In a New York Minute(6)
“Franny, layoffs happen. You decorated my whole apartment, so I have actual proof that you’re fantastic at your job.”
“You have to say that,” I said. “All I did was find you better throw pillows. Anyone can do that.” I was joking, sure. But there was a familiar, insecure voice in my head that wondered if maybe that was the truth.
“And besides,” I continued, “I liked the paycheck. The stability. The free snacks. The paycheck.”
“I know,” she said. “And I’m not saying everything happens for a reason—”
“You totally are!” I cut her off. Cleo had the brain of a lawyer but the heart of someone who believed in the magic of the world around us, the stuff we couldn’t see. The vision boards had been her idea.
“Look, all I’m saying is that maybe getting laid off is a gift. I feel like I’ve heard you say a million times how bored you felt not really getting to do anything hands-on at Spayce. Never getting to be in the rooms you designed, putting chairs in the right spot, moving things exactly how you want them.”
Cleo was right. I had complained about this. A lot.
“You know what I mean,” she continued. “Now you can go crazy and do things your way.”
“Now you’re just quoting Laverne and Shirley,” I said. I had long ago tucked away the fantasy of a career defined on my own terms, one that filled both my creative soul and my bank account. I’d made peace with the fact that work would always be just that for me, the path to survival, a means to an end. That’s how it had gone for my mom and Jim, my stepdad, and they were happy enough. There was no shame in working just to work and doing what you love on the side. Or at least, that’s what I’d told myself to justify my career choice up until this point.
Cleo laughed into the phone. “You’re going to make your dreams come true,” she sang. And then with a quick goodbye, she was gone, leaving me to remember the dreams that had pushed me to move to New York City in the first place, and wonder if I had anything at all to show for them.
*
There’s an endless list of things a person can do after getting laid off: punch a hole in a wall, meditate, search for jobs, get drunk. I fell asleep. I wasn’t even consciously trying to do it, but somewhere in between texts and WhatsApp chats with my fellow spurned former coworkers, I zonked out. Two hours later, it was my phone that woke me, the ding ding dinging of my text alerts jolting me from sleep.
I flicked on my phone. I had thirteen new texts from Lola, her most recent: Fran r u ok? I’m here! Let me in! I grabbed my faded bathrobe off its hook and raced toward my door.
“Hey,” I said, out of breath as I swung the door open. “I’m so sorry. I totally passed out.”
Lola, in all her bleached-blond, smudged-eyeliner glory, shoved a giant brown paper bag into my arms. It was still warm to the touch.
“I brought bagels,” she said, her voice serious. That was our Lola. She brought the bagels, every time.
“I’m so sorry you’ve had such a terrible day,” she said as she kicked off her black ankle boots and closed the door behind her.
“I know. Laid off.” I placed the bagels on my stove, my counter space still occupied by my box of work mementos.
“I mean, yes. That’s awful. But your dress, and the guy on the subway,” she said, pulling me in for a hug.
“Did Cleo tell you?” I asked, letting her squeeze me tight. “He was like movie-star hot, and I basically blew my nose on his shirt. I’m not good at first impressions.”
“Cleo?” Lola pulled away from me and held me at arm’s length. “I haven’t talked to her. She’s still teaching that stupid environmental law seminar that lasts all freaking day.”
“Oh, sorry. I guess I forgot I told you about the subway nightmare.”
“Franny.” She eyed me with a peculiar examining look. “Did you not read all my texts?”
My brain buzzed as I tried to remember. “I don’t know. Why?”
She rolled her eyes, clearly annoyed that I’d missed her messages.
“Okay, so at work today, we’ve been tracking this Instagram story that’s going microviral,” she said. Being the deputy editor of the pop-culture-focused website LookingGlass meant that she was always “tracking” things—who unfollowed whom on social media; who favorited which photos; which TikTok stars might be hooking up—and looking into rumors and gossip sent anonymously to her DMs and email. “And I think it’s you.”
“What do you mean, ‘you think it’s me’?” I asked, my voice taking on a slightly panicked pitch.
“I mean, I…know it’s you. You’ve got that crazy vintage bag, the one with the rhinestone flowers all over it. Your Spayce bag too. Also, I’d know your beautiful face anywhere. Your butt too.” She smiled, trying to lighten the mood. It didn’t work.
“Photos?!” I was 100 percent screeching. I was no longer a human; I was now a very loud bird inside a human’s body.
“It’s you and this insanely hot guy with a blue tie, who looks like he’s leaning in to give your ass a squeeze. Smelling your hair,” she said. “And you’re, like, full-on embracing him. It’s PG-rated but very hot. Someone posted the whole thing with photos. And made it into GIFs too, which I have to admit is genius.”