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Gabriella
My weekend sucks.
First, there’s an accident on the highway, and I don’t make it to Park Slope until two. Then, I have to drive around the block eighteen times, looking for a street parking spot. Obviously, I don’t find one, so I park in an underground lot, paying the teenager at the entrance sixty bucks for the privilege. Ah, New York. Then again, parking in London is hell too.
When I finally get into my apartment, it’s stiflingly hot. My window air-conditioner makes sputtering noises but refuses to cool the room. I open my refrigerator for a welcome blast of cold air, and of course, my milk has gone bad.
It’s like the universe is giving me a sign.
No, it isn’t, I tell myself firmly. I take a lukewarm shower, change into a tank-top and shorts and head to the bodega for milk, eggs, and bread. That done, I text the Thursday Night Drinking Club. I’m in town, I tell them. Anyone have plans for the evening?
It turns out that everyone is busy. Piper has to work. Daniel, Sebastian, and Bailey are in the Hamptons for the weekend. Katie is driving her kids to a soccer tournament, and Wendy is working late. Sorry, Gabby, she writes. I’d love to grab a drink, but my client load is insane. See you on Monday?
Sure, I reply, adding a smile emoji to the message.
It isn’t like I don’t have things to do. If I wanted to do chores, I have plenty of laundry to do. If I wanted to talk to people, I could call my mom. And if I chose entertainment over laundry—who wouldn’t?—this is New York City; there are literally a zillion things to do. I could catch the F train into Manhattan. Check out the Met, maybe even trek uptown to the Cloisters to look at the tapestries. If I don’t feel like braving the subway, there’s bound to be a bunch of things happening near Prospect Park. The last time I walked by the Grand Army Plaza, there was a new brewery opening up. It’s a perfect day to sit on a patio, read a book, and drink a pint of ice-cold beer.
But I can’t seem to summon up any enthusiasm. I feel hollow and anchorless, disconnected from the world, and though I can hear all my neighbors through the paper-thin walls, I feel very, very alone.
I gointo work on Monday. Paul seems surprised to see me there. “Is something the problem?”
“Nicky doesn’t need me in Atlantic City until Wednesday,” I reply. “I thought I’d come into the office. It’s easier to work from my desk than from a hotel room.”
“Oh, okay.” He shuffles his feet. “About that… You’ve been away most of the week, so you probably haven’t heard the rumors.”
I snap to attention. “Layoff rumors?”
He frowns. “No, why? What have you heard?”
God, we’re all a paranoid bunch. “I’ve heard nothing,” I say reassuringly. “What rumor should I have heard?”
“We’re downsizing down the Manhattan office,” he replies. “It’s a cost-control move. Head Office ran the numbers. Rent in Manhattan is expensive, even more so than London. They want almost everyone to go to a remote work model.”
“Working from home?” If I stretch my arms, I can touch both walls in my studio apartment. I will lose my mind if I’m cooped up there all day. I can’t work from a coffee shop either—I’m on the phone a lot.
“Sure.” He takes in my expression. “You’re not excited?”
Not really. Football—or soccer, as the Americans call it—is a boy’s club. It’s hard enough for me to make inroads at work. If I’m stuck at home, everyone will forget about me.
My career at Karpis is already going nowhere. Now it feels like I’ve been shunted into the fast lane to failure.
I’m not stupid enough to say any of that to Paul. He didn’t make the decision; that was done by the London office. “I’m just surprised, that’s all.”
I wasn’t lyingto Paul. Nicky has an interview on Wednesday, and I need to be there to ensure that everyone sticks to the script. But until then, I’m free to set my own schedule.
I’ve spent most of my weekend thinking about Carter and Dominic. Mooning over them, if I’m being honest. A thousand times, I’ve reached for my phone, but I haven’t heard from either of them. They haven’t texted; they haven’t called. Several times, I’ve wanted to call them myself, but I held off. It’s just sex, I’ve told myself sternly. Don’t get attached.
Except that the last two days have confirmed something I’d suspected Friday night. It’s already too late for that.
I have to head back to Atlantic City eventually, but I’m still reeling from that realization, and so, on Monday evening, I head to Piper’s restaurant for this week’s Thursday Night Drinking Pack adventures.
Bailey isn’t there—she’s still in the Hamptons. Katie isn’t there either; she has a cold. Miki always attends virtually, but today, she has to work late. It’s just Wendy, Piper, and me at Aladdin’s Lamp.
Piper sets a plateful of hot appetizers in front of us and opens a bottle of Syrah. “Put that on my tab,” I tell her. “And bill us for the food too.”
“Of course not.”
I give her a pointed look. “Your restaurant isn’t making money, your lease is expiring soon, and your landlord might raise the rent. Take our money, Piper.”
