You Are Not Alone(26)
Sean suggests we hang out on the couch and watch a movie like we used to.
“Sure,” I say. “I didn’t have dinner, so you pick something out and I’ll go buy some snacks.”
As soon as I reach the corner, I collapse against the side of a building, my face in my hands.
Jody’s lease is up next month. They want to live together. I’m sorry. I know you’ve been going through a lot with the job stuff and everything, Sean had said. She and I can look for a different apartment.…
But I told him I’d move out. You’ve been here forever. It’s really your place.
Take as long as you need, he’d replied.
No job. No relationship. No home.
I stand there for a long moment, unsure of what to do, gulping in breaths.
Then I hear a chime—a crisp, faint sound that reverberates through the air, reminiscent of the bell from yoga class.
I reach into my tote and pull out my phone. On the screen is a brand-new text: Sure you can drop off the jacket, or you can join me and Jane for drinks this Thursday and I’ll get it then? xo, C
I read it twice. Then I straighten up and push away from the building.
I make myself wait another thirty seconds, then type, I’d love to join you!
My breaths are steadier now; my despair is receding.
As I walk to the deli to grab a few bags of microwave popcorn, I wonder why they’re interested in spending more time with me. But then I remind myself that Amanda didn’t seem to be as glamorous as Cassandra and Jane, yet they were close friends.
So maybe there is room for me in Cassandra and Jane’s world.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
SHAY
We tend to like people whom we perceive as similar to us. And the less information we have about a person, the more important these perceived similarities are in influencing our approval.
—Data Book, page 19
I’VE SPENT ALL MORNING and some of the afternoon searching for studio apartments online, and I’ve even gone to look at a couple. The first had mousetraps in the run-down lobby and a puddle of water under the refrigerator. The second—described as “quaint”—was so small I wouldn’t have room for any furniture other than my double bed and dresser.
I’d be completely demoralized and anxious if I weren’t meeting Cassandra and Jane for drinks tonight.
After I finish checking out the apartments, I stop by Zara, a store that sells designer knockoffs. Both times I met the sisters, they were chic without being trendy. Although the kind of clothes they wear are far outside my budget—the raincoat Cassandra lent me had a Stella McCartney label and my Google search revealed it sells for twelve hundred dollars—I can at least up my game.
I ask the salesgirl for help, and she puts together an outfit from head to toe, including shoes and a bracelet. She shows me a cute pair of matching earrings, but I tell her I don’t have pierced ears. I wince at the total, but hand over my credit card anyway.
Next I pop by Sephora and ask a saleswoman for some tips. She ends up overdoing it—my eye shadow is too bright, and my lined lips look strange to me—but I buy a tube of lip gloss and grab a few tissues to tone down the makeup before I leave.
I swing by home to change into my new clothes and drop off my bags, then I splurge on an Uber to take me to our meeting spot. It’s warm out, and I don’t want to show up sweaty and undo all my efforts. I pull up the restaurant’s menu on my phone so I can pick what I want to drink.
A jalape?o margarita sounds delicious, but I’m only going to order it if I’m the first one the waiter asks. Otherwise, I’ll follow the sisters’ lead, because people tend to feel more comfortable with those who make similar choices. My slim black pants and gauzy sleeveless top, my coppery eyeliner, even the manicure I gave myself—I can’t pretend it isn’t designed to make these women like me.
Tons of studies have found that attractive, well-groomed individuals are assumed to possess positive qualities that aren’t even related to their appearance—they’re perceived as being more intelligent, more interesting, and more trustworthy. This is sometimes called the halo effect.
Maybe that’s why I’ve prepared more for tonight than I ever have for any date, school reunion, job interview, or even Mel’s wedding, where I was maid of honor. I hope it’s enough.
The Uber pulls over to the curb and I step out. Cassandra gave me an address and the name of the bar—Bella’s—but I don’t see any sign indicating where it is.
Then I notice a black door with simple silver numbers on it: 242. That matches the address I have.
I pull open the door and walk to the hostess stand. It’s still light outside, but in here, it’s dim and homey. Instead of the usual booths, it’s like being in someone’s living room—clusters of couches and chairs are grouped together. The furniture is eclectic, but even I can tell it all works together.
“Do you have a reservation?” the hostess asks.
A grin spreads across my face. “Actually, I’m meeting some friends.”
Then I hear my name being called from across the room: “Shay! Over here!”
Cassandra and Jane are standing at a low, round table toward the back, waving and smiling. I hurry toward them. Their arms open wide to hug me before I even reach them.