In a New York Minute(26)

Teaching until 9, will check my phone on my break, Cleo texted.

I’m about to meet Grant and Nate in Soho re: nursery, I wrote back. I was headed to meet Lola’s coworker and his husband at Cafe Gitane, a tiny café off Prince Street. She’d connected me with them over email, because they were looking for someone to design a bedroom for their new baby. It was my first real meeting about a job after getting laid off, and I felt giddy with possibility.

Well if you don’t hear from me in an hour or two, send out the guard dogs, Lola replied.

I sent her a GIF of a golden retriever sniffing a cupcake, which she liked with a heart, and then she went radio silent.

*



Cafe Gitane was quiet at 5 p.m., before the dinner rush started in earnest. It was a tiny spot, and we were now crammed together at a small circular table right next to the front window. Nate’s arm was wrapped tight around Grant as he sipped a cappuccino.

“I’m so pumped about possibly working together.” I shifted in the wooden chair, sitting up, trying to look like someone who’d had meetings like this a million times before. “I’m envisioning something bright and colorful, but minimalistic. I think we could have a lot of fun playing up colors and shapes, which can be both childlike but also very chic. And possibly adding a mural of some sort.”

Nate and Grant both “oohed” at this idea, and it felt amazing to get positive feedback in real time. At Spayce, we’d get a request from a client through our app, do a consultation over text or chat, and then create a mood board with links to items and suggestions for layout. This would finally be an opportunity to shape a space with my own hands, from start to finish.

“So our gestational carrier is due in two months,” Grant said, pushing his gold wire-rimmed glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “Not a ton of time, especially because we know you have your plate full.”

Nate slid his free hand across the table to tap my wrist playfully. “We saw you on New York News,” he said, a knowing smile on his face.

Grant rolled his eyes. “Nate is obsessed with local news,” he explained. “That guy who gave you his jacket was a piece of work, huh?”

“He was.” I forced a laugh. “Well, the good news is that my schedule is now wide-open,” I said, puffing up my chest. I’d had a few inquiries come in through the website my friends set up for me, and one had resulted in a phone consultation that felt promising. But this was my first real meeting, the actual inception of Franny Doyle Design. I didn’t want to appear too desperate for work, but I needed something to get the ball rolling. Something to prove to myself that maybe I could actually do this. And more importantly, something to put in my bank account.

Nate leaned forward with his chin on his hand. “And do you feel like you know the ins and outs of what a nursery needs?” he asked. “I know you don’t have kids, but have you ever worked in kids’ spaces before?”

“No, but I like to think that I’m still kind of like a kid myself,” I said, “so even though I haven’t designed a kid’s room, exactly, I try to approach everything with a child’s heart.” I exhaled and smiled, but I felt a slight sinking feeling in my gut. I had bullshitted my way through that answer, and I could tell it hadn’t done much to impress them.

“Great,” Grant said with a quick nod. “Let’s get into it, then. I want to hear more about this mural idea of yours.”

An hour later, we were hugging our goodbyes. Aside from my ridiculous “child’s heart” speech, the meeting had gone as well as I could have hoped.

“I’ll send over my rate and contract, and we can go from there,” I said to them before we headed off in different directions. I didn’t rush, taking my time to savor every little thing I saw along the way to the subway: The parents swinging a small kid between them, arm in arm. The busboy from the restaurant on the corner, lugging in a giant crate of lemons through the front door. The window on the second floor of the apartment above me sliding open. New York felt possible tonight.

My phone buzzed in my bag. An email from my landlord, thanking me for sending my most recent rent payment in on time. I scanned her words until my eyes stopped at the last sentence. “We have to raise your rent a hundred dollars starting next month.”

And in an instant, everything felt impossible again.

Pizza. This was the only appropriate solution to the end of this day. Plus, I could afford it, for now at least. I turned around on Mott Street and made my way back down to Spring, swinging a right toward my favorite spot in the city, Famous Ben’s.

Twenty minutes later, I was face-to-face with two perfect slices of vodka sauce pizza—covered with a dusting of parmesan and red pepper flakes—and a frothing cup of root beer. Heaven. I placed my phone next to my paper plates, so that I could scroll and eat at the same time, and dug in. A text from Cleo popped up just as I opened Instagram. Any word from Lola?

Nope, I wrote back. Must be a hot date. I looked at the time on my phone. It had been almost ninety minutes since her date started. Lola hardly went that long without touching her phone, much less texting.

Should we be worried? Cleo asked.

I think she’s a few blocks from where I am. I’ll walk by on my way to the subway.



Cleo replied with a row of thumbs-up emojis, and I clicked back over to my Instagram feed. I scrolled past pictures of a newly adopted puppy, someone’s meticulously drawn bullet journal, and a slideshow of a home renovation with way too many sliding barn doors. Nothing about this mindless parade of images was soothing tonight. How did I know so many people in loving relationships, with enough money to buy gorgeous houses, who also happened to look impossibly good in wide-brimmed hats?