watch. “I’d love to continue our frequent girls nights out here. Could you please ask the new owners if they could stop by our table so we could introduce ourselves?” She pulled out her Gucci wallet, leafed through a few hundred-dollar bills, and pulled out her business card from one of the slots next to her visible AmEx Centurion card.
Jane was one of those friends I hated at first and thought I’d never like. She exuded beauty, success, and good fortune. She had a world-renowned doctor boyfriend. Her job paid more than double my salary. But over the last few years, she’d proven to be a reliable friend, even though my pendulum of feelings toward Jane usually swung between modest like and extreme dislike. I hadn’t seen her in a while despite the fact that she had moved into my apartment building last year, so my current like-to-hate ratio for her was about 80:20, which was an all-time high.
The hostess swept her hand toward us. “Oh, you know, that won’t be necessary. I’m sure we can squeeze in your happy hour drink order. I’ll send over your server and let the owners know you stopped by this evening.” After she took off, I realized that she never even got our names.
A new-on-the-job waitstaff took our happy hour orders: Candace had a Moscow mule, I asked for a half carafe of red house wine (an indeterminate pinot-merlot-cabernet-zin blend). Jane requested a hibiscus dry martini.
When the drinks came, we toasted and took our inaugural sips.
Actually, Candace and Jane sipped. I glugged.
Jane eyed Candace’s copper mug. “You’ve been drinking Moscow mules since I’ve known you,” Jane scoffed. “Do you drink that with your PR clients, too?”
Candace smiled into her brass mug. “I like my mules. Not all of us want to drink overpriced thrice-distilled paint thinner.” She took a sip. “Although this tastes bitter and too sweet. Ew.”
“You want some of this?” I lifted my small carafe and tilted the rim toward her.
“Nah, it’s okay, I’ll tough it out. So how’s the new job?”
Ugh. Job.
I shrugged. “Eh. It’s worse than the last one. But the pay is better, though I work longer hours so maybe it’s a wash.”
“If you hate the job, why don’t you just quit?” Jane asked, pulling out the hibiscus flower from her drink and placing it on her cocktail napkin.
Candace nodded. “I’m with Jane on this one. You shouldn’t stay there if you hate it so much. And you’re probably doing what you always do . . . you take on everything by yourself, keep piling on responsibilities, and then burn out in the process.”
Jane took a slow sip. “You could use some beauty sleep, too.” Thanks, Jane.
I sighed out of my nose. “Look, I have to do a lot of things myself, or it won’t get done. I’m in a new industry now and want people at work to respect me. The only way that’ll happen is if I don’t look weak.” It did beg the question, though, why I gravitated toward careers where I was always sprinting against an escalator always set on “down.”
Just as I thought this let’s grill Melody conversation couldn’t get any worse, Jane asked, “So are you actually dating anyone?”
Midswig, I coughed, and red wine burned the inside of my nose. “Nope.”
Not reading into my one-word, curt reply, she continued with her line of questioning. “No one? Isn’t there that cute guy on the first floor who just moved into our building? Or maybe someone your mom can set you up with? Or anyone at work maybe?”
I shook my head. First-floor guy was gay. Mom’s blind date setups—ugh. And the guys at work? Big nope. Asher was flat-out gross, and Mr. Nepotism Nolan—oh hell no. No elitist jerks. I’d only run into him that one time in the kitchen, and trust me, that encounter was plenty. “My parents are still traveling, probably scouring the planet for a suitable husband for me. And definitely no one at Seventeen Studios fits the bill.”
Jane and Candace exchanged glances.
“Well, maybe before you get too overcommitted at work, you should find time to, uh, get out there more,” Candace said in a concerned tone.
“And not be so picky,” Jane added, her judgy eyebrows peeking over the rim of her wide-rimmed martini glass.
“Hey, I’m not picky!” I practically yelled. “First of all, guys never ask me out. Ever. Never happens at the gym. Or at a bookstore. Or at parties”—I counted to three on my fingers. “So it’s not