“I have to pack,” Rae added.
“Come on,” Ellen said. “One song.”
Ellen put on “Jingle Bell Rock,” and in the warmth of the reliable radiator, with snow falling outside the curtained windows, the four of them passed around the wine bottle microphone, singing into it one at a time rather than huddling close enough to share it like they used to.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
EMOTIONAL BANKRUPTCY
“You’re a hundred times more fun with a couple drinks in you,” Co-wannabe told Rae as they danced on the crescent-shaped couch of 1 Oak, an exclusive West Chelsea club that was known for turning nearly everyone away at the door except A-list celebrities and half-clothed, full-cleavage girls. The partner in Rae’s group had bought their way in with a several-thousand-dollar cover charge along with bottle service at a private table to celebrate Bonus Day after a year of record-high fee income. It was a Thursday night in late January.
Sometime after midnight, inebriated bodies had swarmed the narrow dance floor, swaying to the blare of electronic tunes being spun by the DJ, a gold-chain-dripping guy whose name everyone seemed to know except Rae. The space was dark except for circular light beams on the ceiling that looked like halos, almost like angels had grown bored in heaven and decided to crash a party in hell for a night. Psychedelic patterns on the black-and-white floor were making Rae dizzy, or maybe that was just the $600 prosecco.
She’d never been to 1 Oak before, but the energy was nearly identical to that of the other clubs in the city that she’d gone to backin her college days. She’d forgotten just how sweaty and oppressive the scene was, packed above capacity with potbellied men in Italian-wool suits and ties and underage girls in leather miniskirts and crop tops. Her coworkers were draped over these bare-legged prospects, pouring drink after drink as the girls flirted in the usual opportunistic way.
“I’m always fun,” Rae shouted back to Co-wannabe, propelled by a desire to be a past self tonight—or maybe just a different self altogether. “You’re just too busy polishing your tombstones to notice.”
“Nineteen and counting,” Co-wannabe whooped.
Someone handed them tequila shots, and Rae drank hers in one determined gulp, the first shot she’d had in years. Co-wannabe offered her a lime, but Rae declined, craving the burn, how it cut through the numbness of the last five months.
Rae saw Kelly push her way toward the exit, dodging a drunk man who’d been getting too close. She knew she should go make sure Kelly was okay but stayed exactly where she was.
“Rae?” Co-wannabe shouted.
“Twenty-three,” Rae shouted back, “is how many tombstones I have in total.”
“That’s not what I was asking,” he said, though he looked even more impressed than when she’d downed tequila without a chaser. “How do you know if you’re ready to get married?” He asked it as if soliciting advice on signing a deal with a new client.
“I’m not exactly the industry expert on marriage,” she said, wagging her bare ring finger.
“My girlfriend doesn’t know what EBITDA stands for,” Co-wannabe said. “How the hell are we supposed to spend the rest of our lives together if she doesn’t understand half of what I’m saying?”
Rae felt very bonded to Co-wannabe in this moment, the person on the planet she far and away spent the largest proportion of her life with.
“It’s less about whether she knows the acronyms,” Rae advised, “and more about if she’s interested in learning the concepts behind them.”
“She’s not,” Co-wannabe sulked. “She makes me put a dollar in a jar every time I use a finance term in a conversation. Says the money is going towards her engagement ring.”
Rae privately thought this sounded very savvy and anticipated the girlfriend would be receiving a three-karat diamond in short order.
“How can I spendthe rest of my lifewith someone who doesn’t knowEBITDA? Or even ROI.” He wrapped a white-cuffed arm around Rae’s waist to keep from tipping over but brought them both down onto the couch cushions instead.
“Rae,” he said, looking at her as if for the first time. “You understand EBITDA. And ROI and COGS and ARR and FCCR and—”
“Unfortunately,” Rae muttered, but then Co-wannabe was kissing her and she was letting him kiss her, and his hands were sliding over her ass and she was letting them slide.
She felt nothing, but in spite of that, or perhaps because of it, she let it continue for a few more beats of the overweighted bass.
Then she managed to roll off the couch, pick up her purse, and slide through the crowd—away, away,away.
Refusing to wait in line for the coat check, she stumbled outside in just her sleeveless dress, too drunk for the cold air to cut her arms like she wanted. A long line snaked down the block, full of 1 Oak hopefuls who seemed convinced that they would finally be somebody if they could just make it to the other side of the gatekeeper bouncers.
Flagging down a cab, she got into the back seat, leaving her seat belt undone. “Wall Street and William,” she mumbled to the driver.
Rae rested her head on the window, full of emptiness, or empty of fullness, too tired to ponder the paradox. Emotional bankruptcy best described her condition.
She missed Dustin, or maybe she was just uninhibited enough to admit how much she always missed him, but she felt no desire to call him. She felt no desire for anything other than resting her forehead on the window as the cab lurched from red light to red light—and even that couldn’t be called adesire, more adefault, the path of least resistance.
