Breathe In, Cash Out

by Madeleine Henry

“Yep,” I say.

  It’s probably obvious by now, but that’s the first time I’ve said it out loud to anyone other than Skylar.

  “Nice,” he says earnestly. “You should. I mean, you’re fucking good at it.”

  “Yep,” I say, deadpan. “I crush.”

  “You could really do something with your Instagram, too,” he says. “People just follow girls in tight pants. It’s a thing.”

  “Thank you,” I say. That’s actually the most supportive remark I’ve heard about my account. “You don’t think it’s slutty?”

  “It isn’t slutty enough.”

  I laugh.

  “Give the people what they want.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  He takes a long sip of his beer.

  “Yoga, wow,” he says. “Well, I hope you quit ASAP.”

  “What?” I ask. “Why?”

  “Because I can’t ask you out if we work together,” he says.

  For the first time, there’s a pause between us that I can’t fill with a stupid phrase or grunt. He looks me in the eye, handsome as ever, and smiles. His expression sours suddenly.

  “What the fuck?” he asks.

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “No,” Tripp says. “Don’t turn around. Mark is here.”

  I slowly swivel to face the entrance where Mark and his elegant wife glide over the threshold. Her face is dewy and her long, brunette hair manages to reflect light in this armpit. My God, she is fucking regal. Their kids race past them suddenly and run in circles, giddy with a Don’t Touch Me game. Mark’s and his wife’s parallel tracks suggest they are playing a version of that, too—Don’t Touch Me: Marriage Edition.

  I look back at Tripp, who is smiling, waving, and muttering like a ventriloquist, “Yeah, don’t bother to fucking say hi to us, you fucker.” Tripp rests his beer on the countertop in front of me and leaves his arm there. He more vigorously waves his free hand as if he is scrubbing the patio around his fifth pool.

  I turn toward Mark, who finally sees us and waves limply. Tripp’s arm stays behind me, positioned as if we are on a date. Mark looks away, reactionless. What else would he do? The guy has a family, and we spent one messy night together. Mark holds up four fingers to the hostess, who tucks four menus under her arm; gestures, this way; and guides them to the dining room. Kids eat fucking early. As he disappears from view, he fades from my mind.

  Because I can’t ask you out if we work together.

  Looking at Tripp again, I feel us pick up where we left off before Mark interrupted. This is how it always feels with Tripp—totally natural.

  “So that thing I said,” Tripp says, “about asking you out.”

  “Oh yeah?” I ask.

  “I shouldn’t have said that yet,” he says. He removes his hand from where it rested in front of me. “That was me jumping the gun. We shouldn’t do anything, you know, while we’re working together. That’s not right.”

  I furrow my brow.

  “You disagree?” he asks.

  “It’s a point of discussion.”

  He smirks as he pays for the drinks with Anderson’s gold AmEx.

  “Point of discussion, huh?” he asks. “I didn’t expect that. Well, can we pick that discussion up again after you quit?”

  I wink.

  “Look at you, Alison,” he says.

  “Thanks, Kip.”

  We smile mischievously at each other as we leave the bar. I enter the password to my phone and will-do my way to the bottom of my inbox. Then, I open Instagram, where a new direct message catches my eye from Jordan Roca—Skylar’s ex.

  chapter 19

  I hold my phone to my chest. Skylar’s ex-boyfriend? I process in disbelief as Tripp and I rise to HG. Why would he message me?

  “Don’t make it awkward now,” Tripp says.

  “What?” I ask, startled.

  “You look like you saw a ghost,” he says. “Lucky for you, I am an office romance pro.” He smooths his hair back in an exaggerated display of suaveness.

  “Oh,” I say. “That’s great news.”

  “No one will notice,” he says as the doors open. “Not even you.”

  As soon as we are back at the pod, he collapses into his wheelie the way he does after getting hit with a new staffing. Tripp slouches in defeat while staring dejectedly at his computer screen. He sighs as if the weight of the world is on his shoulders. It looks so normal and natural—as if our bar conversation never happened. He might actually be an office romance pro after all.

  Focus.

