She beamed. “I’m doing yoga teacher training in Goa. It’s always been a dream of mine.”
“Amazing. Where will you teach?”
“Hopefully here!” She gestured into the space and it clicked: the room marked MOVE was a fitness studio.
“Definitely here,” Eleanor added. We traded nice-to-meet-yous as Eleanor turned down a small hallway behind the check-in desk, and I gasped at the sight of yet another perfect room: palm-frond wallpaper, spider plants in hanging gold pots, and a seating area with soft white chairs and gold shelving units.
“I hope you have defibrillators all over the place,” I said, smacking my chest, “because I don’t think my heart can take much more of this. It’s gorgeous, Eleanor. Every single room. It’s even better in real life than it looks on Instagram. Which is almost never the case.”
“Wow, thank you.” She plucked a framed photo off the shelf and handed it to me: Hana, Mikki, and Eleanor with sparkly eyes and skinny arms poking out of spangly going-out tops. It was taken in a dorm room, a crummy, overexposed shot; Mikki and Eleanor looked milk-white in the flash while Hana’s skin looked like copper.
“Babies!” I cried.
“I know. Freshman year. The only thing missing from the photo is you.”
“Uh, my braces and acne would have ruined the shot.” I handed it back to her. “It’s incredible that you’ve all stayed so close. I have friends from college, but not like that.”
“I know. We’re so lucky.” Eleanor placed the frame back on the shelf. Next to it was a stack of leather-bound notebooks and a small knife with a carved handle floating in a stand. The shelf above it held a cute photo of Eleanor and her boyfriend—no, husband now, I’d missed the wedding—on vacation somewhere warm. Mexico, judging by the ornate, embroidered tunic she was wearing, and what looked like a fat margarita in Daniel’s hand. Eleanor spoke fluent Spanish and had always loved the country.
She pulled a notebook off her desk and settled across from me. “So when did you actually get back in town?”
“Two weeks ago yesterday.”
“After a whole year in Michigan, right?”
“Yeah, about a year.” I caught myself picking at a hangnail and folded my hands.
She leaned back, smiled. “Katie Bradley, you’re here! You’re here and it’s all real.”
“Yes! I’m sorry it took so long—I should have called when I landed. It’s been crazy with the move and getting back in touch with my editors, and—”
“No, I get it.” Her fingers winged up into the stop gesture, blue-and-silver nails glinting. “I figured you’d need a little time to adjust. Taking care of your mom and writing a freaking book. Superwoman.”
“Oh, please. Look who’s talking.”
“Everyone thinks they can write a book, but you’re actually doing it. Tell me everything.”
A pinch in my chest, like tongs squeezing. I rattled off my standard fake-news tech company line.
“So cool. And you already have a publisher.”
“Yeah, just—working things out with my agent,” I said, mumbling a bit.
Eleanor leaned back in her chair. “We have a few members who work in publishing. People have such varied reasons for joining. Some are here to network, some obviously signed up for the coworking space. But also, we didn’t really anticipate this, but about a third of our members have full-time, in-office jobs already. What, why are you laughing?”
I let the stifled giggle bloom into a grin. “You just morphed into Television Eleanor. Teleanor. It was awesome.”
Her knuckles found her brow. “God, did I? I’m sorry—I’ve been doing so much press lately, with the Fort Greene location opening soon. I didn’t mean to go all time-share presentation on you.”
“No, it’s not that! You’re just so on. Here, I’ll feel better if I interview you.” My hand gripped an imaginary microphone and her eyebrows shot up. “Now, Eleanor, I’m surprised to learn that women are signing up for a coworking space without any intention of coworking there. Is it really worth spending three hundred dollars a month for the privilege of attending the Herd’s after-work programming? I saw that you have panels on Afrofuturism, feminism’s global footprint, and how to run for local office.”
She scoffed, mock-shocked: “The events calendar is members-only.”
“I may have a mole. In my immediate family.” We both giggled.
She arranged her face into that perfectly symmetrical smile, the one I knew from profiles of her in The New York Times, The New Yorker, et al. “It’s not just the programming. People call the Herd a club, but we like to call it a community. It’s a sacred space designed to make our members’ lives more balanced, beautiful, and connected.”
“Hell of a line.” I nodded approvingly. “For real, though, I got that vibe the moment I walked in. I love how the setup sort of facilitates collaboration.” I brought my hands together, tapped the fingertips. “Like, it isn’t just a bunch of cubicles for rent. Women seem to come for the other women too.”
She kept up the camera-ready facade: “That’s exactly right. Wonderful things happen when passionate women and marginalized genders come together.”
“ ‘Women and marginalized genders.’ God, Michigan really makes you forget how ‘liberal elites’ talk.”
“Only the woke are welcome here.” It was clearly a joke, but I felt a ribbon of unease. This past year, as I was falling apart in Kalamazoo, Eleanor, Hana, and Mikki had been here, together, being all progressive—they’d progressed. I wished I could go back to 2018 and have a do-over with me here, at the Herd, from the beginning.
Eleanor folded her hands and leaned back. “So how do you see yourself using the Herd?”
My fingers found my necklace. “I’ll be working on book stuff, of course,” I said. “But I’m also hoping to get back into freelancing—reconnect with old editors and meet some new ones.”
“Yeah, you were placing some pretty high-profile pieces, right?”
I was surprised she’d been keeping tabs. I felt my chest puff as I rattled off the publications I’d written for: Vogue, New York Mag, People, Vanity Fair, and Vice.
“And you wrote that piece on Titan’s voice-activated thingy for The Atlantic, right?”
“That’s right, the Zeus.” Wow, she really had been paying attention. My feature on the tech giant’s groundbreaking, AI-equipped virtual assistant—and the privacy issues it raised—had been one of my favorite bylines of the year, but it hadn’t garnered many page views. “It was a one-off.”