by Laura Hankin
“I get it,” I said, trying not to cry. “That makes sense.” Three heavy raps sounded at my door. “I’m busy!” I shouted.
“We just need to get into your room for a sec!” Sara said from the hallway.
“Shit, I have to go,” I said into the phone. “But I’m not going to let you down.”
He made a noncommittal noise and hung up.
I tried to swallow, but my mouth was dry. I flung open the door to see Sara and Rob, plus a large man holding a clipboard. Their contractor. “George just needs to get a sense of the layout before he can start work on the renovation,” Sara said, a big smile on her face. George barged into my room and began looking around. Oh God, how I hated them all.
“Look,” I said to Sara and Rob, as calmly as I could. “I’m going to need you to give me a little bit more of a heads-up about these things in the future.”
“Mm,” Sara said. She and Rob exchanged a look.
“In that case, we wanted to give you a heads-up that George is going to be starting work soon,” Rob said. “Like, next week.” No. What? No, no, no.
“And we know that you’re going through a tough time, and we totally don’t want to kick you out onto the street,” Sara said, still smiling brightly as my stomach dropped into the floor. “But we’ve been patient for a while, and now we think it would be best if you found another place ASAP.”
SEVENTEEN
You’d think that losing your mother would put everything else into perspective. What does it matter if you have nowhere to live and your editor/object-of-lust thinks you’re a disappointing speck of dirt? At least nobody’s dying. But, as I dragged myself to Nevertheless that night, perspective proved elusive.
Now that all the smoke and mirrors of getting into the club were a thing of the past, logistics turned out to be practical. I’d received an e-mail newsletter that afternoon with a schedule of special events for the week—it came from a bland e-mail address and said nothing about Nevertheless itself, so if you were to forward it to anybody, it wouldn’t prove anything. But still. An e-mail, just like the 92nd Street Y might send.
On the schedule for tonight was something called a “Concerns Circle.” What the hell was that? A time when women could bring up their feelings of hopelessness over the rollback of women’s rights across the country? Or simply a time to complain that the cleaning staff weren’t doing their job as well as they were supposed to? I needed to find out. Besides, the house didn’t feel like home anymore, now that George the Contractor had left a bunch of equipment all over the place, with a promise to return soon with more. I’d spent much of the afternoon searching through rental listings online. Surprise, surprise, everything was either far too expensive or a hellhole. Or both at once, as in the case of one listing for an $1,800-a-month bedroom in a sixth-floor walk-up, which claimed that it was actually a good thing that the room had no windows: one less way for intruders to get inside to murder you! There was no way that I’d be able to pay New York City rent and Nevertheless dues, if I wasn’t able to get everything done in this first month.
I’d texted Raf earlier that afternoon to see if I could crash on his couch for a little bit. I got his response in the elevator: For sure. I just went out of town for a couple days to speak at this thing (“this thing” turned out to be a fancy-schmancy culinary conference, I saw later when I Googled that modest fucker) and didn’t leave a key, but when I get back?
I was reading it as I walked into the clubhouse, my mask of control slipping right as Libby hurtled toward me. “Hey, lady!” she said, giving me a hug. She drew back, taking in my face. “What’s wrong?”
I hadn’t been planning to share the news with anyone, but in the intensity of her focus, I melted, giving her the headlines as we pulled up chairs into a makeshift circle. Her expression grew too sympathetic. “It’s not a big deal,” I said. “I’ll figure something out.”
“Well, sure, you can find a new place, but it’s not just that. It’s also losing yet another part of your mom,” she said. I blinked a few times, quickly, as around us, other women laughed, helping one another push couches into formation, complimenting one another on their upper-body strength (“Thanks, I’ve been taking an amazing boxing class at an all-female gym!”) or making self-deprecating remarks about how they’d been focusing so much on spin classes lately that they’d been neglecting their biceps.
