I needed to call him. But I needed a wet nap first. I made my way to the bar and leaned over its shiny mahogany surface to get the bartender’s attention.

“Well, well, well. Look who graced us with her presence.” I looked up to see Derrick grinning at me from a barstool.

“Another drink, milady?” he offered. “Everybody’s been talking about Skippy from M&A tonight. You’re the toast of the town. First first-year ever to cop an invite to Miami. However did you manage that?”

I ignored him.

“Excuse me, please, I need a wet nap,” I said to the bartender, hearing the slur in my words.

“What would Matt say if he saw you like this?” Derrick’s tone had turned almost hostile.

“Sam,” I corrected him.

“What?”

“My girlfriend’s name is Sam, not Matt. Excuse me! Can I have a wet nap?” I yelled at the bartender, holding up my buffalo-stained fingertips.

“Girlfriend? What would Matt say to THAT?” he laughed. I eyed the empty shot glasses lined up in front of him, counting six. I looked back at Derrick, realizing he must be drunker than I was.

The bartender handed me a foil packet, which I tore open with my teeth after thanking him. I scrubbed my fingertips, watching the moist lemon-scented towelette turn sunburn orange, then stuffed it into one of the empty shot glasses.

The meaning of Derrick’s question finally dawned on me. “Jaskel? Why would Matt care?”

Derrick took a sip of his drink. “Because you’re fucking him.” My body stiffened. “Come on, don’t act like it’s not true. And here I thought we were friends! You should have told me!” He put his hand over his heart in feigned offense.

I stared at Derrick, hoping he would crack a smile to let me know that he was joking, but he didn’t. My knees went rubbery as all the sideways glances in my direction throughout the evening formed a montage in my mind.

“I’m not,” I whispered, shaking my head.

“Are you okay? Shit, Alex. I was messing around. I’m an asshole. You look really pale. Al? Hello?” He squeezed my arm, but I shrugged away and then ran past him and into the bathroom, where I vomited fatty orange chicken skin and straight vodka into the sink. The spice of the buffalo sauce on its way up stung my raw nostrils and then my brain. I gagged and vomited again, then looked into the mirror at the auburn goop dripping down my chin. I ran the water in the other sink to clean up, leaving the first sink to bubble and belch as it slowly drained the vomit.

“Ew. Get your shit together,” a woman said as she exited the stall, brushing past me and out into the bar.

Please, God, let me not remember this in the morning.

*

When Sam’s alarm went off at six thirty, he let the beeping continue long after his eyes were open, probably just to annoy me. As I lay perfectly still with my eyes closed, refusing to play his game, last evening rushed in on me, and I felt tears spilling out of the corners of my closed eyes. He finally pounded the button on the top of his alarm with his fist and stumbled into the bathroom. My head wasn’t pounding with a hangover just yet, but my brain was moving sluggishly—which meant I was probably still drunk. I tried desperately to fall back asleep, but the image of Derrick waiting for me outside the bathroom and putting me in a car poked at my mind. I couldn’t remember coming home or waving to our doorman or getting undressed, though. I smelled my hair and breathed into my palm. It smelled fine. At least I brushed my teeth. My heart began to race. I’m going to puke. I dismissed the option of running to the kitchen sink—we didn’t have a garbage disposal, and also, it was too pathetic to vomit in a sink twice in fewer than six hours. I took a small sip of water from the glass on my nightstand and a deep breath, hoping I could wait out Sam’s shower. He finally emerged in a towel and stared at me, as if he was struggling to choose his words.

I spoke before he could. “I’m going to work from home today. So, if you get out early . . .” I trailed off, keeping my voice sweet.

Sam’s arms dropped to his sides, the bathroom light illuminating his frame, and he grinned. “I thought you forgot!” He looked so touched, I thought he might cry.

I was glad the room was dark enough to obscure my confusion. Forgot what? “You don’t have to,” he went on. “I have a really good feeling about this meeting. But that is seriously like . . . so . . . nice.”

Meeting. Shit. The final investors meeting. That is today. I can’t believe I came home so late last night.

