Page 47 of Below the Shadow of the City

“No, you’re not,” she’s chopping something on her kitchen counter with her phone propped up against the backsplash. “You’re just nervous.”

“I think I forgot how to be a person.” I lay my phone beside me and flop onto my back. There’s an unfortunate amount of hand shaking and ass-kissing ahead of me.

Margo turns to the screen, “pick your phone up, show me what you have to wear today. I’m tired of you being mopey. Get your ass in gear.”

I sit up and grab my phone and promptly give her a fake salute, and the middle finger.

We proceed to have an early 2000s movie-style montage where I try on practically every article of clothing in my closet.

Ultimately, ten or so outfits later, we settle on something that we both deem appropriate for the night. Black boots I’d maxed out my credit card for at a sample sale years ago, a black mini dress that I hadn’t worn in so long I forgot I had it, and a tan leather jacket I’d scored at a vintage shop in Park Slope. Looking at myself in the mirror, a bit of the angst eased. I feel comfortable and look pretty good, too.

Margo’s voice comes in over the phone. “This is good. You look cool enough to fit in with the influencers, but professional enough to let them know you know your shit.”

“You sure?” I smoothed my hands over the skirt of the dress.

“They reached out to you for a reason, didn’t they? You’re allowed to let good things happen to you. God knows you deserve it.” I face the camera mid lining my lips, Margo’s face fills the frame, her brown eyes soft and sincere.

“Thank you,” I softly say, “you’ve been good to me, sticking around through the shit show this year has been.”

I fluff my hair in an attempt to revive the deflated curls that skim my jaw, using my phone camera as a mirror.

“You don’t have to suffer alone at sea, I’m here for you, even if I think you’re completely out of your mind sometimes for still thinking you’re cursed and all that,” she laughs.

I make a sound of acknowledgement and don’t say anything further. The secret of Maddox and how things have progressed between us sits like a rock in my gut.

“So, final check,” I don’t acknowledge her statement. “I look ok?”

“Better than ok, I promise. You’ll do fine. You’ll kick ass, take names, all that sappy best friend bullshit I’m supposed to say to hype you up.”

“Love you, dude,” I hold my finger over the end call button.

“Love you,” she says and blips away as the call ends.

My heart thuds at a rate I’d previously believed to be impossible, so quickly I’m tempted to step into urgent care instead. Everything feels too hot, too tight, too incorrect. I’m not Sigrid Larson tonight, I’m @siggyssweets, Brooklyn baking content creator. And surely not an imposter.

The restaurant is fine, standard 2010s Instagrammable chic that’s a few years out of date. The wall is lined with faux boxwood plants that I’ve always referred to as “girlboss grass.” Naturally, there’s a neon sign smack dab in the middle. If I was out with friends I’d make some snide comment about how the more aesthetically-centered a restaurant is the worse the food is, but I let the remark dissolve before it can leave my lips.

Billie stands as small plates of something that looks like a sad salad are dropped in front of us. “I’d like to take a moment to thank you all for coming and for participating in Gingham’s still unnamed baking anthology. Every one of you was hand selected for your talents and unique perspective, and of course, your personal brands…”

She trails off into more kind words about everyone around the table, and more marketing pitch speak about the cookbook. I know I’ll inevitably get a series of posts to share and make to promote it, and I know I’ll have to start actively posting again before then to drive up my engagement. It’s one step of many that I need to take to get my shit back together.

“…And folks, this is Inez Canavar from our legal team, she’s the one who drew up the contracts for you all,” Billie gestures to a dark skinned woman sitting beside her. Canavar. It couldn’t be.

Inez stands and waves at all of us around the table, and she immediately looks familiar. Her hair is woven into long black microbraids that are wrapped in two buns atop her head. She’s gorgeous, and the shape of her face feels almost like something I recognize. I hadn’t seen a photo of her except for her tiny contact photo that popped up when she’d texted Maddox. He had mentioned his sister that worked as a lawyer above ground, but the odds of this being her would be nearly impossible. Right?

“Please, eat, enjoy, mingle, share ideas with one another, and most importantly, have fun!” Billie beams and takes her place at the table. I stare at my tiny name placard before me as the others chat around me. I should be networking and making good impressions and all that, instead the thought remains that Maddox’s sister is now woven into all this.

I can’t exactly talk to her while she’s perched next to Billie. What would I say? “Hi, I know what you are, and your brother and I are in a situationship of my own making. So good to meet you!”

I stab at the lettuce and microgreens on the salad plate.

“You’d think for a group of foodies they’d give us more than five measly leaves,” a voice says across from me. I glance up at a blond woman sitting in front of me and silently gesture to myself to determine if she’s actually talking to me.

She nods and continues, “you know, I work in the industry, I’ve heard plenty about this restaurant group and the owner. My guess? They practically bribed Gingham to do the event here.”

“The salad certainly isn’t screaming ‘high end farm-to-table’ by the looks of it,” I agree.

“Half the time farm-to-table is interpreted very, very loosely. Of course produce and meat come from a farm, it always does. I don’t know your day job, but if you work in the restaurant business, stay away from this place.”