You Are Not Alone

by Greer Hendricks

  Stacey returned to her own apartment, leaving the mother slumped on the floor. She wasn’t even finished with her sandwich when two uniformed officers burst through her door.

  She tried to explain about the little girl, but the mother claimed Stacey had robbed and assaulted her. It didn’t help Stacey’s case that she had a baggie of crack on the counter next to her, ready to deliver to Adam’s client.

  The next day she was leaning against the hard bench that served as her bed, staring into space, when the guard rapped on the bars of her cell and told her she had a visitor.

  She’d blinked at him in surprise. Nobody knew she was there. She hadn’t even used her single phone call. Adam was unreachable. Her father and two uptight, social-climbing sisters hadn’t spoken to her in years, ever since she’d brought Adam, who was high, to her nephew’s first birthday party, where he’d dug a big serving spoon into the cake and scooped out the first bite for himself. And her mother—who maintained secret contact with her despite her father’s wishes—was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s.

  Stacey let the guard cuff her and lead her to the small room where inmates received visitors.

  A woman with short, frizzy red hair was waiting by the small table.

  “Hi, Stacey, I’m your public defender,” she’d said, her Boston accent sharpening her words. “My name is Beth Sullivan.”

  * * *

  Despite Stacey’s excellent legal counsel, the evidence against her was overwhelming. Still, Beth got Stacey’s sentence reduced to four months in jail since no signs of drugs were in Stacey’s system—she never used—and the prosecutor couldn’t prove she was actually selling crack.

  “It’s bullshit,” Beth had said when the judge handed down his verdict. “You saved the kid’s life.”

  Beth had shaken her head as she’d told Stacey that she’d become a lawyer because she wanted to give a voice to people who didn’t have one. But instead, she’d watched too many guilty individuals go free and innocent ones end up behind bars. Instead of giving, she’d had something taken from her: her trust in the judicial system.

  “I think you should meet Stacey,” Beth told the Moore sisters at one of their regular gatherings. Ever since Valerie had introduced Beth to Cassandra and Jane, they’d become a tight-knit group of four.

  When Beth had brought Cassandra and Jane to meet Stacey in the medium-security prison, they were immediately taken by the small blond woman whose eyes constantly flitted around while they chatted. It was as if Stacey always needed to see what might be coming at her, as if she was accustomed to being viewed as prey.

  “She deserves another chance,” Cassandra had said to Jane as they watched the guards round up all the prisoners at the end of visiting hour. “Beth was right.”

  When Stacey was released from jail, she expected her prospects as a broke, convicted felon—one whose scumbag boyfriend had moved on to some prison groupie he’d met online—to be even more dismal.

  Instead, a small studio apartment in Alphabet City awaited her. Soft, fresh sheets—heavenly compared to the scratchy ones in prison—were on the sofa bed. The refrigerator held fruit and yogurt and bread. Cassandra and Jane, who had several more times come with Beth to visit Stacey in prison, had learned of her prowess with computers, and they hired her to help them in the office.

  Once she’d proven herself to the sisters, they gave her stellar references. Stacey found work as a consultant quickly and insisted on paying back every penny the sisters had spent on her behalf. Even so, Stacey considered herself forever indebted to them.

  She’d lost one family, but she’d found another.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  SHAY

  On average, women report having eight close friends. Studies have found that, when under stress, women tend to seek out these female friendships. Instead of simply experiencing the adrenal-based “fight or flight” response, women also secrete the “bonding hormone,” oxytocin. This phenomenon has been termed “tend and befriend.”

  —Data Book, page 18

  I LEARNED SO MANY THINGS about Cassandra and Jane Moore at the café this morning: everything from the flavor of tea they drink—jasmine for Cassandra, and rose hip for Jane—to how Jane’s eyebrows tilt up slightly when she listens, to how gracefully Cassandra gestures with her slim fingers.

