In a New York Minute(37)

“But it’s literally just my shoes. Why would anyone care?”

My Instagram account had a total of three photos on it. A grainy shot of the Empire State Building that I took in 2011 and filtered within an inch of its life, a picture of Angie hugging my parents’ goldendoodle in front of their Christmas tree right before we got engaged, and a photo I snapped from the top of a hike I took in Vermont a couple years ago. And it was set to private. It was, quite possibly, the least active account on the site.

“People read into the stuff they see online, Hayes. I can’t believe I’m still explaining this to you after everything.” She gave me an exasperated look and shifted, tossing the saltines next to her on the couch and swinging her legs around to sit cross-legged on the cushions. “But you like her?” she said, giving me a coy smile. “It’s going well?”

“Yeah,” I said, trying to muster up some enthusiasm. “We’re running again tomorrow, and she invited me to some party.”

“You sound like you’re describing a dental appointment,” she teased.

“I’m excited, I swear,” I said. And it was true. I liked Serena, and it was easy to be around her. Comfortable, even.

“Well, not to completely switch gears,” she said, “but I’ve got another bad news/good news situation for you.”

I leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Didn’t you just give me good news?” I pointed at her belly.

She waved her index fingers back and forth, shimmying her shoulders and swaying in her seat. “There’s more!”

I clapped my hands together, bound to my fate. “Lay it on me.”

“Paul lined up some press for us, and it’s killer.” She was giddy with excitement.

I raised my brows coolly, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of having one over on me. “Well?” I said finally.

“Vogue’s covering the opening party, sending a photographer and reporter. And Architectural Digest wants to do a video tour of the new space and a piece in the magazine. Ah!” she shrieked with glee, waving her hands again.

“Whoa,” I replied. “That’s a big deal.”

“Huge,” she said.

“Well, this is amazing,” I said, no longer trying to play it cool. “That’s major press. What could be bad about it?”

“Those eighteen interior designers Tyler called?” She leaned against the couch, resigned, and I knew where this was going. My stomach sank.

“Oh no,” I said, bringing my hand up to the back of my neck, fidgeting.

“Oh yes.” She had gone from ecstatic to deflated in an instant. “All booked. So we need to figure out something in the next forty-eight hours, or Vogue will be photographing us in an empty space.”





Chapter Nine

Franny



A day after the big DNA reveal, I was snuggled into the corner of my couch, laptop nestled on my thighs, plugging numbers into a budgeting app in an attempt to plan for the rest of the year. I’d taken a break a few minutes ago and smeared a green mud mask all over my face, as if skin care could somehow solve my problems. All it did was dry so tightly on my face that my lips could barely move, which made it that much harder to eat the Wheat Thins and cheddar slices I’d grabbed from the kitchen earlier.

I reached for a cracker, and the plate, perched precariously on the edge of the couch, began to slide toward the floor. Shit. I caught it just in time, and once again admired the way the plate matched not only the vibe but the bright and cheerful colors I’d used to decorate my apartment. It was vintage ceramic, part of a set purchased off a website and sent to me from a small secondhand store in San Francisco. I’d been obsessed for months with finding these plates: hand-painted Italian majolica, covered in bright-orange peacock feathers that spiraled outward. They were pricey, but I excused them as a birthday present to myself, and every time I grabbed one I felt endless pleasure and awe over their beauty.

What would my half sister think of these dishes? I wondered. Would she like them? I dropped my head onto the cushion and let out a quiet moan. I still hadn’t written her back, even though I’d been googling her nonstop.

On Instagram, Anna’s design firm had almost sixty thousand followers. I found photos of her at Fashion Week in Milan all over the internet, balancing in heels as if her feet didn’t hurt. It was like looking at photos of myself misshapen in a fun-house mirror. Olive skin, curly dark hair, the same serious set of eyebrows. Just living a much more glamorous, accomplished, better-dressed life.

I forced my brain back onto work stuff, but that only made me feel nauseous with anxiety. Anytime I tried to sit down and think through what it would take to truly work for myself—the budget, the hours, the money I’d need to make to pay my bills, the clients I’d need to have to actually make said money—I was overcome with imposter syndrome, which had only gotten worse since I learned about my cooler, more successful Italian doppelg?nger. This was the dark, murky hole of insecurity that I fell into the second self-doubt came knocking at my door.

Not that this was a new feeling, of course. I was good at pushing it aside most of the time, but getting laid off was like a welcome mat, inviting it to show up whenever it wanted. It crept into my brain as my head hit the pillow, sat across from me at my tiny kitchen table as I drank my morning coffee.