A circle of chairs shouldn’t have a head, but this one did. Caroline and Margot sat next to each other, and the attention flowed to them. “Let’s open up the space for sharing,” Margot said, clad in wide-legged denim, hugging one knee to her chest.
“Yes, if anyone has any concerns, whether personal or more global, with which the group can help, don’t be afraid to speak up,” Caroline said, sitting up straight, a notebook in her lap, poised to write down any pertinent details from the conversation. As women began to raise their hands and share their thoughts, Margot and Caroline passed control back and forth between the two of them like friends tossing a ball in the backyard—mostly easy, but with the occasional misalignment, a couple of moments where one couldn’t quite catch what the other had been throwing over.
Margot rested her head on the knee that she was hugging, staring with rapt attention at whoever was speaking, and so the members tended to speak their concerns as if in a private conversation with her, at least until the other members jumped in with their responses, or Caroline interrupted to clarify something. One member shared her sadness that the family-run Puerto Rican restaurant on her block was going to have to shut down due to a rent increase, and the women discussed fund-raisers. Another member was seeking recommendations and emotional support because her personal trainer was moving to L.A.
Though the concerns may have varied, what stayed the same was the response: utter acceptance. An unspoken rule dictated that no one was allowed to say that somebody else’s concern wasn’t valid, even if they may have thought it. And oh, there were times when I thought it. This wasn’t exactly the shadowy Let’s Rule the World circle I’d been imagining. Maybe Miles was right—that this was nothing more than a bunch of insipid women.
Libby nudged me. “You should mention your housing situation! I bet someone here could help.”
“Oh God,” I whispered back, “I just joined. I can’t immediately be like Help me find somewhere livable for eight hundred dollars a month!”
Libby’s eyes widened in surprise, and a little bit of pity. Shit, I’d been too transparent about my financial situation. People in Nevertheless spent $800 a month on moisturizer.
Another woman began to speak—Iris Ngoza, the former model turned Instagram star who’d made a name for herself by decrying the industry’s unrealistic beauty standards while bravely weighing 120 pounds. “A friend of mine was telling me about this man, Craig Melton,” Iris said. “He’s a district judge in Queens who will be hearing a case that could have huge implications for reproductive rights. And he’s almost certain to rule against choice, even though I’d be willing to bet that he’s paid for an abortion or six in his time.” Unsurprised murmurs sounded from around the circle. “It seems that he is not a good man, not a very clean one, and yet he’s wielding an enormous amount of power over women. So I wonder if anyone might be able to find out any information. Perhaps there is something we can do.”
The response to this one was different from the others. There was a pause while Caroline and Margot exchanged a meaningful look.
“Maybe,” Caroline said, her eyes flitting ever so quickly toward the mysterious door, then back again. “We’ll have to be careful about it—”
Margot leaned forward. “But it sounds like he’s a bad man,” she said, “and bad men have been getting away with their bullshit for far too long.” The crowd turned to her. Caroline watched the women watching Margot, and I realized that it killed her that, while she may have been the brain of this whole thing, Margot was the heart.
&nbs
p; “We’ll have a think on it,” Caroline said. “Meanwhile, I have something to say. The annual gala for Women Who Lead is coming up, and . . .” She put her hand on her heart and a resigned but brave expression on her face. “Unfortunately, the woman who I’d been hoping would announce her run for the House of Representatives has decided that she is not ready to throw her hat in the ring.” A few murmurs of disappointment and sympathy came from the women around the circle. “Thank you, I know. The good news is that the tables I’d been saving for her and her team are now available. So if any of you would like to attend, please come talk to me. I’d love to have anyone who wants to support. Although of course it would be good for the cause if we could get some star power.” She looked at Iris Ngoza, and then at me.
Oh, right. Because of Raf. Duh. I really needed to get better at remembering that I was dating him. I gave Caroline a thumbs-up.
