by Sara Celi
“Why else would they fire SocialKitten? Your Instagram following alone is a goal for me.”
“Speaking of which, I haven’t posted since Monday.” I drank some of my martini, which burned the back of my throat and shocked my taste buds with its bitterness. Still, I didn’t allow that to show on my face. Martinis made people look cool, chic, sophisticated, and worldly. I needed more of all those qualities—stat. “Haven’t had much worth sharing.”
“You’ll find something.” She leaned closer. “You could always make it up. Everyone on Instagram does that.”
I laughed. “Back to the firing … they aren’t on shaky ground with this, either. A few months ago, we had the company meeting, and they made all of us sign paperwork acknowledging that we’d received a copy of the new policy and understood the consequences.”
Heather blew a low whistle through her lips. “So, this is legit.”
“Yep. I have no idea what I’m going to do,” I said in a low voice. “I guess just look for a new job as a producer or a webmaster.” I sighed at the prospect. I didn’t even have an updated résumé, and the more I thought about it, maybe I didn’t want to keep working in television anyway. It certainly hadn’t turned out the way I expected. I was about as far away from Woodward and Bernstein as anyone could be in their career.
Wait, should I take this as a sign?
I was damn good at social media. I had that stuff licked. If I could find a way to parlay that into an awesome career, I’d get to work from home, travel, exercise my creativity—and not have to deal with cutthroat coworkers in an industry I knew in my heart would never love me back.
“You could still sue,” Heather continued. “They might give you a settlement.”
“How am I going to pay for the legal fees of that?” I downed more of my drink, but it didn’t make me feel much better. “Honestly, I can’t think about that right now. I’m still in shock.”
“Couldn’t your parents help you out?”
I bit my bottom lip. If I asked them for help, I knew they’d give it, but that was hardly the point. For the last few years, I’d been determined to make it without relying on them. If I asked for help, it would mean letting them down—and knowing how often my screw-up brother had done that already, I couldn’t bear to think of being a second major disappointment in their lives. “I don’t want to ask them. I just—I can’t. Heather, I’ve got to figure something out. Fast.”
Her eyes widened. “Will you look for a job here? In Cincinnati?”
I shrugged. “Maybe. There aren’t that many TV jobs in town.”
“So, what, you’d have to move to a different TV market?”
“Possibly …”
“No way. No … you … you can’t move—not now. You’re chair of the fashion show next year. You have to stay in town.”
I drank another sip of my cocktail, choking back the acrid mixture, and willed the vodka to take hold. I hadn’t considered that, but yes, she was right. I was chair of the Junior League fashion show, and those women were counting on me to shepherd that event, which was the largest fundraiser for that organization. We hoped to raise $350,000 in one night. My involvement in the league was one of the things that had made my life in Cincinnati feel more like home.
“You know what? I really don’t want to leave this area, if I can avoid it,” I said as our hummus plate arrived. The server placed it on the small table in front of us, asked if we needed anything else, and disappeared. “I actually like Cincinnati.”
At one point, that fact would have surprised me.
A year earlier, I’d come to the city expecting to spend a minimum amount of time in it before moving on to Chicago, Philadelphia, or Minneapolis on my way to my dream job—producing the news at one of the national twenty-four-hour networks or a top national morning show.
But perhaps, my goals had changed. A setback like this one certainly made it feel like they had.
“I’m thinking about switching careers.” I picked up a carrot and dipped it in the bowl of hummus. “Do marketing or something. I’m pretty good at social media.”
Heather laughed. “Everyone is good at social media, but you’re amazing at it. Speaking of which”—she pointed at the appetizer— “why don’t you take a picture of this for Instagram? This is like the most epic hummus plate ever. That is the perfect post for your account.”
“You’re right, it is.” I took my phone from my purse and snapped a few images. When I decided on my favorite one, I edited it, slapped a filter across it, and sent it to my Instagram story. There. I was still SocialKitten. I wasn’t a total fraud. “Great suggestion.”
“If you need anything while you’re figuring all of this out … I mean”—Heather faltered— “I’ll ask my father for some advice and see if he has any openings in marketing or social. Seriously, you could totally help our brand.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it.”
And I did. Heather’s father sat on the board of Chadwick Properties as CFO, and that meant Heather had job security for life. Even an Ohio transplant like me knew that Chadwick Properties helped run Cincinnati—the name was everywhere, on almost every commercial real estate project, and a slick five-story field office emblazoned with the company logo had just arrived on the west side of the city’s downtown.
But what if they didn’t have any decent marketing openings?
Hours stretched in front of me. How long would it take to find a job? How long would I have to wait before something came up?
“I’ll go crazy if I don’t find a job soon,” I said, shaking my head. “But on the bright side, I’ll have more time to work on my love life.”
My friend raised her cocktail. “Cheers to that.”
After three bitter martinis, hummus, and a shared quesadilla, I arrived at my apartment complex feeling a little buzzed and overly thankful I didn’t have to drive home from the bar. The early spring air had a chill in it, and I zipped my black bomber jacket a little tighter as I made my way to the front door, which opened to a small vestibule, and the first-floor apartments.
