Her red hair is so big, it’s got to be full of something—I’m guessing money—and her signature blood-red lips pop against her ivory skin. She’s got a look all her own, and each detail is centered around making her light blue eyes look misty gray.
I know this ridiculous information because she told me one night when we were a bottle deep in wine.
“Greeeeer!” she yells, obnoxiously enough that everyone in the vicinity turns to look.
My cheeks burn and sting as I make my way toward her reluctantly, avoiding any and all eye contact from the curious gazes she’s garnered due to her big fat mouth.
I am a people person who kind of hates people. A conundrum in any country, on any day, in any language, but all the more complicated when you do what I do for a living.
But the work is what I love. The art, the creativity—the chance to do something different with each and every design.
It’s what gives me life.
“Hello, hello,” I greet as I pull my bag to a stop next to her five, and I smooth a hand down my wrinkled blouse and slacks. “Have you been here long?”
Automatically, her eyes engage, sliding into their default setting whenever I am around—an intensely obvious roll. And I can’t even really blame her.
Her palate is refined, her heart is endlessly open, her workweek consists of occasionally going into the office to do god only knows what at one of her family’s successful marketing firms, and her idea of discount shopping is a sale at Bergdorf’s. I eat ramen at least two times a week, avoid men at nearly all costs, spend eighty hours a week in my office, and splurge at Target. But when it comes to personality, I am, without a doubt, the high-maintenance one of the two of us.
“You know I have. You’re twenty minutes late.”
“Well,” I respond. “I think we should both just be happy I didn’t drown.”
She scrunches up her nose. “What?”
“It’s a long story,” I say. “And I’m twenty minutes late from the time you told me. Which is exactly what I always am. You know this, you’ve known this for years, and you should totally be able to factor that into your arrival time. So, really, it’s like you’re early.”
She guffaws, and I transition my smirk into a smile. “You only have yourself to blame.”
“Sometimes I really hate you.”
I wave off the comment as if it is no more than a buzzing fly. “Yes, but that’s nothing new either. And yet, you keep coming back for more.”
Emory and I have been friends for what seems like forever—we’re talking since tutus and closet costumes and an innocence the world had yet to crush. With only the all-male influence of my grandfather and my brother to guide me after my parents died, I clung to Emory like a female beacon of hope.
“Must be brainwashed.”
“Hmm…” I pause for a moment and grin at her. “Pretty sure if I were going to brainwash you, I’d definitely use it for something other than this. Like convincing you to give me all of your money.”
She rolls her “misty gray” eyes. “Why is it I wanted you to fly with me again?”
“My wit and charm, mostly.”
“No. It’s definitely not that.”
I pretend to purse my lips thoughtfully. “My delicately angelic good looks?”
“No.”
“My—”
“Oh, right. I have no other friends. That’s why.”
“I wonder why that is. Maybe you need to reevaluate how demanding you are,” I say sarcastically. Sarcastic or not, Emory’s glare is hotter than a thousand suns. “I’m joking, E. Geez. You’re a gem. The purest form of—”
“Shut up, Greer.”
“Fine,” I say with a laugh. “Go on, lecture me. I know that’s what you’ve been waiting on.”
“I’m not going to lecture you.”
I scoff. “Sure, you’re not.”
“Well, if you don’t want me to lecture you, you could at least show up in clothes that don’t look like you slept in them. Did you even shower this morning?”
In an effort to avoid getting sucked into a steaming crater of pity and despair, I decide it’s best not to tell her just how accurate she is and focus on complaining instead.
“Why do I have to go to New York for an interview for a job in New Orleans anyway?”
“Because your potential boss is a busy guy, and that’s where he’s going to be. I used my connections to get you this thing for a reason. Turner Properties is the real deal. A Vanderturn hotel in New Orleans is a big deal, especially if you get to design it,” she says with a little smile, but that quickly vanishes when she continues her train of thought. “And have to? You act like you’re going to war. It’s New Year’s Eve in New York, for shit’s sake. You should be excited!”
“You’re right. New York does sound amazing.”