The Herd(20)

The whole scene was going badly enough that I leaned in: “We don’t? Most people think we’re twins.” I kept my face earnest as he flicked his eyes back and forth between Eleanor and me.

“For Christ’s sake, she’s fucking with you,” Eleanor snorted, and he laughed uncertainly.

I waved my arms. “She’s adopted! It’s not a secret! You’re good!”

Once we’d stopped giggling, Eleanor asked him if the table was ready. He nodded and awkwardly asked if I’d like to join them, but I said no. He still looked shaken as I hugged them goodbye, and I gave a final wave as the hostess led them into the dining room. They looked good together, pretty and put-together. It wasn’t a great call, making him uncomfortable—now he might be more guarded around me, less forthcoming if I got around to interviewing him for the book. But…c’mon. He deserved it.





CHAPTER 6





Hana


SATURDAY, DECEMBER 14, 11 A.M.

When I spotted Katie at a southern entrance to Central Park, tugging on thick fingerless gloves, I felt a swell of pride: my bold baby sister, blending in with all the New Yorkers around her. Often she irritated me (and the feeling occasionally teetered into resentment), but today there was nothing but affection. She saw me and waved; she had the universally agreed-upon prettiness of a Pixar princess—a wavy bob, big eyes, a pert little nose, and a good, sharp chin.

It’d been surprisingly fun having her at the Herd all week. In the period leading up to her interview, I’d worried that she’d be distracting and childish, violating the Herd’s tacit rules about noise levels and profanity, but so far my fears were unfounded. Like a new, eager coworker, she’d sought me out every morning, cheerfully dropping her bags nearby before skipping off to hang her coat. She was meeting other women, too, a development I observed like a proud mother hen: chatting with coders and designers and small-business owners seated next to her, shyly asking for their email or Instagram handle toward the end of the day. She still seemed tense, but newly focused. She was vague about what she was working on, but I didn’t press; I remembered from my own move to New York how getting things rolling felt less like an A-to-B and more like a million small to-dos.

She hurried across the street and gave me a quick hug, then patted her pockets. “I either left my hat at home or on the subway.”

“That tracks,” I teased.

She shrugged and pointed to the massive snowflake strung over Fifty-seventh Street. “How big do you think it is?” As I reached for my phone to find the answer, she spoke again: “We have to guess! Price Is Right rules.”

She waited for me to go first (“eighteen feet across”) and then guessed nineteen, a very Katie thing to do, then hopped in excitement as I dramatically read out the actual dimensions: twenty-eight feet tall and twenty-three feet wide.

She whistled, turning back to its twinkling lights. “I wouldn’t want to drive a convertible under that.” She stuffed her hands into her pockets. “Hey, do you know Eleanor’s friend Ted?”

I frowned. “Yeah, he’s an old family friend of hers. Why do you ask?”

“I met him yesterday. He came in to fix the Wi-Fi.”

I nodded. She dipped her head and looked up at me, catching my downturned eyes.

“What’s his deal?” she asked.

“Oh, he’s fine. He went to BU and sometimes he’d come to parties with us and stuff.” I shrugged. “He’s just…I could never figure him out.”

We’d reached Bergdorf Goodman, where clusters of bundled-up people peered into the windows. This year’s theme was the Gilded Age, and this display showed a miniature Gatsby mansion during a winter soiree, with fat red sashes and intricate wreaths hanging from its facade. Katie stepped closer and spread her gloved hands against the glass.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” I sidled up next to her.

“Gorgeous. I always loved this book. Hey, remember my friend Holly Janssen? From growing up? She just moved into a house like that in East Grand Rapids.” She nodded toward the window. “Her husband’s family owns a bunch of breweries or something. All my friends from high school are, like, buying McMansions and having babies.”

Much to my relief, she’d dropped the topic of Ted. Katie’s observant, good at sensing signs of tension.

“That’s the great thing about New York—if you get pregnant, you’re the weird one.” I stopped in front of the next display. It had something to do with the transcontinental railroad: small train cars cruising down a track, the sides cut open to reveal elegant interiors.

“Is it weird that Eleanor’s married?” Katie asked. A gaggle of teenagers arrived, reaching over us to photograph the window. “Do you feel less close?”

“She’s pretty good about making time for her friends. It helps that she’s my client.”

Katie’s eyes trailed the miniature train. “And Daniel doesn’t have any cool friends to set you up with?”

Dating, relationships, marriage—always a delicate topic for Katie and me. Though she was currently single, I knew it wouldn’t be long before that changed; Katie attracted men everywhere she went, dudes delighted by her brash tongue and delicate features. Meanwhile, I’d been cycling on and off of dating sites for the better part of a decade. “Intimidating” was the word guys often used—each time a small corkscrew to the heart, screwed further in as I scrambled to make myself softer, kinder, more feminine and palatable. Although some found another fun way to make me not a real person: “You’re so exotic-looking,” or “What’s your background?” or “No, I mean where are you from?” or the real kayo: “What are you?”