But I stopped before I opened the front door.
James’s truck was parked in front of the building, on the street. Curious, I walked to it. What could the vehicle tell me about this guy in my building? It was a Ford F-150, maybe a 2015 or 2016 model, a small rust patch was noticeable on the back wheel, and a large blue tarp covered the bed.
In other words, it didn’t say much. Darn.
The front door opened, and when I looked up, my stomach dropped to my knees. James walked down the front steps, followed by an attractive woman with curly dark hair, looking warm in her thick sweater coat. A much better choice than my thin jacket that night.
“Margot, is that you?” The right side of his mouth twisted into a smile. He stopped about three feet from me. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“Oh, hey, James.” I gulped down the lump in my throat.
“What are you doing by my truck?” he asked.
“Oh, um … nothing. I just … I …” I needed to sound casual, impromptu. He didn’t need to think that I’d been snooping around his truck on purpose. “I was at Thompson’s having a drink and—”
“Thompson’s?” the woman asked. “We’re headed there now.”
“Well, the martinis are great. Best I have ever had. Enjoy your evening.”
I took a few steps toward the apartment entrance, so they wouldn’t think I was lingering, especially if this woman was his girlfriend, which she very well might have been. Her age would be right, and so would her overall “artistic” look, which fit with James. He, of course, looked incredible, with his ripped dark jeans and leather jacket. He’d pulled his hair back into a low ponytail, and he looked even hotter now than he had that day in the rain. Some men just had the look, rain or shine.
James locked his truck with his key fob. “How’s your car?”
“Oh, it’s fine. Just like you said, nothing more than the battery. Set me back a few hundred buc
ks.” I shrugged, hoping to jettison the sting of that unexpected bill.
“I’m glad you got it fixed, though.” James turned to his companion and the smile he gave her nearly took my breath away. Lucky lady. “Shall we?”
“We shall,” she said, because really, who wouldn’t want to head out on a date with No-Longer Mystery Man James?
“See you later,” he said, and gave me a wave. They headed to the very place I’d just been, no doubt in a much better mood than I was. I didn’t really have any reason to feel that way, but as I walked to my apartment, I felt a little … defeated.
Why were the good ones always taken?
Well, duh, Margot. Because they’re nice …
Having chosen a profession focused on time and timing, I found it hard to adjust to having wide swaths of time with nowhere to be. I got into a routine that looked something like this: get up, browse online job listings for an hour, apply for the ones that appealed to me, watch morning TV for a while, and head to the gym around 11:30. I usually stayed there for at least two hours and then went home for another go at job applications.
I hoped this wouldn’t last long. The economy was good, my news connections were strong, and there were plenty of jobs available in media. Cincinnati had three other news stations in town, so it would only be a matter of time before a producer or social media position opened at one of those stations. I needed to see this as “funemployment” not unemployment.
But I still felt embarrassed and like a failure. And I didn’t enjoy the precarious, sinking feeling I had to fight off so often during the afternoons, when the boredom slowly mixed with anxiety.
Which is why I made sure to sound chipper when my mother called me that afternoon.
“Hello, honey,” she said when I answered the phone on the third ring. To take the call, I’d jumped off the treadmill at the gym and rushed into a dark corner of the sterile women’s locker room. “I know you are busy at work, and you don’t have time to talk—”
“No, it’s okay I have a moment. I’m in between things right now. Slow news day.”
“What’s the big story?”
I gritted my teeth. So far, so bad. I wasn’t prepared to tell my mother about my new employment status, so that meant playing along like everything was normal.
“Oh, we … um … we haven’t decided yet what the lead story is,” I said. “We’re rotating a few things through the headlines on the website, but honestly, it’s kind of nice that we don’t have a lot of breaking news today.”
I sank onto the bench and willed my heaving breaths to slow down. I didn’t like making stuff up, but my mother wouldn’t understand the concept of being fired for a “micro-aggression” or whatever SunCom National Media had decided to call it. That would be a foreign language to her, a woman who hadn’t worked since the eighties and spent most of her time planning luncheons with her group of friends in my hometown of Tarrytown, New York.
“We’ll figure something out later when the reporters get back to the station,” I added.
“Whatever you do, make sure you do a good job, honey.” I heard the pride in her voice. “Just a few more years, and I’ll get to say that my daughter is the producer of Wake-Up America or Now in the News. I can’t wait for that to happen.”
A nervous laugh escaped my lips. Achieving one of those positions was just as much her dream as it had once been mine. No, she’d never understand my dismissal. Better to keep up the ruse.
“So, what’s up?” I tried. “Do you need something?”
“Just wanted to let you know that Aunt Becky put your dress in the mail yesterday, so you should get it by Monday. She said it was two-day delivery. Don’t forget, Julie wants you to try it on to make sure that there are no further alterations needed.”
My shoulders slumped. Amidst the unexpected chaos in my daily life, I had totally forgotten about my cousin Julie’s wedding, which would take place in three weeks at the Colony Hotel in Palm Beach, Florida, right at the very end of that city’s social season. I was in Julie’s wedding party, scheduled to give one of the Bible readings in the middle of the service.
