I think of Tyler’s post. Of Diana’s dismissals. Of my apartment with its catalog-perfect décor and not a single photo on the walls.Togetherisn’t the word I’d use.
“Listen.” I take her hands, which are ice cold. “You know that breathing exercise I showed you at the holiday party? In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. Do it with me.”
We breathe together on the bathroom floor,my designer slacks soaking up whatever mysterious liquids live on office bathroom tiles. After a minute, her breathing steadies.
“You’re going to be fine,” I tell her. “You know why? Because you actually care about this stuff. That comes through.”
“Diana always says I’m too emotional.”
“Diana says that about everyone with a pulse.” I stand up, pulling Zoe with me. “You just have to breathe through it. Every storm passes. You just have to keep your foundation from cracking while it does.”
The words come out automatically—wisdom I’ve collected but never applied to my own life. I’m great at giving advice I never take myself.
Zoe looks at me with something like admiration, which makes me deeply uncomfortable. “How do you stay so positive here? When everything’s so... fake?”
The question hits harder than it should.I don’t. I’m not.I’m just better at faking it than most. But I can’t say that to this kid who’s looking at me like I have answers.
“Practice,” I say instead, helping her fix her mascara. “Now go crush that presentation. Remember—they’re more afraid of you than you are of them.”
“I think that’s bears.”
“Same principle.”
As Zoe leaves, more composed but still shaky, she pauses at the door. “Thanks, Penny. Really.”
I smile and wave her off, then turn back to the mirror. My reflection stares back, professional and polished in my emerald silk blouse that photographs well for company headshots.
I look exactly like someone who has her shit together.
I wonder when I’ll stop feeling like a stranger in my own life.
“To gettingthrough another day of selling our souls!” Abbyraises her ridiculous cocktail—something purple with smoke billowing over the top—and clinks it against my wine glass.
The bar is packed with the Thursday after-work crowd, all of us seeking chemical assistance to forget that Friday is just another day of the same. Abby has been my best friend since college—the only person in LA who knew me before I became whatever this version of me is.
“My soul is on backorder,” I say, taking a large sip. “Supply chain issues.”
“So how bad was it today? Scale of one to ‘considering a career in goat farming’?”
I think about Diana’s dismissals. Tyler’s engagement. Zoe’s panic attack that felt a little too familiar. “I’m researching heritage goat breeds as we speak.”
Abby’s smile fades. “You hate it there, Pen.”
“I hate everywhere eventually. It’s my special talent.” I try to keep my tone light.
“No, you don’t. You’re just so busy making yourself fit everywhere that you never build a place that fits you.”
I blink at her, the truth of it landing like a slap. “That’s... unnecessarily profound for happy hour.”
“I’m just saying—” She stops as my phone lights up with a text. “Please tell me that’s not work.”
It is.
Diana:
Need to have necessary restructuring discussions tomorrow. 9AM.
Translation: someone’s getting fired, and everyone needs to witness the execution.
