“Just needed a little Gleam Cream.” Mikki strolled into the hallway.
“Sorry you had to see this,” Aurelia said to me as we strode back into the main room. She smoothed the tape onto the wall behind us. “And just let me know if you need anything.” I sent her off with a wave.
“Are you hanging out today or just meeting with Eleanor?” Mikki asked.
“I’m planning to stay.” I trailed her to the corner where her MacBook and bag were spilled across a loveseat’s cushions. Her backpack gaped and a whole jumble of shit was slipping out, as if trying to sneak away: tampon, Blow Pop, vape pen, set of X-Acto knives, glue stick, what appeared to be a fun-size can of Mace. “I mean, if Eleanor lets me.”
“If I do what?” The throaty voice rang out and I whirled around, wearing a big openmouthed smile. “Katie!” she cried, and wrapped me in a hug. I closed my eyes and felt our necks against each other’s, our hair touching, a real hug.
She stepped back, her palms still on my shoulders. “It’s so good to see you, my dear. You look fantastic.”
“So do you,” I replied. And she did, like Entrepreneur Barbie: shiny brown hair in mermaid curls, skin dewy, eyes clear. I looked over Eleanor’s shoulder and saw that Hana had returned; both she and Mikki were beaming.
I’d met Eleanor and Mikki when I’d visited Hana at Harvard, back when I was a gangly high schooler in awe of the smart, sassy women my big sister had befriended in the dorms. I flew to Boston every few months, feeling extremely adult as I navigated the airport alone, and they’d always treated me like their collective little sister—movie nights and Ben & Jerry’s at first, supervised frat parties when I was a little older. I’d moved to New York for college, right as Eleanor, gutsy Eleanor, sashayed into Manhattan, Mikki a few months behind her. (Hana, on the other hand, had inexplicably returned to L.A. after graduation, irritating me to no end—but about three years ago, Eleanor had convinced Hana to move to NYC. Now we were all where we were supposed to be.)
Back in 2010, when I myself was a freshman at NYU and my sister and her friends were newly minted Harvard alums, Eleanor had begun luring in investors for her first venture: Gleam, an ethically sourced cosmetics line, back when the natural-beauty industry was still shedding its patchouli-scented skin. Because she’s brilliant, Eleanor had done everything right with her fledgling beauty company—founding a crisp, airy lifestyle blog that quickly amassed hundreds of thousands of devotees, investing in pop-ups instead of retail space, creating a public persona that felt personable and real but not oversharey or gauche.
And I was there for all of it. I’d reached out to her, shyly and at Hana’s urging, to meet for dinner during my orientation week at NYU. I adored Eleanor but was intimidated, still, and at best I hoped for someone I could keep in my contacts list, a chic “adult” I could call if I got in a jam. Instead, Eleanor became my family—Mikki too. It awed me then, the thrill of getting invites and calls and wine-soaked heart-to-hearts with these magnificent women. We’d Skype Hana together from Eleanor’s sofa, gossiping and catching up and feeling as if the warm sunlight on Hana’s coast was seeping through the connection and into Eleanor’s battered apartment on the Lower East Side. While I studied for midterms and Mikki designed packaging for weird start-ups (a mail-order dog tiara company comes to mind), I’d watched as Eleanor built her beauty brand and grew vast in the public eye, but remained Eleanor, my Eleanor.
“How’s your mom doing?” she asked, and Hana stiffened behind her.
“Super well at the moment,” I replied. I felt my phone buzz again and willed myself to ignore it—I had an idea who was on the end of the line. “She’s getting her energy back and her scans keep coming back clean. Hana and I are going home to see her for Christmas.”
“I’m so glad. I know I’ve said this already, but it’s incredible you were able to be there for her.”
I cleared my throat. “I’m glad too. I’m lucky I had that flexibility. And I know it’s only been a few weeks, but this time around, New York feels…different. I’m different.”
“Well, it’s good to have you back.” She smiled and held my gaze, those intense eyes, always able to make you feel like the only person in the room.
Behind her, Hana shifted her weight, stuffing a hand into her pocket. We hadn’t talked about it head-on—Hana never was one for discussing our feelings—but I’d assured her multiple times before, during, and after the last year that she shouldn’t feel bad about staying in New York during Mom’s treatment. Business at her solo PR firm was booming, whereas I’d been unemployed after Rocket, the tech news site where I’d been a reporter, had folded. And anyway, Hana’s presence at home with Mom would’ve just stressed both of them out. And so I’d spent pretty much all of 2019 isolated in Michigan, freelancing, working on my book, and driving Mom to and from her treatments.
It’d been a decent time to be a stringer in the Midwest: Politicians were announcing their 2020 runs, the culture wars were heating up, and national papers rooted in the coasts were clamoring for quotes from Middle America, from the “working class,” from the “anxiety-filled” white folks in so-called flyover states. Dutifully, I’d attended rallies and conducted interviews and scribbled down quotes and smiled blandly while the crowds railed against my profession. Then I’d tapped out my stories in a trance, only breaking down into sobs after I’d filed my copy. In a way, it felt right; no one expects you to be cheerful when your mother is battling stage-three breast cancer.
“Well, I’m going to steal you away for a bit,” Eleanor announced, turning to her friends, “but we’ll keep it quick.”
My pulse hastened as we headed toward the elevators. I’d had a stress dream the night before in which I’d shown up late and then realized, with mounting panic, that I was still in my childhood bedroom in Kalamazoo, unable to wrench the door open.
“Oh, you should meet Stephanie,” Eleanor said. She stopped short and looked around, then led me over to a tall woman in red tuxedo pants and a silky blouse. I recognized her angular jaw and close-cropped hair from her photo on the Herd’s website. “Stephanie, this is Katie! Remember I told you Hana’s sister was moving back?”
“Of course! So nice to meet you.”
“You as well! You’re the director of…operations, right?” Thank God I’d done my research last night. Eleanor had poached her from WeWork as her first full-time hire.
“That’s right, Eleanor’s second-in-command.” They smiled at each other.
“And it’s lucky you caught Stephanie today—after this week she’ll be off the grid until the New Year!”