“Oh my god,” I say. “I haven’t had a decent one since I moved here.”
Sol nods solemnly. “My mom put some frozen ones in her suitcase one year and got detained at customs at JFK. I cried for, like, three hours. Not for her but for the empanadas.”
They all laugh again, and this time I laugh too—not the awkward kind I usually default to at Elle’s parties, but the easy kind that feels like letting your shoulders drop. When I finally stand to leave, Camila lifts her glass with a knowing smile.
3
CONNOR
THURSDAY
“Bro,”I hear from behind me just as the footsteps slow down. I’m sitting at my desk, two monitors plus my laptop in full view and my headset halfway off, still cradling over one ear. And for fuck’s sake, if I hear that word one more time… If I had a dollar for every time someone called me “bro” in this office, I wouldn’t need a trust fund.
“What’s up?” I say, removing my headset and placing it on the desk. My finger is moving of its own accord and tap, tap, tapping on the tabletop. It’s the fifth time Cash has interrupted me in the past fifteen minutes, and I’m starting to think that he must be either very good or really bad at his job because he’s never doing anything. He’s grinning like we’re best friends.
“You’re the only one who isn’t participating in the fantasy football league, bro.”
I sigh and turn to face him. He’s wearing slacks and a white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and an obnoxiously expensive watch on display. His Patagonia vest has seen better days, but the company’s logo shines brightly on his chest, like a beacon of supreme pride. Almost like the ultimate flex. A finance bro through and through.
“Right,” I reply, glancing at the time on my watch even though I know I have another thirty minutes before the next calendar block. “Haven’t had a chance to look.”
“Oh, no worries, dude,” he says with a chuckle. It’s almost like a combination of confusion and annoyance that I haven’t, in fact, had a chance to leisurely sign up for a fantasy football league I have no interest in. “But if you could at least sign up before leaving for the trip, that would be awesome.”
I nod slowly. “Sure,” I say as I unplug my laptop from the dock. I stand, not aggressively, just fully, and Cash takes a small step back. I’m taller than him by a few inches, and it shows, especially when I’m this close. “I’ll see if I get to it after work.”
“That’s fire,” he says, a half step behind me now as I turn away.
Fire?Jesus Christ.
I don’t say anything. Just keep walking.
The office is still buzzing behind me—calls, pings, the low drone of overachievers who think working themselves to the bone for a deal is a noble pursuit. I used to be like that. Used to want to be the best at this. Until I started asking myself whatthiseven was.
By the time I’m on the street, it’s dark. That in-between time when the city shifts—less finance, more Thursday bar crowd. A strange quiet hums under the usual noise, like New York itself is catching its breath. Summer nights usually mean packed sidewalks and rooftop laughter, but tonight the air’s unseasonably crisp. A rare break from the humidity. The kind of night that should feel like a gift.
It doesn’t.
I loosen the top button of my shirt and start walking. I could call a car, but I’d rather take the long way home and move my body. Pretend I’m grounded and all that shit.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I don’t even have to look to know it’s my father calling. I almost let it go to voicemail, but I don’t. Because not answering somehow feels worse.
“Connor,” he says in that clipped, efficient tone he uses for his quarterly earnings calls. “Did you confirm with Joe about dinner tomorrow?”
I pause at the crosswalk. “I told you, I can’t commit to that yet.”
“It’s just dinner,” he replies, like that makes it harmless. “He’s a partner at Vista. They’re looking to expand their team. It could be a good move for you.”
There it is. A good move. A step on the path. The words land with the weight of decades of him trying to mold me into something solid and comprehensible, someone he could point to at dinner parties or charity events and saythat’s my son.
The path has always been their world, not mine.
Grades, internships, Ivy League, analyst, associate, VP. Each rung on the ladder its own box I’m expected to check, not because I want to climb it but because climbing is the only acceptable motion. The only proof I’m not falling behind.
And for years, I did it. I ran until my lungs burned and called it ambition.
But lately, all I can feel is how narrow it’s gotten. How thepathfeels less like a staircase and more like a windowless tunnel. Not even a light at the end.
“I’ll… see what my schedule looks like,” I say because it’s easier than no. I will deal with the aftermath later—a problem for future me.
