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But sometimes—especially moments like now, when I’m second-guessing other choices—I let myself fantasize about what that would be like, being the talent instead of the machine behind the scenes.
With anything you love, there’s an urge to be as close to it as you possibly can.
And also a fear of ruining it—for yourself and for others.
I take another sip, draining the remainder of my drink. Pull out my phone to scroll through social media.
A text from my mom appears at the top of the screen, reminding me about our monthly family dinner on Friday night. I like the message, used to hearing from her at odd hours. I’m usually the one asleep by now, not her.
My mom is a police officer. So is my dad. And all four of my brothers.
One of them is always working, and it’s often a night shift.
I’m the baby of the family.
The unexpected surprise.
Theaccident, although everyone is careful to phrase that differently. My surprise arrival delayed my parents’ divorce by a few years, but not permanently.
I’m…different. Not just the only daughter. I’m the Egan enthralled by music and art and creativity instead of dedication to public service.
My mom and dad didn’t push any of us into their career choice. Noah, my oldest brother, decided he would become a cop at Career Day in third grade and never changed his mind.
And one sibling would have been fine. Understandable. Plenty of kids choose the same profession as their parents.
Butallof my siblings? It’s made dating difficult—with the few guys who have made it to themeet the familystage. Among other things.
Lauren reappears, leading the blond guy who approached her when we arrived over to the booth by their linked hands.
“Where’s Serena?” Lauren asks, sliding into the booth.
“Restroom,” I reply.
Her companion seems friendly enough, shooting me a small smile when he sits down beside Lauren before pulling his phone out of his pocket. A dark-haired man is right behind him, taking Serena’s empty spot on my other side and carrying the cloying scent of his spicy cologne with him. Ignoring the overpowering smell, I can admit, he’s good-looking. Clean-shaven and wearing a suit tailored to his tall frame.
I’d bet my bank account he works in finance.
Go out a few times in New York, and you can spot the distinctive swagger blocks away. An easy task since I’ve lived here my entire life.
“Nice to meet you, Red,” is his opener.
I arch one eyebrow, running a finger around the rim of my empty glass. “Red?”
“Yeah, you know.” He tilts his tumbler of whiskey or bourbon toward my head. The amber liquid sloshes precariously close to the rim, suggesting it’s not his first drink.
“Know what?”
He rolls his eyes, acting as if the conversationheinitiated is now a waste of time. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“Isn’twhatobvious?”
His expression turns confused, looking unsure if I’m messing with him or not.
I am.
Any attraction flees when I realize he can’t tell.
I deal with enough inflated egos at work. I have no interest in voluntarily spending my free time around one, especially as part of some poorly executed act to pick up women.