And how I dreaded it.
Nothing like the wedding of a frenemy first cousin to remind a person of just how pathetic the reality of their life had become.
“I’m sure it will be perfect,” I said. “I know Julie has great taste.”
Mom sighed. “She’s obsessing over every little detail; it’s really intense. She’s invited everyone who has ever been associated with our family. All the people we know in Tarrytown and everyone she works with in New York. Three hundred invitees.” She paused. “Of course, I doubt that many people will make it to Palm Beach for the ceremony. And honestly, the closer it gets, the more I’m glad your father and I don’t have huge roles in this entire thing.”
“Because you and Aunt Becky haven’t always exactly gotten along.”
“That’s not my fault,” Mom scoffed. “She’s the one who always has to one-up me and show off the things she has, bragging about their house in Greenwich, their trips to the South of France, the money they made in the stock market. It’s all so vulgar. People shouldn’t brag about wealth the way they do.”
“Noted.”
She cleared her throat. “All we have to do is get though that weekend.”
“Yep.” I rubbed my forehead. Aunt Becky and my mother couldn’t have been more different. For one thing, Mom liked her snobbery sprinkled with subtlety.
“Which leads me to my next question. Are you still coming to the wedding alone? Without a date? You can bring a plus-one, you know.”
The knot that had grown in my stomach over the last few days hardened into a tight ball.
“Julie needs to know this week if you’re bringing anyone,” Mom added. “The seating arrangements are almost finalized.”
I hesitated to answer. It was the end of a shitty, horrible week, and that right there, that question, was the literal capstone to the whole thing.
Not only had I lost my job, but I was a failure when it came to my love life too. My last date came via a hookup on the app Matchr and went so badly that I left in the middle of the appetizer.
Even worse, Nick, the one guy I’d once given my heart to—and my virginity—would be at this wedding. We might have broken up right after college, but he’d maintained a friendship with Julie and still ran in her social circle. I dreaded the idea of him seeing me in my current state: unemployed, single, and on the downward slope to twenty-five with no real idea about the woman I wanted to be in life.
“Actually, funny you should ask that,” I said to my mother as I braced my back against the row of lockers behind the bench, “I’m dating someone, and he’s probably going to attend the wedding with me. I just need to confirm with him.”
The lie simply slid out of my mouth, but when I heard myself say the words, I didn’t regret them. For a moment, I just wanted one aspect of my life to feel like a success. And that did—even if it was untrue.
I’d figure out the rest later.
“Oh, that’s great, honey. I’m so happy to hear that.” Mom’s voice burst through the phone. “Have you been keeping this a secret from me?”
“Sort of. I didn’t want to bring it up until I knew it was serious.”
My breathing might have slowed down, but my cheeks felt flushed, and I heard my heartbeat pounding in my ears. I was such a bad liar. But at least I was lying over the phone, and not in person. And, at least it was a lie about my love life, not my floundering career. That made it easier.
“What’s he like?”
“He’s great. He’s—it’s new, and we just became official last week, so I honestly don’t want to jinx it.” I closed my eyes and willed my heartbeat to slow down. God, I had a way of getting myself in deep. I let out a long breath. “But he’ll be there.”
“And what does he do? Is he in finance or a doctor? An attorney?”
In my parents’ world, those were the three most acceptable professions
. Others included managing real estate, handling family foundations, and creating tech companies that made millions in the first five years.
“He’s … um … Well, he’s a successful business owner. He’s one of the best in the city.” I paused, then decided to rush onward so she couldn’t ask too many probing questions. “Listen, I’m sorry but I have to go.” I tsked. “I need to get back to work.”
“But what about—?”
“We have breaking news, Mom. I have to go.”
More like “already broken” news.
“Of course, I won’t keep you,” Mom replied. “Just make sure you keep an eye out for the dress, and if it doesn’t arrive by Monday, let me know. I have a tracking number.”
“I will.”
We said our goodbyes, and I put my head in my hands.
I was such a jerk; I was keeping things from my family. But even though it was wrong, I had to do it. Mom and Dad expected me to be a success. They reveled in it.
Mom loved to brag to her friends about how studious and focused I was, and how I had big dreams. They only had me, after all—my mom couldn’t have more children because she had a bad case of endometriosis. Their dream of having three kids died the day I was born. Which meant I had to be more successful than the average twenty-something. Letting them down would be a burden I couldn’t bear.
So, I’d figure something out to make up for the ways I kept bending the truth.
I had to, because my parents deserved it. I deserved it. Didn’t I?
I could have met Heather and a few other Junior Leaguers for dinner downtown at Mezza, a buzzy basement restaurant that specialized in Italian cuisine, but my newfound employment status meant I turned down her invitation.
Instead, I accepted a gig from PoshPooches, a dog-walking app that paid twenty-five dollars an hour. A woman nearby didn’t have time to take care of her terrier that night, and I was happy to step in for her. Every extra twenty-five dollars I earned bought me time to keep looking for my ideal job—and figure out the rest of my life in the process.
