She’d forgotten how wonderful it was to be held through the night. Not even forgotten—she’d just never really known what that was like. Her ex had a strict no-cuddling-while-sleeping rule, and her couple of other hookups hadn’t exactly been anthropological case studies on intimacy.
She’d rolled away from Dustin at one point, fearing she was crowding his space, but he’d sleep-mumbled, “Where’re you going?” and gently guided her back into his arms.
They hadn’t talked much while she was in Indiana. She’d kept her phone off as much as she could, unplugging from passive-aggressive work emails during her days off, but she’d texted this morning saying she was on her way back. He hadn’t replied yet. Last year shewould’ve filled in the blanks with the assumption that he was hooking up with someone else, but now she just reasoned he was probably building a train set with his nephew, whose picture he’d sent her on Christmas morning.
On her flight back tonight, she’d looked down at the Manhattan skyline and decided there was no more spectacular sight—the sheer scale of the thing, with the Empire State Building welcoming her back like an urban lighthouse.
“I’m going to text him again,” Rae said, and drafted a message.
Back in the city … want to do something this week? Pizza again or we could (attempt to) cook?
She didn’t even have Ellen proofread it. She wasn’t scared about double texting him or getting a word wrong, and if that wasn’t the feeling of falling in love in the twenty-first century, she didn’t know what was.
After sending it, Rae looked up from her phone and caught sight of a spindly plant in the kitchenette’s window that they always kept locked so axe murderers wouldn’t climb in through the fire escape. “What’s that?” she asked.
“Thyme,” Ellen said grandly. “The herb!”
“Wow,” Rae said solemnly, and plucked some sprigs, not bothering to wash them. “We’ve become herb people.”
“I was going to go with basil, but I thought you’d like the metaphor of fresh thyme.”
Rae beamed. “Good choice.”
“This is our year,” Ellen said, as they sprinkled herbs on their eggs like confetti. “I have a good feeling.”
“Yes,” Rae agreed. “I’m bullish.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
A PLUNGE IN THE HEART CHART
What if he’s just like the rest of the Lost Boys in Boyhattan?Rae texted Ellen from her bathroom banker bunker the next day.
The office was buzzing with “a robust pipeline of opportunities,” all the wannabe bosses eager to one-up each other at how many deals they could close this year.
Rae had finally been promoted, though the only difference she’d noticed was her title had changed on the company’s email server fromanalysttoassociate. She’d gone to congratulate herself with caffeine, only to find that the free coffee machines had been removed.
Worse, Dustin still hadn’t responded to her follow-up text. Her newfound romantic tranquility was proving less durable than she’d hoped.
But he lives in Brooklyn,Ellen replied.Not Boyhattan. And you haven’t even had sex yet. There’s no way he’s going to ghost you before sex.
Ellen had flown to Pittsburgh this morning for a new consulting project to help a steel company reduce operating expenses. If Rae had been in a better mood, she’d suggest Ellen look into how much eliminating coffee machines would save, but she just stared at the lasttext she’d gotten from Dustin, 8:42P.M.on New Year’s Eve.Wish you were here for a midnight kiss.
Then he’d gone dark.
He must have met someone else at a New Year’s party, someone sample-size skinny who blow-dried her hair and had an elegant career likeadvertising.
Rae opened the Stall Street Journal, which she’d been carrying around in her blazer pocket although she hadn’t yet thought of anything good enough to write in it. She closed it again and went back to her desk to put together a valuation model for a new deal.
One of her wannabe bosses hovered over her shoulder. The office had a privacy-thwarting open floor plan with rows and rows of computers squished right beside each other, without any dividers. It was touted as a “modern design to foster collaboration,” but the only thing it fostered was a culture of perpetual fear and anxiety where the worker bees felt constantly spied on, with nowhere to go for personal space except the toilet. “Increase revenue growth rates to twenty-five percent for the next ten years,” the guy barked.
“Shouldn’t we model something more conservative?” Rae asked. She never would’ve dared to voice her own opinion last year but felt like she owed it to women everywhere to use the power of her new promotion. “Since the top line declined by twelve percent year over year?”
“Don’t be such a downer,” the wannabe boss said, returning to his desk. “The client likes it when we have confidence in them.”
A group chat lit up on her computer screen. It was the COTWSM chat, which stood for Coup of the White, Straight Man. The group had been founded by Rae—the token female on their team of twenty—alongside the token Black man and token gay man.
TB and GQ, the other members of the coup, could nearly be called friends. TB stood for Token Black and GQ was Gay Quota. Rae went by EE—Estrogen Employee. They were all quite proud of the acronyms they’d chosen for themselves.
