by Andrea Bartz
“Ted’s coming up—did you ever meet him? When you visited us at Harvard?”
“I don’t think so. His name’s familiar though.”
“We’ve been friends since we were born. He’s our handyman. And good with IT stuff too.”
I let out a bark of laughter. “I thought the best man for the job is a woman!”
Her shoulders tensed, and instantly I regretted it.
“There are amazing women in every field of IT, obviously, but I haven’t had the energy to seek out and hire one when Ted is so great. Low-hanging fruit, you know?”
“Low-hanging fruit, huh?” We’d both missed the sough of the elevator doors sweeping open, and now a man stood just outside them, tall and lanky with a baseball cap set at a jaunty angle. He smiled through a thick brown beard. “Tell me how you really feel, Eleanor.”
“Just bragging about my one and only secret male employee!” She trotted over and he pulled her into a big bear hug. So big, in fact, I’d be waggling my eyebrows were she not a married woman.
“She’s referring to my manual labor services, by the way. I’m not an escort.”
“Hey, manual labor’s just a connotation away from hand job,” I blurted out, then blushed hot pink. Shut. The fuck. Up, Katie Bradley.
Eleanor’s brow levitated from puzzled to surprised while Ted burst out laughing—a big, booming guffaw.
“Can I hug you too?” He crossed the room and wrapped his arms around me. It felt like hugging an old friend. He smelled like fabric softener and cedar.
“Ted, Katie; Katie, Ted,” Eleanor called. “She’s writing a book about a weird backwoods tech company, and you do weird backwoods tech stuff, so you’ll get along just fine.”
She reiterated the router issue and cheerfully he set about fixing it, murmuring things about firmware and caching and packet overload, which also sounded at least a little dirty. In a dramatic climax, we all gathered around my laptop as I toggled Wi-Fi off and on (please don’t let anything embarrassing be visible on my screen), and then we cheered when CNN.com appeared in my browser.
“Should we get a drink to celebrate?” I asked. Ted said he couldn’t, though he really wished he could, holding my gaze as he answered.
Eleanor checked the time. “I could do a quick drink,” she announced. “Daniel and I have dinner reservations at seven-thirty, but just around the corner. Actually, there’s a bar in the front—let’s go there.”
In the dim bar, Eleanor expertly commandeered two stools. The hook placement under the bar meant I had to straddle my laptop bag, and the chair’s dimensions were a poor fit, the lower dowel too high for my heels. I flopped around as Eleanor sat like a damn queen, smiling from her throne until the bartender approached. She ordered Prosecco and I followed suit, and they arrived in pretty coupe glasses.
“To your triumphant return to New York!” she called. She held my eyes as we clinked glasses, which is of course how you’re supposed to toast, but while meeting her gaze I sloshed bubbly onto her knee.
“It’s fine, it’s fine.” She giggled, snatching napkins from a stack.
“Well, now I’m definitely not getting into the Herd,” I joked.
She looked up from her lap and made sort of an empathy pout. “I’m sorry! I hate that you’re still coming in as a guest. I’ve been so bad about processing paperwork this week—I’ve got that event on Tuesday. You’re coming, right?”
“Of course! We’re all dying to hear the news. No hints?”
She cocked a pretty eyebrow. “I’m sworn to secrecy.”
“Verbal nondisclosure agreement? Press embargo? I’m good at keeping secrets, you know.”
She laughed. “I would if I could. But it’s good news for everyone.” She pushed her hair over her shoulder and changed the subject: “Hey, I’m glad we finally got some one-on-one time. How’s your mom doing? If you want to talk about it, that is.”
Normally I didn’t, but the fact that Eleanor cared, her earnest eyes—they bubbled in my chest like the Prosecco. “Yeah, she’s doing well, so it’s much easier to talk about now.”
“I’m glad. Hana didn’t say much, but I could tell she was really torn up about it.”
“Really?”
“Of course.”
“She hasn’t talked to me about it. You know she doesn’t get along with our mom. They’re like oil and water.”
