in the morning there. I swear this woman does not sleep.
“Did the seating chart arrive for the opening tomorrow?”
She’s referring to the opening night of the most recent winner of a network cooking competition’s new sushi place. The irony of me eating incredibly processed chicken soup when I throw opening parties for the top chefs and restaurateurs in New York isn’t lost on me. “It’s in your inbox.” I smirk at myself for being so on top of things.
I hear the treadmill power down and then a shuffling of papers. “It’s right here. I should’ve known. You’re always one step ahead of me, Macy! If I’m not careful, you could easily have my job one of these days.”
I chuckle. “Goodnight...err, good morning, Reka. See you on Monday.”
“Oh, that reminds me. There’s supposed to be a big fashion show next week. We just got the account. I know fashion isn’t your thing, but I may need to help out.”
She’s referring to the fact that I don’t exactly have my finger on the pulse of celebrity culture. It’s rare that I have to work the red carpet of anything other than a restaurant opening—and it’s not my favorite thing to do—but of course I say yes. It must be a big show if she needs all hands on deck.
“Knew I could count on you, Mace,” Reka says being hanging up.
I momentarily consider what it would be like to have Reka’s job. Coming to the office before the ass crack of dawn, leaving at ten, running around like a chicken with my head cut off. I know that’s what it takes to work in New York City’s cutthroat event-planning industry, but I can’t imagine being Reka. One time, when she was on a business trip to LA, she asked me to look for something in her desk and I stumbled upon an entire drawer of blood pressure medication.
Event planning is exciting—the fluttery feeling I get when someone walks down the red carpet I planned, the blinding lights, the never-ending flow of champagne—it’s all so glamorous. I’m a behind the scenes kind of girl. I like to say that I’ve walked many red carpets—it’s just that I’m always in the background of the screaming paparazzi’s shots, speaking into a headset with a clipboard in hand.
I pay for my food and the same graveyard shift cashier who doesn’t speak a lick of English gives me the thumbs-up sign and I give it back. I come to this bodega way too often.
Walking out onto the street, the air is cool and I pull my blazer tighter around me. With each step, the plastic bag from the bodega hanging from the crook of my elbow bumps lightly against my hip. I walk past a line of restaurants with outside seating, the cloth and metal barriers dissecting the sidewalk in two. I walk on the narrow path, smelling a new cuisine with each restaurant I pass. The garlicky, fresh bread scents of a brick oven pizza parlor, the spicy, exotic air of a Thai restaurant, the fresh, gingery smells of a sushi joint—they all tickle my nose as I pass. On the other side of the barrier, couples hold hands across red and white checkered tablecloths, lean in for a wine-soaked kiss or throw their heads back in laughter at their partner’s joke or anecdote.
I look down at my bag full of my measly dinner and walk home more aware of my singleness than I have ever been. I can’t think of the last time I went on a date. Hell, I can’t even remember the last time I hung out with my two best friends.
It has to have been at least a month. I think of Jasmine and Daniella—they’re both so busy with their own lives, I hope they don’t mind that I haven’t been around lately. Ella’s pregnant with her first babies (twins!) and Jazz started a not-so-legal operation out of her apartment selling ganja-infused juices. For the pothead who likes to stay trim!
But, thankfully, they know how much I love my job. It’s always been that way. Even in college, at the parties I threw, Jazz and Dani danced on our dorm-issued giant wooden coffee table while I quietly stacked abandoned red plastic cups and deposited them into the trash, shushing people so none of the RAs would show up. Watching from the sidelines while my friends shone in the spotlight, planning, cleaning up—that was me in my element. I’m happiest when I see other people enjoying themselves at an event I put together. I’m a giver by nature. So it was no surprise that Velvet Rope, Inc. snatched me up right after graduation.
I walk up the steps of my brownstone and then up another flight to my apartment.
Turning my key in the lock, I don’t feel the familiar give of the metal mechanism. I suddenly realize that the front door of my apartment isn’t locked at all. I scrunch my brow. I’ve never, ever forgotten to lock the door to my apartment, but chalk it up to the craziness of the past week. I make a mental note to triple-check the door instead of my usual double-check the next time I leave. Once inside the small foyer, I flip the switch on the wall and the hallway light glows to life. I hang my keys on key holder by the door and kick off my shoes, arranging them neatly so that they’re at an exact ninety-degree angle with the wall. I slide my handbag down my arm and put it on top of the small desk by the front door, fluffing it slightly so that the hobo bag doesn’t droop and cause a slight crease in the leather.
The cold tiled floor of my kitchen feels good on my feet that have been in high heels all day. I go over to the sink to fill the teakettle with water for my soup, but turn off the tap after a few seconds. I hear a creak. I squint, straining to hear if it will happen again or if it’s just my mind playing tricks on me. I turn the tap on and shut it off abruptly when I hear it again, and now it’s undeniable: the sound is footsteps in quick succession, a scurrying, almost like a small animal. I’m too busy to take care of a pet, but I sometimes long for an orange and white tabby to graze its body on my calf with a cheerful purr or a big, goofy dog prancing over with a tennis ball between its drooling jowls. Then I hear the clunk of something knocking into my coffee table in the living room and a harshly whispered, “Dammit!”
Someone is inside my apartment.
The front door. I swear I remembered to lock it this morning. Maybe I did leave it locked and someone figured out a way to break in. But there wasn’t any damage on the doorframe, I remind myself. The only people who have keys are Ella and Jasmine, and we agreed that it would only be in case of emergency. I look down at my phone and don’t see any missed calls or texts from either of them. I hear the small creak of metal springs; someone is sitting on my couch. Oh god! Someone really is in my place. I clutch my phone again, my finger poised above the number nine on the keypad, but realize that if I call the police, the burglars will hear my voice. Actually, they’ve probably already heard me enter the apartment, so I don’t have much to lose. If I enter the living room, they’ll probably run away, maybe even out the fire escape, and I want to get a good look at the bastards. I instinctively take a few steps toward the living room and then stop myself. I really, really have to call the police. But then a whiff of something reaches my nose. It’s not overpowering, but I detect a slight hint of something...burning. Is some maniac lighting my freakin’ apartment on fire?
I rummage through my cabinets. With a large kitchen knife in one hand and a mini fire extinguisher in the other, I charge into the living room like a Spartan soldier.
“Don’t move!” I yell. “I have a knife!”
My feet come to a halt on the carpet when I realize that the lights are dimmed and scattered all throughout my living room are lit tea lights. It’s quite pretty, actually. And then I see Dani and Jazz sitting together in the middle of my loveseat.
“Oh my god, you s-scared me half to death!” I sputter as I put the knife down on one of my bookshelves and drop the extinguisher to the floor. The bravado I had just a moment ago rushes from me in an instant. I brace my hands on the top of my thighs and bend over, panting. “What’s going on?
