Not able to stand drinking from a mug anymore, she went to the kitchenette and washed out a real wine glass, then transferred the contents.
“He’s a fool,” Sarah said.
“Biggest mistake of his life,” Mina agreed. “Though I still think he’ll resurface.”
Rae didn’t like how this made her cling to a new bubble of hope.
“He clearly has problems,” Ellen said. “You dodged a bullet.”
Feeling more like she’d dodged the rarest of Cupid’s arrows, Rae deleted Dustin’s number, then chased it with wine. She wasn’t wearing any lipstick, so she left no mark on the glass—no smudge, but also no proof that her lips had ever touched the rim at all.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
EMOTIONAL INFLECTION POINT
How have you been?
The text came on a Thursday morning in late January. Rae was slouched at her desk, staring at a cash flow statement on her computer with a canned look of concentration. She was nursing a hangover with a half-gallon jug of water.
Bonuses had hit their bank accounts yesterday, and her team had celebrated with bottle service at a Lower East Side club. It had almost been fun until Rae was hit with that bone-deep, shallow feeling as she looked around at all the bodies drunkenly swaying to lyricless house music, celebrating the creative ways they’d managed to siphon money for themselves to fund their mansions in the Hamptons. She’d stepped off to the side for some air when a fortysomething guy from another firm had sauntered over and tried to buy her a drink, assuring her she was “too pretty” to be an investment banker.
Rae had Irish exited and overpaid for a cab back to the penthouse.
It had been a disappointing regression to early-twenties life, but she was trying to forgive herself, since the bonus would allow herto pay off a big chunk of student loans. Her coworkers were always grumbling that bonuses weren’t what they used to be. She had a hunch that her bonus was smaller than the guys’, but she still felt like it was far more than she deserved for sitting in an air-conditioned office, formatting pie charts. She made substantially more than her mom, who was a public school teacher and objectively had a much harder, more important career.
At least now she could start looking for a new job.
Even before she Googled the area code, she knew the text was from Dustin.
She hated the text, but more than she hated it, she loved it, and even more than she loved it, she hated that she loved it.
She shuffled to the bathroom, where she texted the Scramblettes, soliciting advice for next steps.
Typical guys circling back on their own timelines,Sarah replied.Ignore him!!!
You should def reply!!Mina said.He probably has a good reason!
Low expectations, high standards,Ellen reminded her.But maybe respond to get closure?
In the end, Rae decided she’d reply but wait until the following day. There was something so petty yet powerful about not being the last one to text. She’d hoped she was done with these games.
There in the bathroom, she began swiping through the dating app she’d redownloaded. Determined to stay on track to finding her future husband, she’d been pulling late nights to go on more first dates and even a couple second dates, but each left her lonelier than the one before.
Her thumb tired of swiping and her heart tired of trying, she rested her head on the wall of the stall, but just as she was drifting off for a nap, the automatic toilet flushed beneath her, insensitively loud, and everything hurt again.
“Does my hair look messy enough?” Rae asked Ellen from the penthouse living room. It was Saturday afternoon, and she was preparing for her coffee closure catch-up with Dustin. She’d spent the last thirty minutes perfecting herI spent thirty seconds getting readylook.
“Yes,” Ellen said, impatient. “I’ve told you that five times. Now just go downstairs, get closure, and then come back so we can get ready for our double date.”
Ellen had recently uncovered that Aaron had a friend who was single and liked to read, and she’d taken it upon herself to declare that he and Rae were made for each other.
“I have to make sure I’m a few minutes late,” Rae said, pacing the penthouse. She refused to be prompt for someone who was about to formalize their breakup. Not that they had ever technically been together, so it couldn’t really qualify as a breakup, but still …
She’d replied to Dustin’s text the following morning—in line for a cappuccino, sans whipped cream. She’d already reverted to eating egg yolks, but she’d been staying strong in abstaining from dessert, at least before tenA.M. She’d typed and retyped her reply to strike the proper tone—aloof but not bitter.
I’m well, thankswas the iteration she’d settled on.
Dustin had replied eight minutes later.I’m sorry I’ve been MIA. Free for coffee this weekend?
