What is happening! I stab my finger on the lower-volume key until the song is muted. The people in line raise their eyebrows. One of them shakes her head at me. And I just know Table Thief heard it, too.
Blushing, I put my headphones on, attach them to the laptop, and tentatively bring the volume back up, double-checking to make sure no one else can hear. It’s a video. Heart pounding, but convinced it will be a private viewing this time, I reload the file. Over a black screen, The Weeknd assures me again that I earned it. Then Clifford appears. He actually walks toward the camera like he’s approaching me across a room in real life.
“Greetings, Rockstar! Don’t worry, that song cost us nothing because it’s for parody purposes. But girl, you earned it.”
Does he have one auto-message for female ghostwriters and one for men? I wonder idly. And if so, is that offensive to either group?
“If you’re seeing this message, it means you totally powered up! Your latest client …”—a weird pause, followed by an over-dub in postproduction of—“… Tess Riley …”—before returning to his regular voice, “has deleted his or her dating profile. Which means you have a success story! Yes!” (Pause for over-dub again …) “Tess Riley … has found true love! What does this mean? It means YOU get a $500 bonus” (KA-CHING sound effect, with animated coins falling around Clifford) “and a DIY party in your honor. Check your mail, alligator, for a bubbly surprise. Most important for YOU, it means you automatically get the next client that comes down the pike. No need to scramble, it’s all yours. Congratulations, and have a great day or night.”
I’m still reeling from the unexpected communiqué from Clifford and The Weeknd, but there’s no denying it’s wonderful news. Five hundred bucks will pay for countless taxi rides. If I ever went anywhere, I’d be psyched.
It finally hits me, the reason it’s so difficult to nab clients in the portal: Most of them are filtered into the accounts of freelancers who’ve proven themselves. Clifford’s either a dick or a mastermind when it comes to motivation. Those with no aptitude for the job won’t even need to be fired; they’ll simply never get clients, without knowing why. Like being ghosted. I’m not sure how I feel about that, but regardless, I did earn it, dammit. Tess Riley wanted an architect, twenty-eight to thirty-seven, with a soccer-player body. She crossed her fingers for a man of South American or Dutch descent. Did I deliver? You bet your sweet ass I did!
Mateo Van de Berg was both.
I close my laptop and pack up, floating on a wave of satisfaction. Time to call it a day, leave on a high note (if only; some weed would be a great way to calm down for the trek home). A siren rages in the distance, drawing ever closer, and I cringe, reminded of what I’m about to walk out into. The city, alive and unrelenting, ready to toss me around like an old hacky sack.
I pass Table Thief on my way out. He glances at me and I look away just as quickly, but not before we make eye contact. I take a deep breath and push the exit door. And then, despite the noise and crowds threatening me, I smile, briefly, to myself. Because he doesn’t know it, but today is the last day he will ever sit there.
CHAPTER 3
To: All Tell It to My Heart Employees
From: Leanne Tseng
Re: Word of the Day
Team,
At the risk of sounding like a certain someone we all know and hate, the word of the day is “upsell.” This week, I want you to keep in mind that we are a full-service boutique with a variety of services to offer. Let’s help our clients take advantage of our talented pool of consultants. Take a deep dive into your clients’ files and see how we can help them to put their best foot forward.
Speaking of which, although we have not taken legal action yet, please be aware that we are looking into whether any intellectual property or other proprietary information has been breached by any companies offering similar—though obviously subpar—services. For our freelance contractors who may be doing business with said companies, we’re hoping to have this matter resolved as soon as possible without letting it affect your duties or loyalties to either.
Having said that, the ultimate goal is to get the company to a place where I can hire all of you as full-time staff who won’t have to spend half your week scrubbing off the newest inappropriate comment from your other boss.
Word of the day, folks. Word of the day.
Yours,
Leanne
MILES
Evelynn wasn’t kidding about the bottomless cup of coffee. I Am Legend is over there in her corner table, hunched over her laptop for almost the whole day, every now and again shooting a dirty look my way. But like I said, I’ve lived in New York City for fifteen years. If I can’t handle death ray eyes from some doe-eyed brunette, I deserve to have my MetroCard revoked.
By the way, even if she hadn’t told me, I’d have figured out she wasn’t from New York by virtue of her outfit. It’s the end of April and she’s in a tank top and shorts. We had a blizzard less than two weeks ago, which might—though really doesn’t—explain the combat boots. Although maybe it’s just her way of letting the world know she has a smoking hot bod but will also kick your ass if you stare too long. Which I can respect. Less obvious to decipher is the bizarre fingerless knit glove things that come up to her elbows and were clearly homemade by someone who was either drunk or gleefully looking to use the #nailedit hashtag. Wherever she’s from, it’s probably devoid of seasons and, let’s face it, culture. Maybe someplace utterly predictable, like Florida.
Whatever her story, I need to ignore her. Just like I need to ignore why I haven’t been to Café Crudité in six weeks. It’s not that this was exactly “our place,” mine and Jordan’s. But we used to go here sometimes, together, back when she lived around the corner with three roommates, back before we made the leap to cross a bridge and moved to a borough that didn’t start with “Man” and end with “holy hell, that’s how much you’re charging for this closet, but Jesus that is a nice terrace, I can fit a chair out there and have, like, outdoor space, where do I sign?”
I mean, we also made the leap to move in together, of course, but at the time, the Brooklyn thing seemed like the bigger deal. Sidenote: Last year Miles was such a douchebag.
And a moron. A goddamn romantic in this day and age—and at his age? Like it took him thirty-one years to realize that happily ever after literally belongs in a fairy tale. For children. As Gemma, the British girl I briefly dated before Jordan, used to say: what a nob.
But, anyway, this nob has stayed away from this café lately because there were too many memories of grabbing a cup of coffee on mornings after spending the night, or sometimes loitering here after dinner because they were lax about that and we didn’t particularly have a hell of a lot of money. Which was why when the TITMH offices vanished in a poof of whatever Clifford was smoking, it was my go-to place to park my ass and get some work done. Even if it was a bit of a trek from Brooklyn, coming here kept up my daily routine of heading out to “the office.”
Which is why I’m here, now. This is the last place I remember actually giving a shit about my job. And if I’m now forced, by threat of professional disgrace and unemployment, to try and show up as some semblance of former Employee of the Century Miles Ibrahim … this seems like the logical place to go.