When had I first noticed it? Second or third grade, maybe, right around the time you realize your parents aren’t actually superheroes. The way Hana and Mom would both stiffen when they were in a room together; their shoulders would rise as if attached to balloons, and they’d grow snippy, avoiding eye contact. They didn’t fight, certainly didn’t scream—anger was not allowed in our house—but young as I was, I picked up on the charged air. It confused me, in fact: Mom was nice and fun with me, as was Hana, and yet together they morphed into sparking live wires.
“Anyway, how are your folks?” I asked. I’d met them once or twice while Eleanor was in college, and they were the kind of parents everyone adores—gregarious, kind, welcoming, funny. One of many reasons I was sad I couldn’t attend her wedding: I’d missed my chance to see them.
“Oh, Gary and Karen are as ridiculous as ever. My dad retired in September, so they’re getting used to both being at home. They’re talking about buying a trailer and driving around to a bunch of national parks. I told ’em I can’t see it.”
“Gary and Karen in a trailer?” They were both silver-haired and well kempt—WASPy, but Catholic. “They need to bring a documentary crew.”
“Right?” She giggled. “But don’t worry, it’s a luxury trailer. They bought a pickup truck so they can pull it. No, I’m serious.” She shook her head, grinning. “They were like, ‘We thought we’d be okay with this smaller model, but then we went to a car show and realized we’d need the four-hundred-square-foot one to be comfortable.’ It’s bigger than my first apartment. Remember, on Ludlow?”
“With the stray cat on the fire escape and the heaters that sounded like a drum solo? Do I ever.”
We’d had so many good times in that apartment—our mouths bruised with boxed red wine, Mikki and Eleanor confidently advising me on how to ask out the cute guy in my stats class. There was the night a bird had flown through the open window, leading to much shrieking and flapping of towels, and another when Mikki, insistent that Trader Joe’s two-buck chuck wasn’t as awful as Eleanor believed, had set up a blind taste test, complete with classical music and a classy array of cheeses. (Eleanor had sniffed out the cheap stuff instantly.)
“We were so dumb,” she remarked. “Who was that friend of yours you were in love with? And we’d spend all night texting with him, pretending it was just you?”
“That’s right—Devin! I saw he’s engaged now. He moved back to Chicago.” I watched the strings of bubbles in my glass shimmer like tiny pearl necklaces.
“You were so much cooler than him.” She took another delicate sip. “Have you started dating now that you’re back? You on all the apps?”
I froze and thought back to just a couple months ago—the giddy state when my brain wasn’t my own, when every sight or sound or conversation funneled my thoughts back to Chris. Chris would find this hilarious. Chris has a crazy story about four-wheelers. The glorious addiction, the pink flashes of desire. And now, the pain in my chest like a sickness.
Chris will never, ever speak to you again. Chris is the reason you know how ambulance lights look carved up through winding country roads.
“I don’t really have time to date right now,” I said, like every single single person in history.
“I totally get that. And you have way more interesting stuff going on than worrying about stupid boys.”
“For sure.” Like my secret book proposal. There was something I’d been meaning to find out and I finally gave up on nailing a natural segue: “Hey, can I ask you something?”
“What’s up?”
“I’m not sure how to phrase this.�
� I rested the glass on my knee. “So in Michigan, I wrote a couple op-eds based on what I was seeing at rallies and stuff. And, like … as a female tech reporter, I’m used to sexist bullshit. But the level of vitriol … the effort people would put into finding ways to contact me, to tell me what an ugly bitch I am—it stunned me. Obviously I was just blocking people like crazy, but it was hard—there’s still emotional labor in seeing that hateful shit, you know?”
Eleanor was nodding while hitting me with her most earnest, empathetic face. I paused and she set her hand on mine.
“I’m just wondering how you deal with that. I got a tiny slice of it for, like, twenty-four hours the two times I wrote editorials. But you must deal with it nonstop, right?”
She nodded, looked away. “It’s hard because there’s no model out there for what to do. It’s this incredibly psychologically damaging thing, and yet we’re not supposed to talk about it because that might lead to more trolling, so most people have no idea.”
“It’s like when guys are so bewildered when you tell them you feel afraid walking alone at night.”
