A Special Place for Women, Laura Hankin [brene brown rising strong .txt] 📗

“Okay, Mr. Vanity Fair.”

“Really—”

“‘Much like Picasso,’” I began to quote, “‘Mr. Morales proves that he can both respect the sanctity of classic forms and then rearrange them into thrillingly uncharted territory—’”

“Maybe I’m a little bit of a big deal,” he said, blushing.

“I know this sounds like something out of a Hallmark movie, and that it might cramp your style right as you’ve got all these women throwing themselves at you. You can tell them that we’re nonmonogamous, like all the trendiest people. I promise that it won’t be for long. A few weeks maybe, a month at most. And after this, I will set you up with all of my hottest friends—”

“Your hottest friends are already married and having babies,” Raf said. (Fair point. I’d never had a huge group of female friends, and somehow the ones I did have had proceeded with the typical life milestones at a steady clip, as if they were normal or something. They’d fallen off the face of the Earth, dealing with newborns when I’d needed them most, and I had trouble forgiving them for that.)

“I’ll make some new hot friends and tell them that you’re the greatest guy in the world.”

“I’m gonna screw this up for you somehow. I can’t do it.”

“Sure you can.” I winked at him. “Just imagine the plate of lasagna.”

He put his hands over his face and groaned. Back in middle school, the drama teacher had put on an evening of Shakespeare scenes. I was cast as Juliet, because I was loud. Raf was cast as Romeo, because he was tall. We’d spent a week rehearsing the balcony scene, where Raf stared at the floor when he was supposed to be confessing his love.

“Speak up! Use your diaphragm,” our drama teacher, Mrs. Fritz, had shouted at him over and over. “Look her in the eyes, she’s not Medusa!”

Finally, Mrs. Fritz tried a different tactic. “Rafael. Honey,” she’d said, sighing. “What’s your favorite food?”

“Um,” Raf said. “Lasagna?”

“Great. I need you to look at Jillian like she’s a big, steaming plate of lasagna.” Nothing helps an eighth-grade girl’s confidence like knowing that a boy has to imagine she’s food in order to feign attraction to her. I’d squirmed and blushed as Raf looked up and finally met my eyes. “Got it? Now try it again.”

Raf had ended up performing remarkably well. I should’ve known then that he was destined to be a chef, if he could get that passionate about food. Neither one of us went on to become theater stars. But there was something nice in the idea that if I were going to be playing a role in this whole shebang, he’d be in it with me, playing one too.

Raf grimaced. Then he flopped back down onto the couch. “Dammit, Jillian,” he said. “This is going to be so weird.”

“Raf!” I shouted, throwing my arms around him. “Thank you. Thank you!”

“You promise that it won’t be for long,” he said.

“Not a minute longer than necessary,” I said. “Now, here, take that donut.”

FIVE

So two nights later, at ten p.m., Raf and I met up a block away from the party. He crossed the street toward me, a little red-faced from the heat of the kitchen. But he had made an effort, combing his hair, no baseball cap in sight. “Oh,” he said when he saw me. “You look different.”

“Good different or bad different?”

“Good, I guess? Nice. Just not you.”

“Perfect,” I said, my heart thumping, trying to fight off an encroaching light-headedness.

I’d expended so much energy trying on outfits for Margot’s party that I’d had to take a nap afterward. All the current trends seemed to have been designed exclusively for—surprise!—women with zero percent body fat, whose frail frames managed to look even frailer in their wide-legged pants, whose stomachs were perfectly flat underneath their crop tops. But finally, I’d found a peasant-chic dress at a thrift store. Among at least some groups of rich people, it was cool to look like you’d found your clothes on the street, thank God. (Or thank Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen.) Most important, the dress was cheap. My old bosses at the bar had agreed to take me back, but still, I needed to scrimp as much as possible. I didn’t know how I was going to pay the Nevertheless dues if they were as high as they’d been rumored to be. One thing at a time.

I’d practiced my spiel over and over, staring into the mirror and contorting my face into different expressions. Friendly! I was so friendly! But not desperate! I’d made all my social media private and deleted my LinkedIn. I’d lain awake in my childhood bedroom for hours each night, thinking of all the ways things could go wrong.

I hugged my jacket closer and flashed Raf my best Julia Roberts, the biggest megawatt grin I could muster. “How’s my smile? Effortlessly confident and appealing?”

“A little much. Like a shark?”

“Noted. I’ll tone it down.”

We reviewed our cover stories one more time as we scanned the street numbers and my anxiety gathered steam. Finally, halfway down the block, we found the door, painted black, with only one label on the buzzer: in the stars. It wasn’t a restaurant or Margot’s apartment. It was the office for her astrology app.

“We grew up together,” I said. “And were always good friends.”

“Yeah, and then one day we stopped and looked at each other.” Raf stopped and looked at me. “And we just . . . knew.”

“Exactly. Here, hold my hand,” I said as I pressed the buzzer. “So we look like a Couple in Love.”

“Ugh,” he said as he took it. “Your palm is really sweaty.”

“Can’t imagine why.”

A low chiming noise emanated from a speaker. I turned the door handle.

“Couple in Love,” I said. Together, we walked into the party.

SIX

The walls of the In the Stars office were salmon pink, but the