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1
Rena
“To surviving.We are brave warriors in a gloriousbattle.”
“We are modern women in New Yorkmarketing.”
Kendall clinks her can of Coke Zero against mine. I take a longswig.
“You made it through your first end of quarter,” she says from across the plexi divider between our desks. “Did you get thataccount?”
“Crotchmaster?” I choke on my pop. “After the pitch, they told me it was looking positive. And the first thing we’re going to do is change thename.”
I scan our bright office. A dozen desks are arranged on the birch floor under chrome light fixtures, the furniture trendy and functional at once. The walls of the high-ceilinged space are white, except the longest one, which is painted hot pink. A conference room in one corner has a wall made of springy-looking plants that professionals tend to weekly, and our boss’s office is next tothat.
Don’t let the décor fool you. Our boss is tough. She’s the Olivia Pope of relationship PR. She knows what people need—even when they’re too embarrassed, self-absorbed, or ignorant to admit it—and how to give it tothem.
She’s also responsible for most of the awards in the glass case lining thewall.
Watch out, world. Those are going to have my name on themsomeday.
“And you’re celebrating by… stripping. This is new,” Kendall comments, folding her arms as she leans back in herchair.
I make a few wardrobe adjustments, including unbuttoning the top of my blouse and tugging out my ponytail holder. “I’m meetingsomeone.”
“Hot date?” Her eyesgleam.
I slick on another coat of my favorite red lipstick. “Never met him. He’s a friend of afriend.”
“No ponytail. You’reoptimistic.”
“Guys prefer hair down. It’s a primalthing.”
Which is strange because Neanderthal women probably didn’t have dry shampoo. Or showerever.
I take a section of straight hair that’s been most colors—this season it’s white blond—and twist it around the cordless curling iron I keep in my deskdrawer.
“Are you looking to get laid in therestaurant?”
I debate. “Saves movinglocations.”
I’m not expecting a hookup, but I figured out years ago that we’re given bodies that fit together for a reason. If we weren’t meant to have lots of sex, they wouldn’t have made it so fun. Despite what every serious dating app commercial would have you believe, hooking up doesn’t have to come with romantic walks, “Honey, how was your day?” conversations, or his-and-hers hand towels. I get my social and emotional needs met by myfriends.
Andwine.
Kendall sets down her soda to gather her pens and notebooks and tuck them into her black leatherbackpack.
“I need to pick up Rory. My new nanny flaked again. I have client meetings Thursday night, and I’m going to have toreschedule.”
I grab my phone, which I’d put on silent for the last hour so I could work, from the corner of my desk and glance at my calendar. “I can watch Rory Thursday if youwant.”
She cocks her head,considering.
“I can tell you’re trying to decide if you should let some random chick you met three months ago watch your pride and joy.” Kendall’s crazy dedicated to her son. I’m not looking to procreate soon, but she’s like a postcard for Coney Island—she makes it lookwaymore fun than itis.
“It’s not that. We’ve worked together enough that I trust you. But full disclosure, he’s learned some new songs at school that make you want to pull a Van Gogh.” She mimes sawing off herear.
“It’s not a problem. I can bring Scrunchie. He’s a big hit withkids.”
