Ilena:I declined to be CEO because I knew, as chief operating officer, one day I’d get the pleasure of seeing you stand in front of tipsy twentysomethings shouting “confetti cannons”. *Love, love!*
Ilena:Aubrey, thoughts?
Aubrey:It’s cute. Or maybe not?
1
Aubrey
Present Day
Thursday Evening
Aubrey stands before a path made of crushed oyster shells and all she wants to do is turn around. She’s not ready. She thought she was, or at least hoped she was, or at the very least hoped she would be once she got here.
That’s a lie. All of it. She knew she wasn’t ready, but she also knew Ilena and Mallory needed her to be.
She presses her waterproof flip-flops into the crustacean husks, which crunch like shattered glass or broken bones, making her cringe. She breathes, but still one hand reflexively reaches for the phone in her pocket. One swipe, a couple of taps, and a rideshare would whisk her back home. She’d curl up on her brown microfiber sofa under the afghan her grandmother knitted for her to take to college, neither of them realizing how much a fuzzy orange blanket would make Aubrey stand out rather than fit in.
A trio of summer interns, unaware of the kid gloves with which everyone now treats Aubrey, materializes in front of her.
“Is it true the valuation is more than two billion?”
“Did you really come up with the name over kale salads?”
“Are Michelle Obama’s triceps that GOAT in person?”
They bounce with enthusiasm, nervously clasping their elbows in awe of all this, maybe even of Aubrey as one of the founders of a company that everyone says is about to make history. But she’s not a trailblazer. The only place Aubrey leads rather than follows is theAinAIM.
The young women wait, their anticipation morphing into discomfort, as Aubrey simply smiles politely to avoid saying the wrong thing. She’s saved by Mallory’s resounding “Spectacular day for a summer outing! Cue those confetti cannons!”
The interns dissipate like the dry ice coming off the raw bar, joining the other employees responding to Mallory’s siren call or taking in the cornhole and bocce and giant Jenga, the dock with paddleboards and kayaks stacked one atop the other in a rainbow of reds and blues and yellows and greens, the inflatable flamingo two stories high that Aubrey’s not sure is on trend or meant to be ironic.
Aubrey can hear Ethan’s chortle of a laugh in her head. She misses it. She misses him. If he were here, would she chuckle lightly beside him, his likely sarcastic take on it all making her second-guess the signature cocktail, the life-size tic-tac-toe, the Instagram influencers documenting the entire outing in exchange for a lifetime subscription to AIM?
So what if AIM’s a cliché? Being a cliché means they made it. They made AIM what they always hoped it would be. Didn’t they?
Across the lawn, Aubrey watches as Mallory greets Ilena. They hide their strained smiles as they pause for pecks on cheeks because all eyes are on them. How could all eyesnotbe on them? Both tall and slim and commanding attention. Mallory may not be traditionally beautiful with her angularchin and thin, almost pointy nose, but she has an aura that ensnares all. Ilena has always been more reserved, with deep blue eyes and lashes that seem to reach out and shake your hand. As gorgeous as Mallory is charismatic, and Aubrey is the opposite of them both.
A drink, she should get a drink, calm her nerves, soften that unrelenting urge to flee. Because women cannot collapse under pressure.
Aubrey forces her feet to move, determined to be in the present despite how very much she wants to be in the past. Or even the future. Anywhere but here, where Ethan’s no longer her Ethan and her best friends are letting a disagreement about taking their company public overshadow everything else.
She’ll do what they asked, join them for the toast, hover awkwardly beside them during their practiced banter about creating AIM over those salads, and be free to return to her fuzzy homespun blanket.
As she heads for the bar, her wave to Noreen goes unnoticed. The woman is in full-on executive assistant mode, simultaneously posting sign-up sheets for a ladder ball tournament and scratching shellfish, gluten, dairy, egg, sesame, soy, peanut, tree nut, and who-knows-what-other-allergen warnings on the chalkboard menu. Beside the dock, marketing and legal pick teams for a paddleboard race. Felix, AIM’s general counsel, bounces his one-year-old daughter on his hip as his husband organizes the selection process alongside Ella, head of marketing. Felix’s husband, James, is an ideal wrangler thanks to being a first grade teacher. Either Felix used his status as GC to demand their toddler’s entry or, more likely, he found a way to sneak the girl past Mallory.
Not surprisingly, there’s a bottleneck at the bar, but Aubrey dismisses the invitations to cut the line. She loses herself in thehum of the crowd until a “Kiss,Marry, Kill! New round!” jars her. It’s followed by a swift “Gosling, Reynolds, Seacrest. Go!” from someone she vaguely recognizes as part of the sales department. Another young woman snorts and rolls off: “Gosling, kiss, obviously, Reynolds, totes marry, and Seacrest? I’ll offer mercy—instead of death, let’s just cut off his scrotum!” Shrieks and giggles follow until the young woman realizes her boss has been listening. “Aubrey... um, hi.”
A shroud of silence descends, Aubrey’s newly developed superpower, and she issues a soft smile to free them from having to change their behavior on account of her. Chatter and giggles resume, and Aubrey breathes in the vanilla of someone’s lotion and the rosemary of someone’s shampoo and the mint of someone’s mojito and lets herself relax into the warmth of the bodies that flank her. When it’s her turn, she orders the signature cocktail, unsure what they decided on this year. And by “they,” she means Mallory and Ilena. Aubrey’s not known for her decision-making abilities in the best of times, and these are far from that.
As she waits, she takes in the carnival-like lawn of this gastropub across from the Charles River. Last year they rented out the cider house in the Boston shipyard. They’d never fit this year, Mallory was right about that.
Aubrey can see her from here, laughing at something said by a balding man in a blazer made by Armani or Prada or some other brand that costs as much as a month’s rent. He’s one of AIM’s early investors and has clearly wanted to sleep with Mallory from the moment her kitten heels crossed into his VC conference room. She squeezes his arm, masterfully excusing herself, as she plucks a glass of sparkling wine from a server’s tray.
She spies Aubrey and gives a warm smile, just as GraysonFields appears beside her. Another VC, but this one broad-shouldered with biceps that threaten to split his shirt seams. Mallory has wanted to sleep with him since the moment her kitten heels led him into their conference room—though she refuses to admit it. Even now, Aubrey senses a tension between them. Grayson’s hand reaches for Mallory before pulling back. Mallory sinks her teeth into her bottom lip, tightening her arms across her chest, barely contained by the faux wrap of her aubergine jumpsuit. It’s a brushed jersey that gives the aura of silk yet lives firmly in the realm of casual attire. Gifted from some designer, no doubt. Mallory’s vivacious smile accompanies all their press, her larger-than-life personality an attraction for brand sponsors.
Meanwhile, Aubrey paired her company-issued coral “AIM Higher” tee with dark-wash skinny jeans. Only now, amid these striped maxi dresses and short rompers and white linen pants, does she remember some meme about skinny jeans. Saying she shouldn’t be wearing them. Which maybe means that she should? She’s really tired of never knowing what’s meant to be ironic.
