“In your dreams. She’d pick you over me twelve times over ten.”
I laughed, opening the door. “Bye, Pop.”
“See you tomorrow, son.”
Down the stairs I went and back into the street, pointing myself toward Midtown and work, where I’d already turned in my recount of the Gatsby party. It had poured out of me the second I opened my laptop, the remains of the party still fresh and clear and eager to fill pages. The spectacle of it all. The familiar faces.
Stella Spencer.
I’d left her out for obvious reasons, leaning into the atmosphere. That was what people wanted to know, to feel. They wanted to be there, and I hoped I could usher them through the portal I’d been so fortunate to pass through. And with every party I was able to attend, the layers would peel back to uncover the truth, as they always did. Because I already knew there was more going on than it seemed.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the look I’d find on Stella’s face when I rose to her challenge and finagled my way in again, looking for that glass she’d promised me after the taste I couldn’t forget.
It was shaping up to be one of the more memorable assignments I’d taken on.
I’d gone from Columbia to freelancing, submitting articles to everything from the Times to Washington Post to Esquire and Vagabond, hoping to impress someone enough to give me a permanent job. And for five years, that paid the bills. But it was a piece I had done about sex workers—three months of deep on-the-streets research, a broken nose and near stabbing by a pimp, and too many fights with johns to count—that had gotten the attention of my editor and won me the coveted staff writer title. And when I was through with the Bright Young Things, I’d hop a plane and fly into a war zone, so I could experience the pain of those who were stripped of everything in the hopes that maybe, if I did my job well, I could incite some change in the world.
Heat wafted off the pavement as I traversed the six blocks to the office. By the time I walked into the cool, crisp lobby, sweat had dampened my shirt, and I patted myself on the swampy back for deciding on shorts and Vans over jeans and combats.
It seemed like there was music everywhere—from the rock playing in the common areas to our personal preferences playing in our small, glass-walled offices. There were no suits and ties, no pencil skirts and pearls. We weren’t one of those hippie tech companies who didn’t believe in chairs or had Segways to ride through the private dog park, but we were the height of casual. Nobody gave a fuck what you were wearing, and we had everything from bonkers, off-the-runway getups to shredded jeans and Ramones tees. But it was a live and let live sort of place, one that valued originality and beauty in words and imagery above all.
My editor’s assistant, Kendall, rolled her chair over and stuck her head out of her office. “Levi, Yara wants to see you. About the BYT.”
I frowned. “She already read it?”
“Uh-huh.” She winked before rolling back to her desk.
Whatever the hell that means.
I had a hard time believing I was about to get praised. She was going to slash the shit out of my prose, no doubt. Remind me I wasn’t Truman Capote. Tell me the article was canceled. But whatever it was, I doubted it would be good.
I knocked on Yara’s doorframe, interrupting the intense eye contact she had with her computer screen. She blinked and smiled.
“You wanted to see me?” I started.
“I did. Have a seat.” When I did, she snapped her laptop closed and leaned back in her chair. “I read the piece.”
“I heard.”
“You look surprised.”
I shrugged. “When was the last time you read an article of mine within an hour of me sending it?”
A laugh. “Never. But I’m as curious as the next girl about what goes on at those parties. When’s the next one?”
“Next week. You pulling the plug?”
“Nope. I’m here to push you full steam ahead.”
Relieved, I smiled. “Good, probably would have still gone.”
“If you hadn’t, I’d have happily taken your place. Because if it’s anything like you described, it defies imagination. I’m not ashamed to say, I’m jealous as fuck that it was you and not me who got to go. What’s the next theme?”
“Don’t know.”
“Oh, come on. The secret’s protected by our confidentiality agreement.”
“What confidentiality agreement?” I said on a laugh.
“Don’t make me beg.”
“Sorry, boss,” I goaded her even though I really didn’t know the answer. “Guess you’ll find out when I turn in my next piece.”
Yara sighed. “Asshole.”
I smiled. “Anything else?”
“Just that. This is good, Levi. Really good. Like, cover-story good.”
My heart skipped again, this time for new reasons. “You think?”
“It’s what I’m pushing for. Mind if I send notes? If you can send revisions today, I can put it in for proof.”
My brows pinched together. “It wasn’t meant to stand alone. I just needed it out of my head. Material for the big piece.”
“I know, but it never hurts to have something this good locked and loaded. Cool?”
Against my better judgment, I said, “Yeah, cool.”
She offered a winning smile. “If Marcella doesn’t flip her shit, I’m kicking her out and taking her job.”
I laughed at the image of Yara literally kicking our editor in chief out of her chair and sinking her skinny ass into it. “A coup?” I asked as I stood. “You’re gonna need rebels.”
“Good thing I’ve got a whole office of them to enlist. Now get out so I can get your notes together, and don’t leave for the day until you send them back.”
“Yes, sir.”
She snorted a laugh, and I left her office on a track for mine. Yara had put a little swagger in my step with the praise, and by the time I sat down at my computer, I found myself with an abundance of hope.
A cover story. My dream gig when it was done. More parties, where I would see a lot more of Stella, if I was lucky.
And I was feeling real lucky.
4
Little Gold Book
STELLA
With a long, slow stretch, I yawned myself awake.
Judging by the sunlight pouring through my windows, it was well after noon, an unsurprising time to wake, given that I’d walked in the door as the sun was rising, casting my apartment in pinks and purples.
Apartment was perhaps an understatement—a five-thousand-square-foot loft in Tribeca was a coveted real estate purchase by anyone’s standards. A gift from my father when I’d graduated from high school with my name on the deed. His name was on the deed to the building.
My parents’ divorce when I was a little girl had been very ugly and very public, though I didn’t catch the worst of it—my time was spent in the company of nannies and tutors. Dad left our Upper East penthouse on impact, and Mom was as present as ever, which meant I saw her a few times a week in passing. But the upside to their chaos was a newfound level of freedom—I was allowed to have sleepovers whenever I wanted.