  I read Jordan’s message:

  @JordanRPhoto: Hello, great photo gallery. I would love to do a photo shoot with you one day if possible. My name is Jordan Roca (click here for more about me). I shoot portrait, event, and movement photography and have shot for @OhmMomYoga, @MirandaYogi, @PranaEnergy, @AviraDance, and the Tribeca Film Festival.

  I have a special understanding of asana. I completed a 200-hour training with Lotus Yoga to learn more about the poses and their history. I see yoga as a gorgeous, physical expression of the human spirit. It is as difficult as the most demanding sports, as captivating as performance art, and yet so much more delicate and understated. Many prominent teachers have trusted me to capture their practice.

  My portfolio is available on Instagram and my website.

  Have a great day. J

  Oh my God. I google Jordan. He hasn’t made the news in over a month, not since the tabloids said his fans and clients were dwindling after the breakup. Is his career so shitty now that he has to cold-call nobodies like me?

  The yogis he mentioned are stars. @OhmMomYoga and @MirandaYoga are massive accounts with hundreds of thousands of followers each. Is he honestly interested in taking my pictures? What is happening? Jordan must have come across one of my videos like the thousands of other random people who did.

  I toy with the idea of telling Skylar, of asking her what I should do. But that feels like a mistake. Just mentioning Jordan might rub her the wrong way. I think about how to respond—Tripp sighs his woe-is-me sigh again—and I realize how much I want to meet him. This man knows Skylar, maybe better than anyone else.

  * * *

  The next morning, I’m waiting for Jordan in the French coffee shop near Anderson. It’s a narrow slice of real estate designed for grab-and-go. I sit at the only table. The shop is in a lull, the breakfast rush over, leaving me alone with the barista. She keeps glancing at me and smiling uncomfortably.

  “Do you want to order anything?” she asks.

  “Not right now, thanks,” I say.

  I know. I’m a fake patron. I’m sorry.

  I told Jordan I’d love to meet him, and he offered to come to me. I jolt as a college-aged bro enters the shop in business formal and orders a “tall black drip.” He grips a plush résumé folder tightly in one hand and looks stressed as shit. I can almost hear him rehearsing in his head, I’ve always had a passion for finance, ever since I was a little kid. He must have an interview nearby.

  As he leaves with his coffee, he holds the glass door open for Jordan. I wave excitedly, identifying myself before I remember I’m the only customer here. Jordan walks slowly, more mellow in person than he seemed in Skylar’s feed. He wears an old black parka and dark jeans. His thick beard covers the bottom half of his face, a full-circle extension of the shaggy hair on his head.

  “Hi,” I say, standing up.

  “So good to meet you,” he says softly. “I’m Jordan.”

  “Allegra,” I say.

  Over a light handshake, he holds eye contact that feels kind and respectful. Of course he’s handsome, but I didn’t expect him to be so gentle. If I didn’t know him, I might have guessed he was a poet.

  “I brought you a portfolio,” he says.

  He lays a slim three-ring binder carefully on the table.

  “Great,” I say, lowering my tone to match his energy.

  He takes his parka off to reveal a gray thermal and sits across from me. I o
pen his binder a crack, and he reaches forward until his hand hovers a couple of inches above mine, preventing me from turning the cover.

  “Sorry,” he apologizes. “But before you begin, I wanted to say something.” He brings his hand back. “These are samples of my work, but every job is custom.” He gestures as if he is slowly twisting levels in a Rubik’s cube, as if the thought and care he brings to his art are like the extended concentration required to unlock the full blocks of color. “My style is fluid. I don’t try to leave a mark or make clear that it was me, Jordan Roca, behind the camera. I try to emphasize who is in the frame.”

  “Wonderful,” I say.

  “Please,” he says, indicating I can browse.

  First is a full-page photo of Stacy Jane—the yogi behind @OhmMomYoga, as big as @SkylarSmithYoga—in a standing split by the East River. She stares at her grounded leg as her ruler-straight split divides the photo in half. Her light-blue leggings blend into darker-blue sky. The picture oozes with soul.

  “That’s stunning,” I admit.

