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“What do you need to stop?”
“My stomach,” I said, recovering nicely. “I’m so hungover.”
“Me too. I’m going to run down and get something to line the inside of my guts in case I start throwing up.”
“You didn’t drink that much last night,” I said.
“Oh, I so did. And I regret every single moment of it. Want anything from the cafeteria?”
“No, I’m fine, I stopped at the coffee place around the corner from my house for my first cup, and have a good coffee from Garrett’s floor for my second.”
Beth was my closest female friend at work. We’d both started as publicity assistants. Charged with scheduling for our higher-ups and photocopying, we’d taken solace in the fact that turnover was so high in our department that we’d be promoted to publicists sooner rather than later, and we were. Beth loved working in publicity and totally looked the part—her long, straight, black hair, and her calm, dark eyes put even the most restless personality at ease. She had such a talent with people. Her favorite way to describe her job was “creating the limelight while staying to the left of it.” She worked on better brands than I did: the high-profile film channels and the networks that carried our original series. Her job often entailedactualstar wrangling. But I couldn’t resent her for it—she loved the work. It was her passion. And she understood it wasn’t mine.
“I’m going to get a greasy chocolate chip muffin and drown my sorrows,” she said.
“Enjoy yourself, Ms. Chan.”
“Oh, I will.”
My phone rang again. This time the display showed a name I’d have recognized in a heartbeat: the trading firm where Rob worked.
“Hey.”
“Hello, boozehound. You made it to work?”
“Barely. I was a little late.”
“You’re always late.” Rob laughed. “Plus, I bet everyone was late. Judging from the time you landed at home, I’m guessing the party was fun?”
“Did I wake you up?”
“You were singing ‘Crazy in Love’ at top volume before you passed out on the couch.”
“You’re making that up.” I laughed.
“Nope. I at least managed to get you properly in bed so you could have a couple hours of sleep before my alarm went off.”
“I’m rough today.”
“Can you pick up some stuff for me on the way home for dinner if I email you a list?”
“Yes.”
“Thanks, babe.”
“You’re welcome. See you after work. I’m—”
Click.
It made me crazy when Rob hung up the phone before I was finished talking. There was no malice—his whole job was talking on the phone, to clients, to other traders, to various government bodies. He’d developed this superfast, superefficient way of getting through a call. A bit of banter, bro code for we can always get a beer together if we need to, down to business, and then on to the next. Still, there were days when I wanted our relationship to be the exception to the phone rule.
We had been together for ages. And that familiarity bred an easiness that I didn’t expect. The quick kiss good-bye, the perfunctory shopping lists, the open bathroom door. We had merged into one, which is what my sister always said a long-term relationship was like, but I missed the heady days when we first got together. Drunken sex and kissing until your mouth hurt. Resisting my urge to let my mind spin about Rob, my sister, my never-ending quest to change my life, I settled down to do some work.
The next hour passed by uneventfully. I called my mother to talk about Meghan, but there was no answer. My mother’s bright, cheery voice binged on the answering machine, and I waited for the moment that my stepdad yelledLinda, who are you talking to?
My inbox pinged, and I opened an email from Beth outlining the huge event we were working on for New Year’s Eve. My cursor blinked, begging me to make the next move, reply with a “Looks great,” but I couldn’t seem to doanything. My sister was thirteen months younger but had the annoying habit of doing everything first. She met and married her high-school sweetheart, had a job exactly where she wanted to work, and was happily moving on to the next stage of her life: parenthood. And here I was standing so still I could barely move my mouse.
“Kelly?”
