Irene sighs in resignation. “You’re right. You’re right, of course. Your life, your choices.”
Indeed. I nod gratefully and pick up my phone once again, thinking the conversation is done. “Thank you.”
“It’s just that ever since the . . .”
My head snaps up, and I lift a single warning finger. “Irene. I love you. You’re perhaps the only person in this city that I do love right now. But what’s the one word we don’t speak of? Ever?”
She huffs. “I know.”
“And the one person we don’t speak of?” I add.
Irene’s expression fades from frustration to sympathy—or worse, is that . . . pity?
It grates on every last one of my nerves that Christmas tourists and “Silver Bells” haven’t shredded to pieces.
To avoid Irene’s prying gaze, I pivot my chair and look out the window, where the sky has turned that sort of opaque white that gives kids everywhere a sort of breathless anticipation for snowmen and hot chocolate.
“You’d better call Manny and tell him to start packing for you,” I say. “You guys are going to want to head out soon so you don’t get caught in any weather on the way to the airport.”
“I appreciate you using miles to get us those last-minute tickets. You’re sure you don’t need anything before I leave?”
“I’m headed out early today too,” I say. “Doctor’s appointment for the lady parts, remember?”
This is a lie. They called me a few minutes ago to reschedule to next week due to the inclement weather. But I know Irene’s various expressions, and the one on her face is telling me she’s about to dig her heels in and attempt to baby me, even if it means missing her flight.
I won’t stand for that. I stand, and sliding my laptop into my briefcase, I grab that and my purse. “I’m leaving right now, actually!”
“Okay, but—oh! Katherine! I just realized, I haven’t given you your gift. I was going to bring it in tomorrow.”
I round my desk and wrap my arms around her in what is admittedly an awkward hug because I don’t have a ton of practice in any form of physical affection.
Irene seems surprised by the gesture but doesn’t seem to mind my stiffness because she hugs me back tight and warm, smelling like cinnamon and oranges.
On a rare impulse, I kiss her cheek, having to dip down to do so. I’m five feet eight without heels, and I always wear heels. She’s five feet one and only wears flats.
“Let’s do a New Year’s gift exchange,” I tell her.
“You don’t get me a single thing, young lady,” Irene commands in her mom voice. “You’re gifting me extra vacation time. Time with my family is the best present I can ask for.” She says it in a low whisper, as though HR is lurking in the shadows, ready to demand her resignation. “Okay? No gifts.”
I salute in confirmation.
We both know I’m going to give her the gift anyway. It’s a designer handbag she would never buy for herself. I bought it months ago when I saw it in a window in SoHo. It’s huge, because the woman carries around half her life in her purse, and red, because it’s her favorite color.
I make Irene swear on the health of her beloved desk orchid that she’ll leave within the next five minutes, and then I escape to the elevator lobby. I’m a little surprised at the flicker of thrill I feel at leaving the office early.
And while I don’t for one second believe all the hype about this huge snowstorm, I do believe people are going to lose their collective minds when flakes start falling, and I’d rather be tucked on my sofa with a nice Barolo when that happens.
Apparently, I’m not the only one with that bright idea because there’s a longer-than-usual wait for the elevators. To shut down the possibility of dreaded small talk about the weather, I pull out my phone and try to look busy.
It doesn’t work.
“Hey, Katherine! Merry Christmas.”
I look up from my phone and blink at the man I know, but whose name escapes me.
Mike?
Matt?
Huh. Nope. All I know is that he’s a newbie from Texas. Harry and Joe made a big deal about “scoring him,” as he was apparently a hotshot in the Dallas legal scene. I’m reserving judgment until I see him in action.
Mike-Matt . . . Martin? . . . Huh. Still nope.
Anyway, he’s . . . fine. Late forties. Brown hair. Seems nice.
I can afford this sort of lavish compliment because I know he’s not my competition for partner. Too new.
For this, I reward him with a smile. “If you say so.”
He blinks but pushes through my awkward response as we step into the elevator. “You ready for this storm?”
“Sure. Got my skis and flare guns right here.” I pat my hip.
“You joke, but I keep hearing Winter Storm Barry is supposed to be a real monster.”
I look up from my phone. “Who the hell is Barry?”
“That’s what they’re calling it. The storm.”
“Ah. By ‘they,’ you mean the meteorologists,” I say in the same tone I might refer to astrologists. One is a pseudoscience. So is the other.
“It’s been the top headline on just about every news source all day. Supposedly Barry’s looking to be the storm of the century.”
I can’t even dignify this with a response, but he doesn’t get the hint because he continues chattering on as he looks down at his own phone.
“Damn. Surge rates are nuts right now,” he mutters, showing me an app on his phone like it’s supposed to mean something to me. “You live uptown a bit, right? Want to share a car? Estimate’s only an eight-minute wait. Not bad for this time of day on Fifth.”
I make the tiniest scoffing noise, and he gives me a quizzical smile. “What am I missing?”
“I get you’re new here, but . . . real New Yorkers take cabs,” I tell him.
“How long do I have to be here to be a real New Yorker?” he asks, bemused.
It’s probably rhetorical, but I consider the question seriously anyway because it’s a legitimate query deserving some attention.
How long does it take to be a New Yorker?
It depends. I hate that sort of wishy-washy answer, but in this case, it’s true. Some people can live here twenty years and never quite make the mental shift. Others seem to absorb the city into their very blood within a matter of weeks.
“Relax, Katherine. I was joking,” Matt-Mike-Martin says. “I figure I’ll always be a Texan at heart. I’m good with that.”
We step out of the elevator, and it should be a reprieve, but there’s a rush of people so we’re forced to walk slowly. And together.
“So, you’re staying in town for the holidays?” he asks.
Ugh. The small talk persists.
“I am.”
“Same. In-laws are coming in,” he says with a pained expression. The grimace actually makes me like him a little more. Not because I can relate to awful in-laws but because it makes him the first person today who seems to understand that Christmas is something other than candy canes and snowflakes.