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I pull up my phone while I wait for her to complete the sale and try to find Fallon’s last invoice.
“It was declined. You have another one?” She hands the card back to me. She’s finally looking at me. Her expression is impatient and annoyed.
“Try it again,” I say, but without any real confidence because it’s quite possible that I don’t have enough money in my account to cover the thirteen-dollar price tag of pantyhose I’m trying to buy.
“Okay.” She shrugs and swipes it. I watch the machine and when it gives that single beep I gulp back a ball of humiliation and stick my hand out for my card.
“Don’t know what’s wrong. My bank must have made a mistake.” I sound so lame and she quirks her lips in a “yeah right” and then looks past me.
“Next,” she calls to the customer waiting behind me. This is a new low for me—buying pantyhose from a drug store. That appears to be the theme of my life right now, new lows are all the new year has brought me.
I gather my purse and the shattered fragments of my pride and walk out of the store. I duck into the McDonald’s next door and hurry into the bathroom. I take the pantyhose off and stuff them into my purse. I tell myself that it’s fine to go without pantyhose in early February in New York City. But the sharp bite of winter wind against my bare legs as I walk to work, tells me very differently.
It’s not fine.
Nothing is.
I’m officially a disaster. And by the time I get to the Fifth Avenue office building I’m freezing, despondent, and on the edge of a panic attack.
How am I even going to eat tonight? I hope I have enough money on my fare card for the train ride back home. Bianca’s supposed to be with me tonight and I was planning on grocery shopping.
Shit. How in the world is this even my life?
I blow my nose before I get onto the elevator and ride up to the twentieth floor with a knot in my stomach. Thank God for this job. The pay is shit, but it’s better than nothing and it’s just a stepping stone for me. I’m up for a producer’s position that’s being vacated and if I can get that job, it will relieve some of the financial pressure of starting over the way I’ve had to since Paul and I got divorced. But it’s also a huge opportunity career-wise.
It’s a viral new show on HBO where the hosts travel the country investigating unsolved mysteries and disappearances. It’s like it was written for me and I have a chance to become a producer and curate content. I’m breathless thinking about being back in my field after so many years away.
“Hey… you’re late. And where the hell are your tights?” my office mate and my best friend, Kelli, greets me as soon as I walk through the door.
I pat my purse. “In here.”
“Glad they’re nice and warm while your legs are freezing.”
“I snagged them on something on my way up the stairs from the train. Couldn’t get a new pair but couldn’t walk in here looking like I’d slept in the park so, I took them off.”
“How bad could the hole have been? You can’t be outside like that. You’ll catch your death.”
“Bad. If I’d walked in here like that Jules would have sent me home.”
“I’ll run to Macy’s at lunch and grab you a pair to put on,” she says.
“Thank you so much, Kelli.” I run over to hug her. Kelli’s such a mother hen. I love it. My mother remarried last year and moved to Atlantic City. It’s nice to have someone who cares enough to fuss.
“Don’t thank me so fast. Jules has been in here twice looking for you.”
“She has?” That can’t be good. Jules is our editor in chief and she detests anyone being late. “I wonder if they’ve made a decision.” I give her an anxious smile and shed my navy blue pea coat, drop my purse and riffle through for my things.
“Maybe, I saw Slugman come out of there just before she came here to find you.”
I hold up my crossed fingers and she returns the gesture with a smile. “You better get up there before she has to come back.”
I grab my notebook and pen and hustle out of the door.
“You wanted to see me?” I ask as I poke my head in Jules’ office.
“Yes, come in. I’ve never come to look for you in the morning. Are you always late?” She folds her arms across her chest and doesn’t hide the fact that she’s completely unimpressed with me. Her sharp gray eyes are like chips of steel and feel just as sharp as she trains them on me and waits for me to answer.
“No. Never. Today has been extraordinary in lots of ways. I’m sorry.” I hope my apology sounds sincere because it’s really not. In reality, I’m less than ten minutes “late.” Every other day, I’m in the office by 7:30 a.m.
