Three days later, I finally caught a break from the onslaught, and the brief lull in a morning of back-to-back calls allowed my brain to wander back to the events of the last happy hour. I needed to figure out who had started this rumor. I shot Carmen a message, even though I knew she had a closing the next day for Jordan’s deal.

From: Alexandra Vogel

To: Carmen Greyson

Subject: HUGE Favor

I really need to chat. Are you around? Know you’re swamped. But, PLEASE. I’m in my office for the next few hours.

Carmen breezed into my office three minutes after I had hit send, her skin clear and taut and her bright blue eyes alert despite the stress I would have imagined she was under, shut the door, and took a seat.

“You look amazing for having a closing tomorrow,” I said, then realized how it sounded. “I mean, you look really good, period. Which is impressive considering you have a closing tomorrow!”

She smiled with a slight bow of her head. Something was different. She really did look . . . She had to be dating somebody. Everybody looks better when there is somebody to look better for. But she was looking better in the office! Was she dating somebody at work?

“I’m hiding the stress well, I guess. Actually, Jordan is making this closing really smooth for me. It’s sort of a complicated deal, so Jordan’s holding my hand a bit.” She had said his name twice in three sentences, but moreover, she’d said it as though she loved saying it, and was itching to say it a thousand more times. It’s Jordan she’s been looking so good for lately, I thought. I wondered if he was reciprocating. “But I have to get back to it soon. What’s up?”

I shook the thoughts of her and Jordan away, knowing I didn’t have much time, and launched into my deposition. “Have you heard a rumor about me?”

Her eyes widened in what resembled panic before her face settled into her classically inscrutable expression, and she gave a slight shake of her head. “What? No. Why? Have you heard one about me?”

I couldn’t tell if she was expertly deflecting or legitimately wondering, but she looked genuinely worried. “No. Why would I have heard one about you?” She’s definitely sleeping with Jordan, then. I didn’t wait for her to respond. “Everybody was looking at me funny at happy hour.”

She scoffed. “That’s all? That’s just how lawyers look. We’re all socially awkward! You’re being silly.”

“And then Derrick accused me of sleeping with Matt.”

Carmen coughed on my last word. “What? Matt Jaskel?” She glanced over her shoulder to confirm that my door was closed. “Are you?” she whispered, even though it was. She was either a very good actress, or completely shocked.

“No! Jesus. No.”

“I’m just confirming before I say what I was about to, which is that that is absurd! Nobody is saying that.” She was almost laughing.

“Everybody is saying it! Nancy, Derrick, Jordan. And I’m not being paranoid. Everybody was looking at me suspiciously. I want to die. But honestly, between Stag River and National, I’m way too busy to buy arsenic. Tell me the truth—do I need to switch firms?”

“Al, don’t even kid about that. You can’t leave Klasko. I need you here. And nobody would ever believe that. Ever. I trust that Nancy girl as far as I can throw her. She’s so weird, and definitely has a thing for Jordan.” Despite the fact that her response was a classic deflection, she also had a point. I watched as her expression clouded over. “Would you ever sleep with somebody at work?”

“I don’t think so. Why?” I asked gently, trying not to scare her off.

“You know what, never mind! Don’t pay attention to people. And I’m so sorry, but I really have to go. I have a closing!” She was out of her seat before I could say another word.

Carmen was right. Nobody actually believed the rumor. Plus, screw them! They were probably just jealous because I was making inroads with the M&A team. I was certain the hostility would dissipate after we were all placed into groups. I could handle the cattiness for a few more months.

*

Just before Klasko partners migrated south to St. Barth’s or east to Chamonix, the firm held its annual Winter Ball. As Jordan explained, it was formerly known as a Christmas party, and then a holiday party, until the idea of offending anybody who did not observe a winter holiday overwhelmed firm management to such an extent that they created a Winter Ball instead. The entire firm and our plus-ones descended on the Pierre Hotel like a plague, a swarm just shy of a thousand. Everybody was invited. The mailroom. The librarians. Secretaries. Lawyers. Plus-ones.

Carmen, Kevin, and Derrick left without me, since I’d been stuck on a call with Stag River, so I hurried over to the Pierre solo, trying to beat Sam there so he didn’t have to navigate the party alone. As I entered the ballroom, my eyes were pulled skyward by the ornate crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, and then down to take in the rich red carpeting, dotted with male attorneys wearing exactly what they wore to the office and female attorneys taking a few fashion liberties they might not otherwise—skirts a few inches higher and blouses a few lower. Their dates stood out more because they wore nonbusiness clothing than because I didn’t recognize their faces from around the office. I was wearing a new high-waisted burgundy skirt from Aritzia with a white silk blouse from Intermix, an outfit I hoped was just conservative enough to be appropriate and just playful enough to be considered “festive” attire.

“Love your skirt,” Mike Baccard’s wife mouthed at me as he led her past me into the crowd. The compliment lightened and straightened me. I entered with my shoulders back, my neck stretched long. I was going to present myself as above it all, blissfully above the rumors and politics swirling around my ankles.

I accepted a glass of white wine from a passing server as I scanned the crowd for Sam, not able to spot him at first but taking in the scene on the dance floor. Almost no attorneys danced—I guessed they were not drunk enough yet—but Darlene from the mailroom, who always moved my documents to the top of her printing queue, was grinding against Isaac from accounting, who never bothered Jordan about our expenses, with little regard for the gawking onlookers.

I spotted Jordan and his wife, Jessica, looking the picture of marital bliss as they chatted with another couple. I hoped people would notice that Sam and I fit together as well, quashing the Matt Jaskel rumors once and for all. As I looked at the bar in the far corner, I saw Carmen ordering a drink, but just as I started off toward her, a hand slipped around my waist and I smiled. Sam. As soon as I turned to face him, though, my smile faded. I took in his vintage-style maroon velvet blazer, blue button-down, and the ill-fitting black jeans he’d chosen to complete the look.

“Holy shit, this is a classy affair! Is this okay?” he asked, fastening his one jacket button—the other was missing, but had left hanging thread behind as a parting gift.

I searched his face, wondering if he was deliberately attempting to embarrass me with this absurd outfit—was it a prank?

“What happened to the clothes I left on the bed?” I asked through a clenched smile. I’d laid out the tweed blazer and white French-cuff shirt I’d gotten him to wear with his cuff links, plus a smart blue tie. It would read start-up, tech nerd, cool and chic.

“I’m not a child, Alex. I can dress myself.”

I shot him a look. All evidence was to the contrary, but there was nothing I could do about it right now. I took a long swig of oaky chardonnay and searched for a way to get him away from the ballroom entrance, where a number of the partners were congregating to meet their wives.

“I want you to say hi to Carmen,” I said as cheerily as possible, and led him farther into the ballroom to the bar. They greeted each other warmly, having already met a few times in Cambridge, as I glanced around the room.

“Is it open bar?” Sam whispered into my ear. I nodded, relieved nobody else had heard him. I was fairly sure the Pierre didn’t offer a cash bar option. “Shots?” he asked eagerly.

“Don’t you have to run early tomorrow? Are shots a good idea?” I asked gently.

“I don’t think I can train for the marathon anymore. Work is ramping up, and I don’t have the time.”

As he spoke, I wondered if this was true or if he felt the need to overstate how busy he was, in this ballroom dripping with industriousness and capitalism.

“I definitely get that,” Carmen said. “But the training is just such a great way to stay in shape, so it’s cool you’ve been doing it, even if you don’t end up running the race.”