Friends from Home

by Lauryn Chamberlain

  It was exactly what I had moved to New York for, ironically: the intense proximity to other people, to what I thought of as the diversity of the human experience itself. I did still feel the familiar jolt of energy as I turned north on Broadway and walked toward my office, but a strange sense of displacement flowed through me, too.

  Virtually, I will totally be there, I had said to Michelle. But really, our friendship had been almost entirely virtual for years, sustained through phone calls, texts, and likes on her frequently updated Facebook statuses and carefully filtered Instagram photos. Sometimes it all seemed like barely a shadow of what we used to be. I didn’t want that to be the case. I shook off the thought as I got settled at my desk, quickly making a separate e-mail folder for all things wedding related, promising myself that I would be as present as possible, and then moving back to sort through the rest of my perennially overwhelmed inbox.

  I had only made it through the first third before I felt a single tap on my shoulder. I knew it had to be my boss, Imani.

  “Jules,” she said in an even tone, no lift in her voice to suggest a question. “Come into my office.”

  I had one-on-one meetings with Imani once a week when she gave me all my assignments, but she had rarely called me into her office without scheduling it first. As I followed her across the room, I caught a glimpse of Alan discreetly making the sign of the cross for my benefit.

  You’re not getting fired, I reassured myself, while still mentally tabulating my year’s total of sick days (four) and vacation days (only two so far: the Fourth of July long weekend at Ritchie’s parents’ lake house in New Jersey). I stayed standing until Imani made a sweeping gesture with a manicured hand, indicating that I should sit.

  Imani took the seat across from me behind her modern faux-marble desk, smoothing her lavender sheath dress. “I’ll tell you straight off,” she said, dispensing with pleasantries completely. Imani always had a straight-to-the-point, confident demeanor. Publishing was a difficult field for anyone, but it could be notoriously unwelcoming to women of color. Imani had fought her way into a very senior position. For this, and so many other reasons, I admired her. Because of that, I was also incredibly afraid to let her down.

  Imani laced her fingers together. “Jules. As you know, it’s crucial to Thomas Miller that we build the absolute best team.”

  I nodded.

  “And not just in terms of talent, but in terms of dedication. We’ve taken note of the extra work you’ve put in over the past several months, as well as your commitment to the company over the past several years as an editorial assistant, and we’d like to offer you a promotion. Assistant editor, effective immediately.”

  I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. I couldn’t believe this was finally happening. I’d held the editorial assistant title for nearly two years longer than I’d originally expected. Now, here in one fleeting moment, was the manifestation of what I had hoped for so long ago. Long enough that I had had to stop thinking it would happen soon, or else every day that I woke up without it happening would have been depressing.

  “Ohhh my God.” Get it together, Jules. Be professional. “What I mean to say is, thank you, Imani. I absolutely accept.”

  She proffered me a piece of paper with the company’s official letterhead, detailing the promotion and signed by Howard, her boss. I felt relieved that we weren’t having the negative conversation I feared, but I noticed no compensation increase listed.

  I hadn’t negotiated properly when I took the job out of college. I sensed it at the time—and publishing was notorious for low salaries, after all—but then Alan had plainly told me as much. Feeling grateful to have made it to New York, and blessed to have a job that could help me make my loan payments at all, kept me from asking for my due. But now, as Imani rose to stand in front of me, a steely expression on her beautiful face in spite of the allegedly good news, I thought about the frustration with my life I had felt so acutely up until she called me into her office. I thought of every time in my past that I hadn’t spoken up.

  “Before I leave, I’d like to discuss a compensation increase commensurate with the way my role has evolved over my time here.”

  Imani raised her eyebrows. “You do know how it works. Salary reviews happen at the end of the year. We can look at making an adjustment then.”

  I took a deep breath. “But I didn’t get a raise last year. It’s September. In accordance with me accepting the position, I’d like to be evaluated now. I’d be happy to talk to Howard myself.”

  Imani raised her eyebrows. “Well, we absolutely consider you to be an asset to the company. I can speak to him, and I believe we can have your salary review moved to October.”

  “Thank you,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady as we both stood up. I reached across the desk to shake her hand.

  “Thank you, Jules,” she said coolly, but I detected just the hint of a smile playing around her lips as I turned to leave, and I couldn’t help feeling as though she was just the tiniest bit impressed.

  * * *

  • • •

  Alan took me out for a drink after work at my favorite neighborhood spot. With $4 drafts and a friendly crowd of fiftysomething regulars, I always felt right at home. It wasn’t really Alan’s type of place—he would likely run a finger along the sticky bar, asking if I thought it had been wiped down since the Bush administration—but it was a convenient and cheap place to throw back a celebratory shot or two.

  “Congratulations, Jules.” Alan raised his beer in a toast. “If there is anyone who deserves to excel in the fucked-up world we call the publishing industry, it is you.”

  “Thanks.” I took a big sip. “I think I’m actually even more excited about the fact that I tried to negotiate a raise than I am about getting the promotion.”

  “Well, it’s about fucking time. On both counts.”