“I have a good feeling too. But I’ll be here. And we can have dinner in or out, whatever you want. We can just hang out and be together.”

“I really appreciate it,” Sam said, making his way to my bedside and bending low to kiss me goodbye. “Wish me luck,” he whispered, lips still so close to mine that I could smell his toothpaste.

“Good luck! I love you!” I called after him, hearing a bit of desperation seasoning my tone.

I threw off the covers before the front door even clicked shut, and made it to the bathroom, but not all the way to the toilet, where I vomited up the bile in my stomach. I lay crumpled on the bathroom floor for a few moments before trusting myself to get up. I Cloroxed the tiles, scrubbing to get the grout back to white, catching glimpses of my slightly green face in the mirror, and lay back down to nap while intermittently answering emails.

By ten o’clock, I thought Jordan might be at his desk, and I grabbed my phone to call him.

He picked up after one ring. “Skippyyyyy!”

A salty tear slipped into the side of my parted lips from my cheek. “I’m working from home” was the only declarative statement I could manage.

“I figured! Heard you puked. All-star happy hour showing, Skippy.”

I started to cry silently.

“Skip? You okay?” I couldn’t speak. “Hello?” I could hear a hint of concern in his voice.

“Does everybody think I’m sleeping with Matt?” I whispered.

Silence. More silence.

“Let me close my door. Okay. Hi. Um . . . why?”

My heart squeezed its way into my throat. “Who did you hear it from?”

“Doesn’t matter. I can’t remember.”

He was lying. I stood frozen in the middle of my bedroom floor, attempting to discern whether I’d need to run to the toilet again. I breathed in, swallowed, and relaxed.

Jordan finally spoke. “I think maybe Nancy. I told her it wasn’t true. And, seriously—nobody who knows you would ever believe that.”

“There are only like five people at this firm who actually know me!” My voice was almost a shriek, an entirely new register for me.

“Look, Skip, I don’t mean to sound harsh here, but you gotta toughen up. When rumors fly, you’re doing something right. Who cares what these other people think? You’re part of our crew. That means you’re going to get a lot of shade thrown your way.”

I allowed myself a small smile, not that he could see it. “Yeah,” I sniffled.

“Throw yourself into work. This place is a prison, but sometimes you want to be locked away from everything else. That’s what I always do when my life is shit. And it’s gotten me this far.”

“Yeah,” I said, and steadied my breath. “It’s a good distraction.” I hung up, took a shower, and called my email to life again, feeling somewhat ready to face the day.

From: Peter Dunn

To: Alexandra Vogel

Subject: FW: Stag River

Alex, see below. Gary Kaplan specifically requested you on the acquisition of Tremor Inc. That’s something to be proud of!

—Peter

My heart sank. I contemplated saying I was already staffed too heavily for the next month, but all first-year staffing went through Courtney, the staffing partner, so she’d know exactly what my capacity for new work was, and Peter could easily find out. All I could hope was that there wouldn’t be any face-to-face meetings for the deal. I shivered in disgust and shoved the feeling down so far I barely registered it.

From: Alexandra Vogel

To: Peter Dunn

Subject: Re: FW: Stag River

Peter,

I’m flattered! Please let me know when I can get started.

—Alex

I watched as my in-box began to flood: Anna reminding me that I was delinquent in recording my time; Mike Baccard announcing that Klasko had been honored with yet another humanitarian award; Howard Kravitz, the head of PR, warning us not to answer calls from any reporters asking for comment on a partner’s son allegedly paying another student to take his SATs; dozens of emails between me and Jordan, hypothesizing which partner the email was referring to; and all the while, hundreds of messages regarding my active deals devoured my attention. The deluge mercifully squeezed the anxiety from my consciousness, and after a few hours, my small laptop screen was straining my vision. I arched my back, stretched my arms, and turned on the cold water in the shower.

I stuck a Post-it to the refrigerator:

Had to just head in for a few. Be back no later than 6. I’ll be sending you good vibes all day. Can’t wait to hear about it.

X, A

I headed to midtown, and didn’t leave the office again for seventy-two hours.

Chapter 15