but every one I looked into was owned by men with a majority-male C-suite. One night, I was lying in bed when I thought, “Wait…what if…”
That’s right, Gleam Team: I am SO excited to announce that we’re starting the world’s first coworking space and community exclusively for people who identify as female. We’re calling it THE HERD, both because that’s what you are—my team, my flock, my people—and because it’s all about HER. We’re crossing our T’s and dotting our I’s on an amazing location in NYC now. I’ll share more news soon, but I wanted you lovelies to be the very first to know.
XX,
Eleanor
CHAPTER 9
Hana
TUESDAY, DECEMBER 17, 8:48 P.M.
Someone was coming up the hallway as I walked down it, a twentysomething woman pulling a dachshund on a leash, and they both regarded me curiously as I passed. I imagined my dripping nose, my bloodshot eyes, the black tracks ribboning my cheeks. I’d cried the whole car ride home from Eleanor’s place, and when I finally made it to my apartment, I took just a few steps in before sliding out of my heels and lowering myself to the ground. Leaning against the kitchen island, I breathed deeply, pulling myself together like someone sweeping crumbs into a pile.
Frame by frame, I went over it in my head: When had Joanna stolen the press release? She’d been furious when I’d told her the interview wouldn’t happen; she kept repeating, We killed a story for you, as if last week the Gaze team had brought the graffiti photos out back and executed them with a firing squad. Ugh. I had promised her the exclusive, and in my harried state I’d assumed she’d accept my apology and await further updates.
What a mess. Aurelia had counted and confirmed only one press release was missing, and Joanna had broken the news first; a few reporters who’d been at Hielo had tried to confirm the embargo was lifted, but of course, once other outlets started running the story, there was a mad dash for clicks, shares, eyeballs.
Cosmo emerged from the dark hallway, his tail flicking. Of course, my brain was hurtling after Joanna Chen because it couldn’t face tonight’s much larger Terrible Thing. Eleanor was not one to sabotage her own event. Her own company. I could tell myself she had, for some bewildering reason, bounced without warning or explanation, but I knew it was bullshit.
First things first: I fished my phone out of my pocket, ignoring all the new-message alerts, and performed the same series of searches I did every few months—Google, then a handful of apps, the series of memorized usernames, tapping on tagged locations to be sure. Nowhere near NYC. I set my phone down and exhaled.
My gaze fell on my bag, crumpled on the floor just inside the door. I blinked at it and got the eerie sensation that the object inside was staring back at me. Waiting quietly, like a grenade with the pin yanked out.
I crawled over to it and sat, pulling the satchel onto my lap. It had all happened so quickly. The doorbell had chimed, and everyone had tumbled downstairs after it. Alone in the room, I’d let instincts take over—lunging over to Eleanor’s bed, to the side I assumed was hers thanks to the presence of La Mer hand cream and a worn bell hooks book. I slipped my hand under the white duvet, feeling dirty, feeling an instant urge to apologize to the bed for reaching inside. I forced my hand into the crease between the box spring and the mattress and felt it: a crisp corner, stiffness where only softness belonged. My whole arm had buzzed as I ripped the object out and flung it into my bag just as my phone began to ring, and I’d answered while pummeling down the stairs, grateful for the excuse for my tardiness.
Now, heart pounding, I turned the envelope over in my hands: nothing on the outside, the edges a little worn from use. I slid a finger under the flap and then paused.
Eleanor and I had been talking about chores, the household chores we hate. How long ago had that been? Two months, maybe three? It’d been a conversation like any other, banal thoughts rolling around like marbles on a tray when we crossed paths at the Herd’s café. I’d mentioned I was debating hiring a cleaning lady, and she’d told me about her own hire but used the much more gender-neutral term “housekeeper,”