  Alan and I drank in silence for a minute. I had taken a job in publishing after Cornell because I had dreamed since second grade that there might be a career that would let me read for a living. But it was more than that. I wanted a life that stretched beyond working in Birmingham, watching my mom frantically trying to find another man, and going on “blind” dates with acquaintances from high school. I had moved away from home, graduated from college, landed the job. What would there be in the world beyond that, and why had it so far eluded me? The promotion had made a start, certainly, a significant one. But now that I had it, I could tell it wasn’t the thing itself.

  I said this out loud to Alan.

  “What’s next, you mean? I, uh, think a lot of people get married as a way out of answering that question.” He laughed. “But, no, seriously. I ask myself that all the time.”

  “I know it’s corny. Everyone thinks they’re meant for something bigger. But still.”

  “We’ll let it slide. So, what are you most passionate about?”

  “Reading?”

  “Well, hence the publishing career. Duh,” Alan scoffed. “But I’m serious.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Helpful. No, what do you wish you did more of? What do you wish you could do that you don’t do now? And do not say adopting a dog.”

  “Okay, fine. Writing,” I said. I thought about how it had always felt like me making the best of myself, the only time I felt like I was truly in charge of a narrative and a life, even though I had only ever done it for fun. “But I’ve never felt like I can re-create what I like to read. The essays, the memoirs, I don’t know—taking the truth and elevating it to an art form. That’s what I want to do.”

  “That’s . . . poetic.” I couldn’t tell if he was being earnest or sarcastic.

  “Shut up.”

  I closed my eyes for a minute, feeling a tingle spread through my body that let me know I was already buzzed. “So what about you? Any secret passions?”

  He ran
a hand over his jawline, stroking his stubble in a parody of serious thought. “Well, I know I’ve told you about creating an app.”

  “Tell me the latest idea again?” Alan went to Stanford, and while he had majored in English, a couple of guys from his freshman dorm followed the stereotypical Silicon Valley dream of developing an app, making connections, getting rich, and dropping out. With that experience in mind, Alan had been pitching me app ideas on and off since we had become friends. Not that I had any idea about how to start one; I was just a very engaged audience.

  “An app that lets you book specific tables or bar seats in a restaurant. Like how you book a seat on planes and some cost more. I swear, it’ll be a hit.” He gestured to the bartender for another beer. “I could already be a famous founder, you know. Evan Spiegel stole Snapchat from me.”

  “Oh my God, we’ve been over this. Evan Spiegel did not steal Snapchat from you.”

  “Naked texting app! I thought of that years ago!”

  “Not the same as stealing it. I keep telling you that.” I laughed and knocked my forehead against his shoulder.

  “No, really, though. It’s not about Snapchat,” he said, slinging an arm around my shoulders. “It’s about figuring out ‘the thing.’ You know, what am I really supposed to be doing with my life? Something bigger that I could point to and say, ‘That was me. I made that.’”

  “God, we sound annoying.” I laughed. “A ‘search for a greater purpose’? Seriously?”

  “Hey, everyone has always wanted a purpose. I think we’re just the first generation to demand it this obnoxiously. But seriously, I have to get started on the restaurant app. If I had just moved on those other ideas, then I would be the tech billionaire married to Miranda Kerr. Or, you know, whoever the male version of Miranda Kerr is.”

  “Marcus is honestly sort of the male version of Miranda Kerr. But if Miranda Kerr were an accountant?” I hadn’t spent too much time with Alan’s boyfriend, but I approved of him completely. He seemed warm, empathetic, attentive—all the things you would want in someone dating your friend. It didn’t hurt that he really was model attractive, either.

  “You and Miranda Kerr actually have the same lips,” Alan said, evaluating me with a slightly drunken gaze. Then he winked. “But you’ll be much more successful.”

  “Thanks.” I grabbed for the new beers that had been dropped off for us. “You know, Michelle is the one who actually looks like a model. I think in high school I was hoping that it might somehow rub off on me.”

  Alan raised his eyebrows. “And I hoped I’d grow up to look like Jared Leto. But seriously, Jules. You have to start seeing your life on your own terms.”

  Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the pleasant exhaustion settling over me after a long day, but I wanted to tell Alan a million things right then. Mostly that I didn’t know where the rest of my life might lead, or what it might even mean to be “good enough,” but that having friends like him made the prospect less frightening. Instead I just said, “You’re a really good friend, you know?”

  “You, too.” He smiled. “But I have to tell you, if you ever ask me to be your maid of honor, I’m going to say no.”

  CHAPTER 7

  I quickly discovered that my promotion didn’t merely symbolize a move up the ladder after three years of loyalty. It meant continuing my job while also taking on the work of a recently departed editor. I should have known, honestly. But at least it was a move up.

  I found myself still photocopying contracts in between assisting a senior editor with several newly assigned manuscripts. It was a lot of work on top of the freelancing I sometimes did on nights or weekends to supplement my publishing salary, but I told myself I didn’t mind, even when the workload meant coming into the office that Saturday while Dana and Ritchie took the jitney to the Hamptons for one last September weekend trip.

