The Herd(8)

She clasped her hands. “You know I love Katie.”

“I sense a ‘but.’?”

“I’d love your opinion. If you have time.”

“Of course.” Three thirty-six, my phone had read—if I didn’t get out of here soon, I’d be late for my meeting. Eleanor did this sometimes—snapping into professional mode even when it was just Mikki and me. It was necessary, the reason we could be both best friends and coworkers without anyone ripping anyone’s head off. But that didn’t make it less annoying.

Her eyes floated to the right, like she was choosing her words carefully. “I’m not entirely convinced she’s someone we’d normally take,” she finally said. “She’s brilliant, obviously. But she’s young.”

I dipped my chin. “Eleanor, your head member relations coordinator can barely purchase alcohol.”

“Okay, immature. We’re so selective here, and it’s really a…a discreet bunch. Katie can be a little rash on social media, an oversharer, I think sometimes she speaks without thinking….”

I sighed. Eleanor wasn’t wrong, of course, but I wasn’t sure what she wanted from me.

“Hana, you know we have some extremely high-profile members here. And part of what they love about the Herd is that it’s private—it’s a haven where they’re out of the public eye.”

My eyes rolled before I could stop myself. “C’mon, Eleanor, you know Katie’s a sensitive, conscientious person. And anyway, I’m not the person you should be talking to. Katie’s twenty-seven; I’m not her keeper.”

“I understand, and I wasn’t implying that.” I knew Eleanor’s poker face well enough to recognize irritation swelling underneath the serene expression—irritation matching my own. “I just thought you might have some insight into how she’d be in this environment. Especially given all your work with A-list clients. I just want everyone to feel comfortable.” Her palms bobbed in front of her chest as she spoke, as if she were juggling invisible knives.

“Well, I appreciate that,” I lied. I began to gather my things, slipped my phone back into my purse. “I think Katie would be a wonderful addition to the Herd community and I hope, based on her own merits, you feel the same. Look, I am so sorry but I have a meeting on Fourteenth Street at four. Is there anything else you need? Anything for the event next week?”

“No, we’re fine there, thank you.”

We smiled at each other. Another point of contention: Eleanor had asked me to plan an event for the following Tuesday, essentially a press briefing around an exciting announcement, but she hadn’t told me what the damn announcement would be.

“Anyway, thanks for letting me grab you.” She swept a lock of hair off her cheek. “I love your dress, by the way.”

“Thanks!” I chirped, and I waited until I was almost at the elevators to let my smile drop into a scowl.



* * *



—

I gripped the knife tighter and squinted at the flesh before me, sitting in a puddle of pink-red juice. The recipe for stuffed chicken breasts hadn’t sounded too complicated, but now, in my small kitchen, I realized just how much detail was missing.

“How’s it going with the spinach?” I called.

“I think good?” Her voice curved into a question mark. “Hopefully this is small enough. The recipe just says ‘chopped fresh spinach.’?”

I turned to inspect the recipe card on my kitchen island, keeping my hands up like a surgeon. “I think it needs to be finer.”

“You need to be finer,” she murmured. She squinted at the card. “You don’t think this looks like that?”

“I’m sure it’s fine. Want to start on the onions?”

I made a terrible head chef, but Katie kept on doggedly relying on me for kitchen management. For years, we’d both assumed we disliked cooking, likely because our mother hated it. When she’d come across a cooking show, she’d shake the remote at the screen and holler, “You’re watching somebody do a chore!”

But Katie had, unexpectedly, returned from Michigan with a new goal on her lips: She wanted to learn to cook. And I could see the obvious downsides of my nightly take-out habit. So here we were, in my fully equipped kitchen, hunching over a meal kit.

When the dish came out of the oven, though, we both stared in quiet horror.

“We’ve made a terrible mistake,” Katie whispered. Cheese and spinach had spilled out everywhere, burning in peaks and ridges, and the “stuffed” chicken breasts had curled closed like irritated clamshells.

I couldn’t help it—I let out a laugh, then stifled it into the dishtowel still clutched in my hand. Katie snickered, too, and then we were both laughing uncontrollably, doubling over in my kitchen. Cosmo wandered in, sat down just long enough to fling up a leg and groom himself, then padded out, prompting another wave of hysterics.

I swiped the instructions off the island, wiping my eyes to read it. “We were supposed to keep it shut with toothpicks!” I gasped between giggles.

“You skipped the chicken sutures?” she choked back, then composed herself. She let out one of those high, happy sighs people make to seal their laughter, as if already reminiscing about it. “I guess we won’t be getting board-certified in fowl surgery.”