“Exactly.” She sighed. “It’s hard. You do get a thicker skin over time, and I know some other female CEOs who can commiserate—we have a WhatsApp group. But mostly you just do your best to ignore it. Sometimes I fantasize about throwing a spotlight on it, though. Posting all the awful stuff I get. Or even having this big event where we try to show men what it’s like, the lived experience—” Her phone jolted on the bar and she glanced at it.
“Sorry. Daniel’s on his way.”
“Yes! I’m excited to see him.” I tried to steer the bus back around. “An event to show men what it’s really like—that’s a wild idea.”
“I know. Except I think it’d end in bloodshed.” She smirked. “If guys had to deal with the shit we put up with every day—”
“Excuse me, I’m sorry to bother you.” Two women stood before us shyly, both with blond highlights as evenly spaced as rows of wheat. The taller one giggled self-consciously. “Are you … you aren’t Eleanor Walsh, are you?”
Eleanor smiled magnificently, magnanimously, all her Teleanor charm aimed like a tractor beam at these strangers. “I am! It’s nice to meet you!”
“Jocelyn. And this is Nicole.” They shook Eleanor’s hand gleefully. “We’re visiting from Missouri, and we were having an argument over there about whether or not it was actually you! We’re both big fans of Gleam.”
“How sweet of you to say hi! And this is Katie Bradley, she’s an incredibly talented journalist and soon-to-be author.” I kept a grin plastered on my face, ready for this diversion to end so we could return to real life. Did this happen often?
“This is our first time in New York,” Jocelyn went on. “We’ve been on the lookout for celebrities.”
“I saw you on the Today show,” the other said. Nicole. “Talking about your women’s club? You were great.”
“Thank you so much! Hey, if you’re still in town this weekend, you should definitely stop by the Herd and see what it’s all about. Here’s my card—just give the front desk a call and let them know I sent you.”
They squealed and squawked and asked me to take a photo of them, Eleanor, as always, looking luminous and superhuman among the mortals. They thanked her and scurried off, eyes shining.
“That was so nice of you!” I said, my voice somewhere between impressed and alarmed.
She drained her Prosecco. “There are rumbles that the Herd is too elitist—snob vibes. These damn thinkpieces keep coming out about how we’re a ‘flash point for debates over feminism and power.’ ” She gave it air quotes, rolled her eyes. “I want it to be approachable. They seemed harmless, and now they’ll go back and tell everyone in the South how great it is.”
“The Midwest.”
“Right.” She frowned, then shrugged. “But it’s a fine line. Obviously I don’t want strangers coming in and sneaking photos of our high-profile clients. Hey speaking of, I wanted to ask you—”
A man swooped in from behind me and bent close, got in her face. I jumped but then she smiled and kissed him back: Daniel. I felt an unexpected clap of jealousy toward him, that he had Eleanor’s attention, her love. He was a hospital administrator—I wasn’t sure what that entailed because my brain checked out, spread out a beach towel and sipped a piña colada every time he tried to tell me—and they’d met at a party the year before I’d moved to Kalamazoo. He was handsome enough, and friendly, though nowhere near Eleanor’s stratosphere, from what I could tell. When she’d texted to tell me she was engaged, it’d felt like fake news, a dispatch from another reality: I was hunting for paper towels to clean vomit from the bathroom floor, where Mom hadn’t made it in time. Eleanor had invited me to the engagement party, but I didn’t want to leave Mom alone (Hana accused me of being a martyr), and then I’d been in the thick of book reporting during the actual wedding a few months later. (Leave it to Eleanor to throw together a beautiful wedding in six months flat—one documented in People, naturally.)
He turned to me and smiled. Cuter than I remembered—better dressed, like maybe Eleanor’s taste had rubbed off on him. He was tall with sharp cheekbones and a thick swoop of black hair.
“Daniel, you remember—” Eleanor began, but Daniel had already stuck out his hand to introduce himself. “You know Katie!” she scolded, and he lost at least half my goodwill on the spot.
“I’m Hana’s little sister, we met right when you two started dating, no, no, it’s fine!” I kept a big smile on my face as he blushed and shifted the handshake into a sterile hug.
“I’m sorry, Eleanor told me Hana’s sister was moving back, but I didn’t—you guys don’t look alike at all!” Eleanor grabbed his bicep; she looked mortified.
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, t
hen 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.”