  As they hugged me goodbye, Cassandra told me to keep the raincoat for now since she had her umbrella. “Just text me and we’ll figure it out,” she’d said, right before the sisters hurried to the curb and hailed a cab. Naturally, one pulled over within seconds.

  While I sat on the bus to work, I wondered if I should have just come clean and admitted I didn’t have a cat. At least I’d undone part of my lie by explaining I’d been by Amanda’s side when she’d jumped, and that was why her death had so affected me. But I was such a wreck when they found me clutching the subway pole; how could I admit I’d completely fabricated the story about sharing a veterinarian with Amanda? I’d sound pathological.

  Especially to these women; not only are they glamorous and magnetic, they’re highly successful. When I googled them, I learned they founded their own boutique PR firm while still in their mid-twenties, and that they represent a couple of names even I recognize. Cassandra is thirty-two and Jane is thirty, so my age puts me right between them, which makes their accomplishments even more impressive.

  I also discovered that the yoga class Cassandra frequents requires more raw strength than it does a Zen mind-set.

  “Downward Dog into a plank,” the instructor at Yoga Flow commands, walking over to adjust my form. I’m wearing the leggings and tank top I packed for the spin class I had planned to take that evening. After I found the receipt for a package of ten classes from this yoga studio in the pocket of Cassandra’s raincoat along with a tin of cinnamon Altoids, I altered my plans.

  When I called the studio to reserve a mat at the eight P.M. Ashtanga class, I told myself it would be grounding and relaxing—exactly what I needed after the intense distress of the morning. But that’s not the real reason I’m here.

  Cassandra and Jane are powerful, confident, alluring—everything I’m not.

  I guess I just wanted to take a tiny step in their shoes.

  I run my tongue over my teeth, still tasting the faintest trace of cinnamon. The tin of Altoids was almost completely full, so I knew Cassandra wouldn’t notice if one was missing.

  “Let’s prepare for Savasana,” the instructor says.

  I glance at the woman next to me to get a cue for the pose, then lie on my back with my palms faceup.

  “Today’s word is gratitude. Allow your mind to be filled with something or someone you are grateful for,” the instructor continues. He rings a chime four times, the crisp, delicate notes reverberating through the air.

  Cassandra and Jane, I think instantly. If they hadn’t magically appeared this morning outside the subway, I don’t know what would have happened. I felt as if I were shattering, and they put me back together.

  I know women as in demand and special as Cassandra and Jane don’t need me as a friend. But I can’t help thinking about how that word sounded coming from Cassandra’s lips when she told the hostess we wanted a booth.

  Even their names have the sound of mantras.

  I close my eyes and feel my body melt into the mat.

  When the instructor rings the bell again, I slowly get up and gather my things from the locker, including Cassandra’s raincoat. It kept me warm today, but I know that, like Cassandra and Jane’s company, it isn’t mine to keep.

  I reach for my phone and slowly type in a message: I wanted to thank you and Jane again for today. I can drop your jacket off tomorrow if that works.

  I stare at my phone for at least a minute, but there’s no reply.

  * * *

  It’s nearly nine-thirty when I return to my apartment. I climb the flight up to 2C and fumble through my bag for my keys. Before I can unlock the door, Sean opens it.

  I take a s
tep back, surprised. “Oh, are you heading out?”

  “Actually, no, I’ve been waiting for you.” He clears his throat. “Do you have a moment to talk?”

  “Sure.”

  His eyes flitter away from mine. His speech is more formal than usual. He doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands; he finally clasps them in front of him.

  All of this signals he’s going to deliver bad news.

  “Want a beer? I was about to open one.”

  I don’t, but I grab two of the Blue Moons I brought home the other night while Sean slices up the orange I toss to him.

  “So, what’s up?”

  He walks over to sit down on the couch and I feel my heart plummet.

  But when he finally tells me what it is, I force myself to smile. I even hug him. “No problem. I get it. And I’m happy for you.”

  Sean suggests we hang out on the couch and watch a movie like we used to.