“Wonderful,” she said, then addressed the whole group. “The last-minute change has thrown a wrench in things, so I want to apologize in advance if I’m busier than normal until the gala is over. So many things to do, so if anyone wants to help—”
“I volunteer as tribute!” Libby said next to me, her hand shooting into the air. She cleared her throat and placed her hand back in her lap. “I mean, I would love to help however you need.”
“Libby,” Caroline said, “you’re a gem.”
EIGHTEEN
When the circle ended and the women in attendance slowly began to straggle out the door, to their gleaming homes and their melatonin and their partners or their pets, Libby and I both hung back, chatting. As Libby talked about the latest updates with her fizzy water company, I watched the small group of women who showed no signs of leaving as eleven p.m. approached: Caroline, Margot, Iris, a couple of others. A few times, I caught Libby watching them too. The elevator doors dinged and Vy clomped into the clubhouse, wearing a jacket spattered with dried clay, her eyes locked on the door I’d never seen anyone go inside. She began to head that way, then noticed me and Libby. She stopped, staring at us for a minute before slouching over to the fridge and pretending to examine its contents. The message was clear: we were overstaying our welcome.
“Well, it’s getting late. Should we walk out together?” I asked Libby, and so we waved good-bye and took the elevator down.
When we emerged onto the street, I walked slowly toward the subway, dreading going home. Libby matched my pace, both of us hugging our jackets to ourselves in the early-October evening, silent. Strange. Libby had never met an empty moment that she could not fill with her chatter. But now, she furrowed her brow, then opened her mouth as if to say something. She closed it. Then she opened it again. “So you’ve noticed the mysterious door too?”
All right, Libby. I wasn’t the only person whose powers of observation were on full blast. “Yeah,” I said, carefully. “It’s a little weird, right?”
“Very!”
“What is it, do you think?” I asked, then rolled my eyes. “A prison where they’re holding all the men who have ever wronged them?” I’d started developing a theory, strengthened by the events of that night’s circle, the way that Caroline’s eyes had flitted to the door when Iris mentioned the terrible judge. Behind the door, they addressed the more complicated concerns. The controversial or even dangerous ones. That was where they kept their information, their files and records, maybe where they hung up pictures of men like the judge, of women like Nicole, and figured out how they were going to destroy their lives. Maybe what went on in the back room was what had united Caroline and Margot in the first place.
Libby stopped walking and grabbed my hand, looking me straight in the eye. I squirmed at the naked intensity of her gaze. “I like you, Jillian. You really listen, which isn’t necessarily true for everyone I’ve met here.” Guilt came over her face. “I don’t mean to be a jerk!”
“No, I know what you mean,” I said, thinking of the self-satisfied air that clung to many of the women in the club. “And thanks, I like you too.”
“We’ve got each other’s backs, right?”
“Yeah. Of course.”
“Okay. I’m going to tell you something that I haven’t told anyone else. Swear you won’t repeat it?” I half expected her to make me lock my pinky in hers, like we were children trading confessions at sleepaway camp. A couple of girls playing games, making meaning out of nothing, just like Miles had implied on the phone. Fuck Miles.
“I’m great at secrets,” I said.
She glanced around the street, to make sure that no one would overhear, then turned back to me once she’d deemed it safe. “I think that getting through that door is the way that you know you’ve really made it,” she said, her voice hushed and reverent. “That you haven’t just bought your way in, but that they genuinely love and admire you. That you’re truly, truly accepted.” This was always the way, wasn’t it? Another door, another hurdle you had to jump in order to prove yourself, in hopes of pushing off the gnawing unease that you were not enough. Libby swallowed. “And the reason I think that,” she began, then startled as a woman I recognized from the clubhouse came walking by, giving us a nod as she passed. As soon as the woman crossed the street, Libby grabbed my hand and pulled me into the alley behind us, a dark, narrow walkway full of trash and recycling bins. Her palm was sweaty. She let go of my hand and tucked her hair behind her ear, then let out a breath.
“Okay, whew,” she said, then smiled at me shakily. “I don’t know why I’m so jumpy!”