  But this particular Saturday was different. This Saturday was Michelle’s bridal-shopping day.

  I had never imagined picking out my wedding dress, or even what shopping for wedding dresses might be like. Michelle had a bridal magazine that we flipped through around the time that we staged her wedding to Ashton Kutcher—probably Martha Stewart Weddings, knowing Marcia’s subscription tastes—and I asked Michelle if you ordered them from the catalog like I had seen my mom do from Delia’s. “No.” She rolled her eyes at me. “You go to a special store and try them all on.” As if everyone knew.

  Now I was about to watch Michelle do exactly that. The plan specified that I should tune in to the shopping trip on FaceTime from my cubicle. And sure enough, at twelve thirty, my phone started buzzing, spinning like a beetle on its back as it vibrated loudly on my desk.

  “Hi from the bridal shop!” Michelle chirped as soon as I swiped to answer. She squinted at me. “Are you in an office? Why are you in an office?”

  “Well, I wanted to tell you in person, but this sort of counts. You were right—I finally got promoted! So right now I have more work. But it’s great.”

  “Julie! Congratulations! I’m so proud. I knew it.” She grinned, and I felt her energy light me up inside. Michelle still had that effect on me, as if her sprinkled compliments were magic dust. “I want to hear everything later. But right now: dresses.”

  “Right. Dresses.”

  “Sylvie is going to hold the phone,” Michelle said. She gestured to three dresses hanging next to her in a fleur-de-lis-wallpapered fitting room, each looking puffier and more meringue-like than the last. “I’m going to try on these first, and you can tell me what you think.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Sylvie took possession of the phone. “Hi, Julie,” she said flatly. While Michelle had “totally bonded” with Sylvie during their first week in the Tri-Delt house sophomore year, the same easy rapport had never developed between us, even though I had visited Michelle often during her four years at ’Bama. She spun the phone to show me a blurred view of the room, and I saw Ellen waving before she set the device down on the fitting-area couch, and I was left staring at the vaulted ceiling until Michelle emerged in the first dress.

  She was stunning. Even as Michelle and I had seen each other less often over the years, her face still remained almost as familiar to me as my own. But every once in a while, I would catch a glimpse of her in which she looked wholly unfamiliar. I saw her as a stranger might, and it knocked me out every time. Her hair fell in perfect waves, framing the sides of her heart-shaped face even though she claimed she “looked gross” and “hadn’t even showered.” Even the ugliest of the three dresses flattered her as I watched her twirl in front of the three-way mirror, dazzling even through the grainy quality of the stream. I thought I had no particular feelings about weddings at all, but my heart leapt up inside my chest as I imagined Michelle actually walking down the aisle.

  “You look absolutely beautiful,” I told her when she retrieved the phone from Sylvie.

  “Thanks. But I don’t know, that last one . . .”

  “Yeah, that last dress, not so much.”

  “Agreed. I don’t know if I’m going to find what I want here; this definitely isn’t my style,” she said in a hushed voice, ever polite. “We’re going to start looking for bridesmaid dresses instead. I’ll call you back with choices.”

  I worked absentmindedly for what might have been an hour, and I decided I was ready to quit when the phone finally buzzed again.

  “I wondered if you had been smothered to death by a pile of taffeta,” I joked. “Find anything?”

  “We did,” she squealed. “Julie, I think we found the bridesmaid dresses!”

  Already? “Show me,” I said with as much enthusiasm as possible. I braced for the worst; after all, I hadn’t seen any contenders, and weren’t bridal horror stories always centered on having to wear something like a magenta taffeta bridesmaid dress? But I told myself I would even wear a burlap sack, as happy as Michelle sou
nded.

  “They’re perfect!” She held up a pale peach dress with a sweetheart neckline, gauzy, nearly floor-length. It wasn’t exactly my style, but it really did look lovely.

  I smiled. “Beautiful and elegant, Miche.”

  She said something to one of the other women offscreen, then turned her face back to the screen. “All right, hon, I have to go,” she said. “All the girls are going to buy theirs, and I’m going to send the ordering info to your e-mail right now!”

  After we hung up, I finished one final page markup and decided to call it a day. I refreshed my e-mail once more before packing up my laptop, and I saw that Michelle had already sent the link to the dress. I clicked on it, prepared to get out my credit card, but when I reached the landing page I felt myself catch my breath.

  The dress cost $395.

  Finances had been a point of awkward tension between Michelle and me for as long as we had known each other. It was inevitable from the first time I went to dinner at her family’s country club and I remarked out loud at the china, telling her that my mom and I didn’t usually eat off “the hard dishes.” Marcia had blanched. In my younger years, my mom had relied largely on paper plates and affordable microwavable cuisine.

  Somehow, though, this felt different. It was one thing when the financial divide existed only between our parents, with Michelle and me aware of money only in a theoretical way, like gravity. We knew it existed and it was important, but it had very little to do with our day-to-day thoughts. As adults, it occupied a different place between us, one that was much more awkward to discuss. And so we pretended that it didn’t exist as much as we possibly could. The wedding was going to force my hand.