  “Sure,” I say. “I didn’t have dinner, so you pick something out and I’ll go buy some snacks.”

  As soon as I reach the corner, I collapse against the side of a building, my face in my hands.

  Jody’s lease is up next month. They want to live together. I’m sorry. I know you’ve been going through a lot with the job stuff and everything, Sean had said. She and I can look for a different apartment.…

  But I told him I’d move out. You’ve been here forever. It’s really your place.

  Take as long as you need, he’d replied.

  No job. No relationship. No home.

  I stand there for a long moment, unsure of what to do, gulping in breaths.

  Then I hear a chime—a crisp, faint sound that reverberates through the air, reminiscent of the bell from yoga class.

  I reach into my tote and pull out my phone. On the screen is a brand-new text: Sure you can drop off the jacket, or you can join me and Jane for drinks this Thursday and I’ll get it then? xo, C

  I read it twice. Then I straighten up and push away from the building.

  I make myself wait another thirty seconds, then type, I’d love to join you!

  My breaths are steadier now; my despair is receding.

  As I walk to the deli to grab a few bags of microwave popcorn, I wonder why they’re interested in spending more time with me. But then I remind myself that Amanda didn’t seem to be as glamorous as Cassandra and Jane, yet they were close friends.

  So maybe there is room for me in Cassandra and Jane’s world.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  SHAY

  We tend to like people whom we perceive as similar to us. And the less information we have about a person, the more important these perceived similarities are in influencing our approval.

  —Data Book, page 19

  I’VE SPENT ALL MORNING and some of the afternoon searching for studio apartments online, and I’ve even gone to look at a couple. The first had mousetraps in the run-down lobby and a puddle of water under the refrigerator. The second—described as “quaint”—was so small I wouldn’t have room for any furniture other than my double bed and dresser.

  I’d be completely demoralized and anxious if I weren’t meeting Cassandra and Jane for drinks tonight.

  After I finish checking out the apartments, I stop by Zara, a store that sells designer knockoffs. Both times I met the sisters, they were chic without being trendy. Although the kind of clothes they wear are far outside my budget—the raincoat Cassandra lent me had a Stella McCartney label and my Google search revealed it sells for twelve hundred dollars—I can at least up my game.

  I ask the salesgirl for help, and she puts together an outfit from head to toe, including shoes and a bracelet. She shows me a cute pair of matching earrings, but I tell her I don’t have pierced ears. I wince at the total, but hand over my credit card anyway.

  Next I pop by Sephora and ask a saleswoman for some tips. She ends up overdoing it—my eye shadow is too bright, and my lined lips look strange to me—but I buy a tube of lip gloss and grab a few tissues to tone down the makeup before I leave.

  I swing by home to change into my new clothes and drop off my bags, then I splurge on an Uber to take me to our meeting spot. It’s warm out, and I don’t want to show up sweaty and undo all my efforts. I pull up the restaurant’s menu on my phone so I can pick what I want to drink.

  A jalapeño margarita sounds delicious, but I’m only going to order it if I’m the first one the waiter asks. Otherwise, I’ll follow the sisters’ lead, because people tend to feel more comfortable with those who make similar choices. My slim black pants and gauzy sleeveless top, my coppery eyeliner, even the manicure I gave myself—I can’t pretend it isn’t designed to make these women like me.

  Tons of studies have found that attractive, well-groomed individuals are assumed to possess positive qualities that aren’t even related to their appearance—they’re perceived as being more intelligent, more interesting, and more trustworthy. This is sometimes called the halo effect.

  Maybe that’s why I’ve prepared more for tonight than I ever have for any date, school reunion, job interview, or even Mel’s wedding, where I was maid of honor. I hope it’s enough.

  The Uber pulls over to the curb and I step out. Cassandra gave me an address and the name of the bar—Bella’s—but I don’t see any sign indicating where it is.

  Then I notice a black door with simple silver numbers on it: 242. That matches the address I have.