“It’s fine,” I said. “Why do you think that, about the door?”
“Right. Because, once, I saw them go inside.”
“Hold up,” I said, my own palms getting sweaty in anticipation. “What? How?”
“I had to go to the bathroom before I left the clubhouse one night. And, well . . . it’s embarrassing, but I was in there for longer than I expected.”
“Like how long?” I asked.
“I take slow poops, okay?” she said, flushing. (Sorry.) “But they didn’t realize anyone was still around, because when I came back out, the group was heading to the door. They were all, like, really excited. Giddy, even? Like it was time to do what they’d been waiting all night for. Somehow I knew that I wasn’t supposed to see what I was seeing. So I hid behind a plant.”
“As one does,” I said, my heart pounding. “And what happened? What’s behind it?”
“Well, I couldn’t see behind it—I was too far away for that. And I wasn’t going to try to follow them in. I’m not totally cuckoo! But I did hear them talking. Margot was saying something about how the new members were promising, and it was time to invite someone else in. Caroline was like, Maybe, and Margot was like, Come on, Caroline, it’s been long enough since . . . Oh, it was some name, I don’t remember what.”
I’d bet anything it was Nicole. Libby just kept talking. “Caroline said she couldn’t even think about it until after the gala prep was done, and Margot was like, But we’d want to take them with us at the end of October. Caroline sort of threw up her hands and was like, Fine, but I get final say! And when she disappeared into the door, Margot turned to Vy and was like, quietly, Let’s make sure they’re helpful. Then . . .” She shrugged. “Then the door closed, and they were gone.”
“That’s wild,” I said, shoving my shaking hands in my pockets. God bless Libby. They had an opening, one that they were looking to fill soon. I had to get in there. Behind the door, that’s where I’d find the bombshell that would make this entire operation worth it.
“Right?” Libby was saying. “Someone helpful, they said, so I’ve been trying to be as useful as possible with volunteering to lead the newbies, stuff like that. Caroline and I have been bonding, I think! The other day she actually asked me where I’d gotten my shoes, because she was looking for a pair like them! But . . .” She fidgeted, suddenly shy. “Could I ask you a favor? If you’re talking to any of them and I come up,
maybe you could say nice things about me? And then if I get invited in, I can obviously say all kinds of nice things about you! And then we can be in there together, and it’ll be so fun.” She hadn’t even bothered to ask if I wanted to get inside the inner circle, working under the assumption that all Nevertheless members wanted to be as elite as possible. Still, I wondered why it mattered so much to her. It seemed like she more than just wanted it. She needed it as much as I did.
“I can do that,” I said. “Totally.”
She leaned forward and hugged me with a tight, quick squeeze. “You’re the best!” When she released me, she cleared her throat. “You know, until your sexy chef man gets back in town, if being at home is too unpleasant, you can stay with me.”
“Like a slumber party?” I said, joking.
“Yeah, exactly!” Libby answered.
“I . . .” I hesitated. It wasn’t a good idea to sleep with my sources, literally. But as I looked at her cherubic face, her hopeful smile, a little bud of gratitude and something else—tenderness—took root inside of me. It would be for only a night or two, till Raf got back. “That would be really nice, thanks.”
NINETEEN
So I followed Libby back to her apartment, only a ten-minute walk from the clubhouse. We passed a group of women drunkenly posing for selfies in front of a brownstone. “That’s Carrie’s house, from Sex and the City!” she said with pride, before we turned the corner and entered the doorman building where she lived.
“I was really torn between this place and a brownstone,” she went on, pausing to wave enthusiastically to her doorman, who smiled at her with what seemed like real affection (although maybe he was just good at faking it for his job). “But I think a brownstone will be for when I want to buy.”
When she unlocked her door, I followed her in and then stopped short, staring at her high ceilings. “Libby! This place is huge,” I said, because it was, at least for a single woman in her midtwenties living by herself in New York City. God, her water bottle company must’ve been taking the hydration world by storm.