  “Thank you,” he says earnestly. “The book is chronological, so my earlier work is first. That photo is from a couple of years ago.”

  I pay as much attention to him as to the photos. He rests two fingertips on his lips as I flip the pages. It’s one gorgeous, thoughtful yoga photo after another. He does have a special understanding of asana. Every pose here is correctly executed; most of them are advanced; and, in every photo, the setting reflects the spirit of the pose. For postures meant to energize, the scenery is bright. For postures supposed to restore, the scenery is calm. I recognize every yogi featured, even though these photos are from a while ago—I had no idea Jordan was so prolific before he dated Skylar.

  “Also, if I may,” Jordan begins. He pauses, as if he is mentally rehearsing his next lines. “I wanted to let you know how much I admire your gallery. Your photos are modest, which is refreshing. Most of the yoga I see today is egotistical, but yours has integrity. If we work together, I would try to honor that humility.”

  He is so nice. His compliment is so sweet and thoughtful that I almost want to hire him. Then again, sometimes I eat vitamins instead of buying food. There’s no way I would pay for a photographer.

  “Thank you,” I say honestly.

  “But that’s just my opinion,” he says. “It would be helpful for me to know your own vision for your photos. What are you looking for?”

  I continue to flip through the book.

  “I’m open,” I say. “I don’t have a specific vision.”

  The final page is a photo of Skylar from last year. She holds a forearm stand in Central Park while smiling at the camera. I realize, a beat later, that she isn’t looking at the camera—she must be looking at Jordan. Her smile appears as radiant as the pink morning light on the skyline.

  “Skylar Smith?” I ask, casually as I can.

  “Yes,” he says.

  “Wow,” I say. “What was it like working with her?”

  “I don’t discuss other clients, past or present,” he says. He forces a joyless smile. “I would grant you the same privacy.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Sorry, I don’t mean to pry. She’s just such a star.”

  “Yes, she is,” he says. “Now.”

  “Now?” I repeat, gently probing.

  “We started working together before she was famous,” he says. He clears his throat. “In any case, I hope you enjoyed this selection of my work.” He turns the page to close the book. “I’m sorry that I don’t have anything more recent.”

  “Nothing since Skylar?” I ask.

  Jordan leans back against his chair.

  “I took a break,” he says. “I just started working again.”

  I flip through his book a second time, from one yoga celebrity to another all the way to the end. I stop on the final photo of Skylar and leave the book open. The day I met her, she said that Jordan used her for his career. Sitting across the table from him now, I can’t imagine him “using” anyone. Besides, this portfolio proves he was established long before she was. Meanwhile, Jordan seems uncomfortable.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “It’s just . . .” He trails off.

  “What is it?” I prompt.

  He looks from the photo back up to me and squints. “You don’t read the tabloids?” he asks. I don’t move a muscle. “I suppose it’s public knowledge that Skylar and I dated. We broke up. . . .” His voice winds down in a way that pulls at my heartstrings—until, suddenly, he sits up straight.

  “You know her, don’t you?” he accuses.

  The about-face stuns me.

  “What?” I stammer. “No!”

  He snatches back his book.

  “Jordan, I barely know her!”

  His eyes widen at the admission. He freezes exactly where he is, with his torso bent forward over the table, about to stand.

  “I’ve only met her a few times,” I say hurriedly. “She didn’t put me up to anything. Honestly.” I feel the need to prove it. “Look at this.” I pull my phone out to show him the thick stack of emails from her. “She’s been trying to recruit me for her company,” I continue. “I’ve been brushing her off.” I point to the rows of messages from her, my sporadic responses—Work, sorry—and look back to Jordan. He reads, riveted.

  “I barely know her,” I repeat.

  He sits back down and touches my wrist.

  “Allegra,” he says. “Stay away from her.”

  He points at my phone.

