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

I rubbed the egg back up my body in the opposite direction, and around my head a few more times for good measure. Then I took it out my door, down the elevator, and, cupping it in my hand, jaywalked across Central Park West, narrowly avoiding an overeager taxi. (What a way to go that would be: Police declared it a normal hit-and-run, although they could not understand why the victim was clutching a raw egg.)

Once I made it into Central Park, I found a secluded spot, a grove of trees slightly off the beaten path. I knelt down in the grass. Then, as dusk began to fall, in one fluid motion, I smashed the egg into the earth. The shell cracked, and golden yolk spurted onto my fingers. I rubbed it off in the grass, then covered the whole mess up with dirt. I sat back on my haunches to find a tourist couple—in matching Phantom of the Opera sweatshirts—staring at me.

“I’m a performance artist,” I said to them. They blinked, then politely applauded.

After I’m done with the egg, Margot had said, I take a long bath, and when I emerge, everything seems clearer.

So I went back into my apartment, lit some candles, and soaked in the tub until the water around me cooled and my fingers pruned, thinking about everything I’d done and everything I had left to do.

When I finally got out of the bath and wrapped myself in a towel, one new bit of knowledge was crystal clear: I had just wasted a perfectly good egg.

THIRTY-EIGHT

When I arrived at the office space where Miles and I had arranged to meet, he was already there, sitting at the table, leaning back in his chair. He jumped to his feet as I walked in. “Hey, it’s good to see you,” he said. The room was muted, We Work–esque, with a small round table and a whiteboard, plus one piece of mass-produced art meant to liven things up. Within its sterility, Miles seemed extra alive.

“Good to see you too,” I said. He pulled out a chair for me. He’d shaved his beard off in the week since I’d seen him last.

“Wow,” I said. “New look. Is your face cold all the time now?”

“I’m constantly on the edge of contracting hypothermia,” he said, and laughed. Goddammit, I loved his laugh, which he didn’t give out to just anyone. Whenever he laughed with me, I felt like a chosen one, swirling and jittery and high on adrenaline.

Suddenly, Raf’s face flashed into my mind, the sadness on it when he told me that he needed space from me. I needed space from Miles, who wasn’t available and wasn’t going to be. I had to finish my article and then take some time before working with him again, if I worked with him again ever. Maybe the egg had given me some clarity after all.

“So, I want to apologize again about the gala—” he began.

“It’s fine. That’s not important right now,” I said. “These women are not well. They believe that they did things that got Nicole Woo-Martin elected.”

“Sure. Like, donating to her? Holding fund-raisers?”

“No, more than that.”

“What—”

“And I got into the back room.”

“Holy shit,” he said. “What’s inside?”

I’d been thinking and thinking on my way over about the best way to tell him. Now I opened my mouth, but something held me back. I swallowed. “Have they scheduled your performance review yet?”

He blinked. “Yes, next Thursday. As in, not tomorrow. The first week of November.”

“Okay,” I said. “Okay, good, so there’s still some time.” I put my hands on the table. “If I tell you everything right now, you’ll think that I’m lying.”

“I won’t,” he said.

“No, I promise you, it’s going to sound like I’m making up some batshit story that’s just going to get you deeper into trouble, and I don’t want that.”

“So, what does that mean?”

“Give me this weekend. They’re taking me away with them. Let me really find out everything I need to know and then figure out how you can see it for yourself. I think that’s the only way this is going to work.”

“Beckley,” he said.

“Trust me.”

“You’ve gotta give me something here—”

“I need you to trust me.”

He paused. “Okay. I do.” Another beat of silence stretched between us. “It’s not . . . dangerous, is it? You’re taking care of yourself?”

I shrugged. “Oh, you know, some things might be dubiously legal, but I’m fine.” I waved my hand through the air. He squinted at it, then reached out and clasped it in a fluid motion, bringing my palm close to his face.

“Wait, what happened?” he asked, pointing at my scar. “This is new.” I pulled my hand back, covering it with my other one, and he leaned forward. “Is this part of it?”

“It’s okay,” I said. “It’s basically a glorified scratch.”

“You don’t need to put on a front for me,” he said, wrinkling his forehead in concern. “Seriously. I want this story, but more than that, I want to make sure that you’re okay. We threw you into something that turned out to be far more intense than we expected, and if it hurts you somehow . . . I’m not all right with that.”

“I’m taking care of myself,” I said.

He bit his lip. “Okay, then.” He sat back. “And listen, I know you said it’s not important, but I think it is—will you tell your friend that I’m sorry for how I was acting at the gala? He seems like a nice guy.”

“I—” I began. “Um, you might need to tell him yourself. He doesn’t want to see me for a little while.” Miles raised an eyebrow. “We put the fake-dating thing on hold.”

“He got too invested in it, huh?” Miles asked, and I looked away. “Damn, Beckley, you’re stealthy about it, but you’re a heartbreaker, aren’t you?”

“Fuck you,” I said. “I’m not.”

“Well, then, just to you: I’m sorry I was being a dick.