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

again. “Oh, you know. Another piece I’d been working on got bumped from the issue, Emmy and I were in the midst of a huge fight, things like that.” He was silent a moment. “It’s been a bigger adjustment to working at the Standard than I thought it would be.”

“Poor Miles,” I said. “It’s hard for you not to be the undisputed top dog?”

“Yes!” he said. I rolled my eyes as he continued, “I know, I know, I’m a dick.”

“A little bit.”

“But I’m smart! I’m good at what I do. And so far in my professional career, whenever I’ve worked hard enough at something, I’ve mastered it. Since I’ve started at the Standard, though, I . . .” His voice got lower, so low that I had to step forward to hear it. “I keep screwing it up. I’m worried that I won’t be able to stop.”

I grew careful—no sudden movements—afraid that I’d startle him off before he could finish talking. He’d never shown this kind of weakness to me before. Not that he’d pretended he was perfect in every aspect of his life—he’d shown me that he wasn’t when he sucked my face. But I’d never heard him express vulnerability about his professional competence. He always seemed so naturally good, so certain that he was right. Historically, I’d been turned on by talent. Nothing made me want to tear my clothes off like a big, throbbing brain, and Miles’s was one of the biggest, most throbbing ones I’d encountered. But now, as Miles let me glimpse his doubt, puncturing the illusion, I didn’t lose a single ounce of respect for him. I only loved him more.

“I’ve finally gotten my chance at bat, and I’ve forgotten how to swing. That’s the biggest reason I was a jerk. When you told me about the NDA, I realized I’d made one more misstep.”

“Hey, it was my misstep, not yours.”

“No. It belonged to both of us. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but—” He sighed. “Oh, screw it. After I knew you were getting invited into the club, I passed up a different story that my bosses wanted me to take on so that I could focus on yours. They didn’t understand why, so I talked you up more than I should have, created a situation where there was no wiggle room. I made an error in professional judgment and staked too much on this story, because I know you’re wonderful and wanted the bosses to see it too.”

I had no idea if anyone else was trying to get my attention to order a drink, and I didn’t care. In the dim lighting, Miles and I were the only two people in the whole place. “Are you in trouble with your higher-ups now?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t dodge the question,” I said as he ran his fingers through his hair, then rested his hand on the bar. “Tell me the truth.” I put my hand on top of his, and he looked up again, right into my eyes.

“I don’t know. But they want to schedule a performance review.”

“I mean, that’s got to be normal, right? In a new job?”

“I asked around, and I don’t think it is. Not this soon.”

“Shit. I am so sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Hey. It’s not your fault. Or, I guess it is in a way. Your fault for being so talented and making me want you to succeed.”

“We’re still going to succeed,” I said. “Maybe you’ve never experienced this before, but when the rest of us mortals start a new job, there’s always an adjustment period. You’re not getting sent back to the bench, though. You’re too fucking good for that. I’ll get you something unassailable that you can bring into that performance review.”

“You don’t need to . . .” He cut himself off, chewed on his lip. “You don’t need to make promises that you can’t keep.”

“I’m not,” I said, and smiled at him. “This mess, right now? It’s just a hiccup. You’re still going to ascend to that Media Throne. King of the Editors. David Remnick had better watch his back.” He let out a soft laugh.

“Jesus, Beckley,” he said, shaking his head. My hand was still resting on top of his, and he turned his over so that our palms were touching. “You make my life very difficult.”

“I know,” I said. He curled his fingers over mine, brushing my skin with his thumb, back and forth. We stayed like that, not speaking, just touching, breathing, until a man down at the bar started waving his arm frantically for my service.

“All right, I’ll let you do your job,” Miles said, putting some money on the bar. “But I’ll see you soon?” He paused. “I want to see you soon.”

“The Women Who Lead gala is at the end of the week. I’ll be there, along with a lot of the women from the club. Maybe you should get yourself a press pass, like last year,” I said.

He raised an eyebrow. “Maybe I will.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

Things happened quickly with the judge. My post had struck a nerve—the right words at the right time—and caused some legit reporters who had been quietly digging to kick their work into high gear. Only a few days later, on the night of Caroline’s gala, the New York Times published a more substantiated account of his conflicts of interest, citing my anonymous post in the body of the article. It seemed Craig Melton might not be long for the bench.

Margot texted me the link as I was getting ready for the gala, and I read it while brushing my hair. “Holy shit,” I said, my heart thumping.

Raf ducked his head out of my bathroom. “What?” Since the gala was only a ten-minute walk from my place, he’d come straight to my apartment from the restaurant to get ready with me, toting a garment bag with his tuxedo inside of it. He’d bought this tux—his first one—a couple