“Authentic living isn’tabout perfection—it’s about creating spaces that tell your story.”
I deliver this line with practiced sincerity, gesturing to the slideshow behind me where impossibly attractive people lounge in $300distressedt-shirts against reclaimed wood backdrops. My voice doesn’t waver. My smile doesn’t crack. Five years in PR has taught me that conviction is just another product you can manufacture.
“Our campaign connects Evergreen Apparel to the mindful consumer who values substance over status,” I continue, watching our client nod along while my boss, Diana, taps her French-manicured nails against her tablet.Bad sign.“We’re targeting the demographic that’s hungry for?—”
“Penny.” Diana’s interruption is velvet-wrapped steel. “This feels... earnest. Could we pivot to something more aspirational? Less...” she waves her hand like she’s dispersing an unpleasant smell, “emotional?”
The fluorescent lights hum overhead, making everyone look slightly jaundiced. Even the office plants—fake, obviously—seem to be wilting under their artificial glow.
“Of course,” I say, because that’s what I do. Pivot. Adapt. Become whatever version of myself fits the moment. “I was thinking we could also explore?—”
My phone buzzes against the conference table.I’d normally ignore it, but Diana’s already pulling up her own messages, and the client is checking his watch, so I glance down.
And feel my stomach drop through the floor.
It’s an Instagram notification.My ex, Tyler.The one who told me six months ago he “couldn’t see a future with someone so unsettled.” His latest post features him on one knee in front of a disgustingly photogenic brownstone, holding a ring up to a woman with perfect beach waves.
The caption reads:Finally found my forever home.
“Penny?” Diana’s voice snaps me back. “The aspirational angle?”
I swallow hard and force my face into what I hope is a confident smile instead of a grimace.
“Right. What if we position Evergreen as the uniform of the overachiever who still makes time for self-care?‘Success doesn’t have to look stressed.’”
Diana’s expression shifts from irritation to consideration. “Now that’s aspirational. Nobody wants authenticity if it looks like their actual lives.”
I laugh along with everyone else while something in my chest deflates a little more.
Twenty minutes later,I’m hiding in the third-floor women’s restroom, splashing cold water on my face and trying not to look at my phone again. Tyler’s engagement has 347 likes already. I’ve been counting.
The bathroom door swings open, and I straighten up, reaching for a paper towel. But instead of another PR drone with perfect hair, it’s Zoe Williams, our newest junior associate. She doesn’t see me at first—just locks herself in the handicap stall.
Then I hear it—the unmistakable sound of hyperventilating.
I hesitate. Office bathroom etiquette suggests pretending not to notice your coworker having a breakdown between the handdryer and the tampon dispenser. But the gasping sounds grow increasingly desperate.
“Zoe?” I tap lightly on the stall door. “It’s Penny. Are you okay in there?”
A choked sound that might be a laugh. “I’m fine! Just... just fixing my makeup!”
“With your lungs?”
Another strangled noise, then the lock slides open. Zoe sits fully clothed on the closed toilet lid, her presentation notes crumpled in her hands, mascara tracking down her cheeks.
“I can’t do it,” she whispers. “My first client presentation and I’m going to projectile vomit on their sustainable cotton samples.”
I crouch down beside her, my own crisis temporarily forgotten. “Hey, look at me. Take a deep breath.”
“I can’t breathe. That’s the problem.” Her eyes are wild. “Everyone’s going to see I’m a fraud.”
“Welcome to adulthood.” I dig through my purse and find a wrinkled packet of tissues. “Here’s the secret: we’reallfrauds. Diana in there? Total fraud. That client with the artisanal beard? Super fraud.”
Zoe hiccups a laugh, taking the tissue. “You’re not a fraud. You always know exactly what to say.”
If she only knew.“Zoe, I once called our pharmaceutical client ‘Pfister’ instead of ‘Pfizer’ six times in one presentation because I was so nervous. They still signed.”
“But you always seem so... together.”
