I got a text from Elena, which took my mind off Sam for a second.
Elena: Actually, I got the flight for today.
See you later, I’ll text you the deets.
That made me smile. I’ve missed her.
I spotted Elena before she spotted me, curled up in an airport lounge chair with a book in one hand and a cold brew in the other, wearing paint-splattered sneakers and an oversized hoodie that probably belonged to some ex-boyfriend she never mentioned. She looked up, blinked twice, then grinned.
“Oh my God,” she said, standing. “You actually came in person?”
I held my arms open. “Disappointed?”
“A little. I was hoping for a guy in a suit holding a sign with my name in cursive. Or at least a town car.”
“Well, the driver’s outside,” I said, giving her aquick hug. “But I figured you’d appreciate the personal touch.” She pulled back and studied me.
“You’ve got the CEO-face on already. You always squint when you’re stressed.”
“I do not squint.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night.” We made our way to the car, her backpack slung over one shoulder like she was still in art school, not working in galleries and freelancing illustrations for magazines that paid in exposure and bad wine.
“You look good,” I said once we were on the road. “I look tired.”
“You always say that.” She said, rolling her eyes at me. She turned in the seat to face me. “Okay, so give me the non-press release version. How’s it really going?” I exhaled through my nose, eyes on the Manhattan skyline blurring closer.
“Well, the job’s intense. Max is still hanging around like a ghost in the walls. His daughters are… involved.” Elena raised a brow. “That tone means that’s complicated.”
“It’s a corporate family business. Trust me, everything about it is complicated.”
When we got to my apartment, she whistled low. “Wow, you’re really leaning into this powerful CEO lifestyle.”
“I worked for it,” I said, not defensively, just stating a fact. She followed me through the front door, eyes taking in the tall windows, the clean lines, the art on the walls that she’d helped pick out years ago.
“I still can’t believe you bought that ridiculous bronze piece,” she muttered, gesturing at the sculpture by the entryway. “It’s not ridiculous. It’s industrial elegance.”
“It’s a sad, melting toaster.” I laughed. “Your room’s on the left. The one with the view.” She stepped inside, dropped her bag, and spun in a slow circle. “Okay, fine. It’s very grown-up. And extremely you.” I leaned on the doorframe. “Are you hungry?”
“I could eat. But you better feed me wine too.”
“Done.” She looked at me again, this time more seriously. “You okay, really?” I hesitated. “Yeah. Just adjusting. There’s a lot of… legacy in this place.” She nodded slowly. “Don’t let it swallow you.”
“I’m trying not to.” She smiled softly and disappeared into her room. For all our differences—her ink-stained fingers and chaotic light, my structured days and scheduled nights—Elena was the one person who saw through everything. The only one who ever really had.
The wine was already breathing by the time Elena wandered into the kitchen, barefoot, hair in a messy bun, one of my oversized t-shirts replacing the hoodie. “You’re the only person I know who has winethat needs to ‘breathe,’” she said, sliding onto a stool at the island.
“Trust me on that one,” I replied, pouring her a glass of Bordeaux. “And don’t let the aesthetic fool you. I also have instant mac-n-cheese in the pantry.” She laughed, took a sip, and let out a satisfied hum. “Okay, this does not suck.” I poured my own and leaned on the counter, facing her. “So, tell me things.”
“Elena Jones, current status report?” she asked, then sighed. “Okay. Let’s see. I’m still paying more in rent than I make in art, which is fine, really. My landlord installed a new fire alarm that goes off every time I toast a bagel, I swear, every single time. My last commission was for a ‘tastefully erotic’ book cover, don’t ask me about that because the plot was weird. Oh, and I may or may not be in love with my barista.” I raised an eyebrow. “Again?”
“Well, she is just the nicest person ever. And, she remembers my order rotation. Which changes every 4 days. That’s practically marriage material.” I snorted. “Your life is a cliché.”
“I like to see my life as a 2000s rom-com.” She shrugged. “It does sound cliché, doesn’t it?” We both laugh at that. There was a beat of silence before she looked at me, her tone softening. “I know it’s different for you. You’re all… Forbes lists and gold pens now. But I like my mess.”
“I know you do,” I said. “That’s why I’ve stopped trying to fix it.”
“Growth,” she teased.
