In a New York Minute(38)

This fucking day. Lola’s text popped up as I was pacing my apartment, brainstorming, and I sent back a GIF of Daniel Radcliffe screaming “HELP ME” and went back to my pacing, plotting my business trajectory in my head.

My phone chimed again. Teaching until 9, Cleo wrote. McManus later?

One of our favorite dive-bar haunts. My mind skipped over to my three-alarm fire of a budget. I gotta stick to a tight budget these days, I wrote, capping it off with a sad face.

Roof then? Lola responded.

Cleo’s roof had been a meeting spot for us since our early twenties. Not that it was easy to get to. It involved crawling out onto the fire escape of her fourth-floor walk-up on the Lower East Side and climbing a short but rickety ladder. We’d gotten very good over the years at juggling bottles, bags of takeout, and beach chairs in one hand while guiding ourselves upward with the other.

ROOOOOFFFFFFF, Lola wrote back.

“Well, that settles it,” I said to the walls of my apartment. I thumbs-up-emojied back, just as an email alert popped up on my phone. I clicked on the notification to open it, and it was from Lola’s coworker Grant. I held in a breath; this was the message I’d been waiting for, the thing that would be both my creative and financial lifeline, a rope to pull me back to the safe comforts of my old life. My eyes scanned the words on the screen.

“We so loved meeting you, Franny,” the email read. “But we’ve decided to go with a designer who’s also a parent, to really capitalize on their expertise. Thank you so much for your time and thoughtful consultation. We hope our paths cross again soon!”

Goddamn it. My heart sank. Now what the hell was I supposed to do?

*



Hours later, we were spread out on towels doubling as picnic blankets. The roof was dingy gray and covered in bird poop and leaves. There was nothing nice about it, other than it gave us the opportunity for fresh air and a stellar view of the Williamsburg Bridge. For us, that was enough.

While Cleo and Lola sipped from cans of Pacifico, I slurped out of my metal water bottle. We passed around a bag of Pirate’s Booty between us. Technically, it was a free meal. I applauded my frugalness without letting myself get too depressed that I was thirty years old and eating white cheddar puffs for dinner because I was terrified the business I hadn’t even officially started yet was doomed to go under. Not that I was going to bring that up tonight. I needed this time with my friends to decompress, forget for a moment that I was screwed. Besides, my friends worried enough about me already.

“Franny?” Cleo said. “You okay?”

And…that’s the problem with good friends—they know when something’s up, even when you don’t tell them.

“I didn’t get that nursery job. With Grant.” I squeezed out a small, sad smile, in an attempt to act like I was okay.

“No!” Lola gasped as Cleo leaned in to give my arm a squeeze.

“I was kind of counting on that for…well, I guess for everything,” I said slowly. “And I really need to figure out how to get some actual clients this year if I want to…you know.”

They stared at me. “Want to what?” Lola asked.

“Really and truly start my own business.” I sighed. “Not go broke and totally fail at this and humiliate myself in front of everyone I know. Keep my apartment and not have to move back home.”

“Franny…” Cleo’s voice was calm, her judicious, pragmatic side kicking in. “You just decided to do this. Don’t put so much pressure on yourself right off the bat.”

“Yeah.” Lola nodded in agreement. “You’re gonna set yourself up for failure.” She reached out to touch her toes, thinking. “And, honestly, what you’re doing is seriously brave.”

“Thank you,” I said. “But bravery doesn’t pay my rent, you know? I’ve got some feelers out to my old clients at Spayce, but maybe I was naive to think I could just pivot and work for myself.”

Cleo waved the Pirate’s Booty bag at me, and I grabbed it, digging in.

“I’m just saying, keep your ears peeled for rich people with tons of money who want to blow it all on handwoven Turkish rugs, okay?”

“Those are basically the only kind of people I know, so…,” Lola joked as she stretched her legs out in front of her, shaking them. “But, hey, seriously, Fran.” She turned her eyes toward me. “You’ve had a bizarre time lately. Go easy on yourself.”

Cleo nodded. “Work. Your sister. Your birth dad. It’s a lot.”

“And,” Lola chimed in, “you know we can always help you figure out what to say to—”

“Anna,” I said as Cleo shoot her a look.

“Right.” Lola nodded. “If you decided to respond.”

“I haven’t yet, but I’m working on it.”

I didn’t have any more energy left to dig deeper into Franny’s Box of Icky Feelings. Quick, Franny, a subject change, I said to myself.

“Things have been so nuts I haven’t even told you about my walk to the subway with Hayes the other night.” I dangled this in front of them like a carrot.

At the mention of his name, they both stopped what they were doing to stare at me. For a quick second, they were frozen in that shocked look you give a friend who has held on to a juicy tidbit for way too long.