke up with me via text. While I'm at work."
She shoved the screen at Emmy.
Hey so I don't think this is working. You're sweet but I need someone more on my level? Like intellectually? You're great at what you do but I need someone who gets the bigger picture. No hard feelings.
Emmy read the text once. Twice. Her eyebrows climbed toward her hairline.
"Oh no he didn't." Emmy looked up at Harper, outrage flaring hot in her chest. "Intellectually? He thinks he's—" She stopped herself, took a breath. "Okay. Deep breaths. Tell me about this guy."
"He's a crypto day trader," Harper said miserably, dabbing at her eyes with the concealer-smudged paper towel. "He lives with three roommates in Allston and eats ramen for dinner so he can 'invest in the dip.'"
"He said you're not on his level intellectually?"
"He has a vision board, okay?" Harper sniffed. "It's all Lamborghinis and models in bikinis. He calls it his 'manifestation station.' He watches YouTube videos about 'the grindset' at 2 AM on full volume. But he talks about cryptocurrency like he's solving world hunger, so I thought—" Her voice cracked. "I don't know what I thought."
"Why does this always happen to me? Last year it was Christian the 'entrepreneur'—he was selling energy drinks out of his trunk. Before that, Tyler the 'visionary'—he lived in his mom's basement and was writing a screenplay about himself."
"How long did you date Tyler?"
"Six months." Harper looked miserable. "I kept thinking he'd finish the script and things would take off. That I just needed to believe in him. He was on page twelve after eight months. Apparently his origin story was 'really nuanced.'"
Something cracked open in Emmy's chest. She knew this girl. She was this girl, three years and one expensive lesson ago.
"Okay, so." Emmy leaned against the sink, her professional persona dropping away. "When I was twenty-two, I dated this guy—Owen. He was getting his MFA in poetry. Very serious, very tortured artist. He told me I was 'refreshingly literal-minded' because I worked in marketing."
Harper's eyes widened. "What did you do?"
"I stayed with him for eight months." Emmy shook her head. "Eight months of going to open mics where he'd read poems about the 'commodification of the human soul' and I'd sit there thinking 'maybe I'm just notintellectual enoughto understand why he never pays for dinner.'"
The parallel sat in her chest like a splinter she'd thought she'd already pulled out. Eight months. Harper's six months with Tyler. Both of them, sitting in the audience of men who performed ambition while they worked double shifts and covered the electric bill. Emmy was very good at diagnosingthis pattern in other women. Less good at explaining why she'd needed eight months and an unpaid electric bill to diagnose it in herself.
Harper let out a wet laugh. "What finally made you leave?"
"He said my advice column was 'contributing to the decline of authentic human connection.'" Emmy made air quotes with enough aggression to wound. "This from a man whose longest relationship was with a thrift store typewriter he'd named Hemingway. I was helping people solve actual problems, and he called itinauthentic—then asked if I could cover his half of the rent.”
"That's exactly—" Harper's breath caught. "That's exactly what this feels like."
"Here's what I learned," Emmy said. "Guys like that? They need you to be smaller so they can feel bigger. They find smart, competent women and then spend all their energy convincing you you're not good enough. Because if you ever looked down and saw the league difference, you'd be gone."