  “This is what she does,” he says. “She uses people. She’ll pretend she adores you, she’ll make you believe you’re special—so long as you’re helping her career. Then, one day, she won’t need you anymore, and . . .” He slaps his own hand loudly. The barista shudders. “She doesn’t feel, like a normal person does. There is no remorse, no conscience. She only dated me so that I would take beautiful photos of her for free. So that I could pour my soul into the videos that made her famous. I loved her. I worshipped her. Then, when she was her own brand, she got rid of me. I’m sorry, I can’t even talk about it anymore.” He looks me in the eye, defeated. “This isn’t going to work right now.”

  He leaves, forgetting his binder.

  And I don’t know what to believe.

  chapter 20

  I slip downstairs to meet Skylar in the lobby. Sunday morning, shit to do. I still don’t know what to say to her offer, but I can’t put off seeing her any longer.

  Our plan is to visit a chakra workshop nearby. The seven chakras exist along the spine, and each one has a special power. A chakra is either “in balance,” contributing to health, or “blocked,” contributing to pain. For example, the first (lowest) chakra is earth. When someone’s earth chakra is blocked, they may feel unstable or insecure. The cure: gemstones. Skylar and I will leave this thing with gemstones I can place around my desk and my bed to cure any blockages.

  Skylar smiles hello and hugs me tightly in the lobby. Her white parka gives way in the embrace. I haven’t hugged anyone in this building before. Skylar has a new tattoo on the back of her neck, the size of her palm. It’s the Sanskrit symbol for karma. She wears purple harem pants tucked into winter boots.

  “This is amazing,” she says.

  She looks eagerly around the lobby. A Pollock-esque mural spans the entire, block-long wall. The high ceilings evoke cathedral interiors.

  “Can I see where you work?” she asks.

  “You mean, upstairs?” I ask.

  She nods.

  “Well, sure,” I say. Maybe now she’ll understand why I was stressed out of my mind during our “training.”

  As the front-desk attendant takes Skylar’s picture for a temporary ID badge, I wonder how much attention she will draw. Her blond ponytail is effectively a yellow spotlight on karma. We get into the elevator with another Princeton alum: thin, brunette, prep school, squash. This girl is known for her vacant stare and for always being on a call. She exits at the Sky Lobby and wanders out of vi
ew.

  “How are you?” Skylar asks.

  “Great,” I lie.

  On thirty-five, we take the short route to my chair. Tripp’s portable stereo plays Sublime from his “Feeling ’90s” playlist. He wears two layers of joggers and Air Jordans. His biceps contour his long-sleeve Abercrombie tee. Puja hates Sublime and said Tripp is stuck in a time warp today. She and Chloe look absorbed in work.

  “This is it,” I say, with a two-handed ta-da motion.

  Skylar rests a hand on my backrest, compliments of Erg Guy.

  “I’m Skylar,” she greets the pod. Chloe and Puja wave.

  “Buenos días,” Tripp says. He stands up to shake her hand.

  “I teach Allegra yoga,” she says, by way of introduction.

  “Wow,” Tripp says. “You kick her ass?”

  He winks at me. Skylar laughs.

  “We won’t disturb you guys,” I say. “Just giving a quick tour.”

  Together, we round the short edge of the track-shaped floor. It’s almost full. The accordion spines of a few office chairs squeak as people adjust to get a better view. Heads turn to eye the fresh meat. Sometimes people bring visitors to the office, but the vast majority of those are family.

  Skylar surveys the floor with intention, and I try to see it through her eyes. It looks less manicured than she might expect. The office gets a grunge makeover every weekend, when people work from different desks and personalize their new areas. They adjust the monitor height and eat any food left in sight. My pod is one of the rare exceptions in regard to desk promiscuity, and we stick together at our base. Other people risk walking in Monday morning to a sticky keyboard. Maybe the F1 key will be missing, too, because a visitor ripped it out when they kept hitting it by mistake instead of F2.

  “Well, hello there,” Harry says.

  His gangly legs rest at full extension under the desk in front of him. As Harry turns to face us, so does his deskmate, Alex. Harry’s pale skin, red hair, and extremely high opinion of himself suggest generations of deeply inbred nobility. His last name is probably hitched to an inch of Roman numerals.

  “You’re not going to introduce us?” Harry asks.

  He adjusts rectangular, wire-rimmed glasses.