  I pull open the door and walk to the hostess stand. It’s still light outside, but in here, it’s dim and homey. Instead of the usual booths, it’s like being in someone’s living room—clusters of couches and chairs are grouped together. The furniture is eclectic, but even I can tell it all works together.

  “Do you have a reservation?” the hostess asks.

  A grin spreads across my face. “Actually, I’m meeting some friends.”

  Then I hear my name being called from across the room: “Shay! Over here!”

  Cassandra and Jane are standing at a low, round table toward the back, waving and smiling. I hurry toward them. Their arms open wide to hug me before I even reach them.

  “It’s so good to see you!” Jane says.

  “You look great!” Cassandra adds.

  I feel my skin betray me by flushing again, but this time, it’s with pleasure. I once read that a sincere compliment is so powerful because it activates the reward centers in the brain, creating the same reaction that receiving money does. It truly does feel like a gift.

  I’m especially glad I made such an effort, because Cassandra is in a chic dress with a skinny alligator-patterned belt, and Jane wears a fitted cream leather jacket with dark-rinse jeans and heels. A few guys are sitting at a nearby table, and I see one swiveling his head to check them out. The sisters don’t even appear to notice; this sort of thing must happen to them all the time.

  They’ve claimed the chairs opposite each other, which means I’m in the middle.

  “Oh, before I forget.” I hand Cassandra a sturdy bag from Lululemon. I’d gotten it when I picked up a pair of running tights on sale last year and I’d saved it because it was so much nicer than the usual plastic or cheap paper bags stores give out.

  Now Cassandra’s poppy-colored raincoat is carefully folded inside. Her yoga card and Altoids are in the left pocket, where I’d found them.

  “Thank you!” Cassandra exclaims, almost like I’ve given her a present rather than simply returned the item she lent me.

  “Your arms are so toned!” Jane adds. “That explains the Lululemon bag. Do you have Michelle Obama’s trainer?”

  “Thanks.” I laugh, feeling a little embarrassed. “This place is really cool.” It’s crowded, but the tables are far enough apart that it feels private.

  “Wait until you try the cocktails,” Jane replies. “We love the Moscow Mules.”

  I don’t even know what the ingredients are, but when the waiter comes by, I order one.

  Cassandra leans closer to me. “So, how are you fee
ling?”

  Better than I have in a long time, I think. All my worries about my job, my living situation, even my new phobia, have suddenly receded. I was so distracted getting ready for tonight that it pushed those nagging issues out of the forefront of my mind.

  But I just say, “I’m good. Thanks again for the other day—I hadn’t slept well and I was going through a rough patch.”

  “We’ve all been there.” Jane touches my forearm. “A few months ago, this investment banker I thought I was going to marry broke up with me. I couldn’t even get out of bed, but this one”—she jabs a thumb at Cassandra—“kept bringing me lattes and dragging me to work. If it hadn’t been for her, I’d still be hiding under the covers.”

  It’s hard to imagine anyone breaking up with Jane, I think, watching her full lips curve into a smile, revealing perfect white teeth. But Cassandra nods and says, “Hey, that’s what sisters are for. Well, that and stealing your favorite clothes.”

  We all laugh, and my little breakdown the other day doesn’t feel as humiliating.

  “Three Moscow Mules,” the waiter says, setting down copper mugs garnished with limes and fresh sprigs of mint.

  Cassandra lifts her mug. “Cheers.”

  I clink mine against theirs, then take a sip. It’s icy and refreshing, with a nice kick of ginger.

  The number one rule for getting people to like you is to ask them about themselves. So I lob a question to them.

  “Do you guys work around here?” I already know that they do. By now I’ve checked out their website and even googled a few of their clients: a handbag designer, a gallery owner, and a young actor who has a part in an upcoming independent film.

  They chat for a while about their company, then ask about me. I describe my work as a data analyst and explain I’m temping at a law firm. But I make it sound like I have a lot of leads and it’s only a matter of time before I end up somewhere new and exciting.