One bed between enemies

The toast was on fire. Not metaphorically. Not in the way people said a song was ‘fire’ or a jacket was ‘fire’ or a comeback was ‘fire.’ The toast was genuinely, literally, producing a thin grey column of smoke that was curling up toward the ceiling of Zoey Callahan’s kitchen and setting off the detector above the stove with a shriek that could wake anyone from a medically induced coma. She yanked the plug from the wall, waved a dish towel at the detector until it went quiet, and dropped the blackened bread into the sink. Then she stood there, dish towel in hand, and looked at it. “This,” she said to the bread, “is a metaphor.” The blackened bread did not disagree. From the counter, her phone buzzed. Maya. Because it was 7:48 on a Tuesday morning and Maya Osei had the operating hours of a woman who ran on two hours of sleep and the specific nervous energy of someone who’d once started a shift at 6 AM and ended it at 11 PM and described the whole thing as, quote, ‘a vibe.’ Zoey picked up the phone. Maya [7:48 AM]: have you checked your email Maya [7:48 AM]: check your email Maya [7:48 AM]: ZOEY Zoey [7:49 AM]: I’m burning breakfast Maya [7:49 AM]: you don’t have time for breakfast CHECK YOUR EMAIL She opened the laptop on the kitchen table, the one that also served as her dining table and also her desk and also, on two occasions in the past month, her pillow. The apartment was small in the way that made real estate listings say ‘cozy’ and ‘full of character’ and ‘perfect for a creative spirit.’ She’d signed the lease four months ago, when she could finally afford to. She’d hung curtains in the specific deep green of a forest, stacked books in every corner, put a half-finished canvas against the wall that she kept meaning to go back to, and told herself she was building something instead of just surviving. Most days, she believed it. The email was from Thompson Executive Placement. Subject line: Opportunity – Immediate Start. She read it standing up because she’d learned the hard way not to receive potential good news sitting down. sitting down meant she’d been ambushed, and she’d had enough of being ambushed. The body of the email was three paragraphs. She read the first one twice. The role was Executive Assistant to a C-suite principal; an established firm, confidential at this stage, compensation to be disclosed upon NDA execution. The salary figure in the third paragraph made her breath catch in the specific way of someone who has been counting things very carefully for nine months and has just been shown a number that would let her stop. She sat down. So much for ambush protocol. She called Maya. “So,” Maya said, instead of hello. “Thompson Placement.” “I know, I have you set up with job alerts on three platforms, I saw it come through at five AM...” “Maya.” “You’re going to call them.” “I haven’t decided.” A pause. In the background, the sound of Maya’s apartment, something running, probably the coffee maker, possibly a crime podcast. “Zoey Amara Callahan. The salary.” “I know about the salary.” “Have you seen your bank account recently?” “That’s a personal question.” “We have shared a bed during a blizzard and I have held your hair. I have full personal-question privileges.” Zoey looked at the email. Then at the bread in the sink. Then out the window at the Bushwick street below, where a woman was walking a dog the size of a small horse and arguing with someone on her phone with the particular animation of a person who was both entirely right and completely exhausted by being right. Zoey felt that. “It’s confidential,” she said. “The employer. There’s an NDA before they tell me who I’d be working for.” “So?” “So the last time I trusted a setup I couldn’t fully see, I lost my job, my professional reputation, and eighteen months of work to someone I thought was my friend.” She said it plainly, because they had talked about Brianna Walsh enough times that the emotion had mostly been worn smooth. Mostly. “So I’m allowed to be cautious.” A beat. Maya’s voice dropped a register. “You’re allowed to be cautious. You’re also allowed to call Thompson Placement and ask your questions before you decide. You don’t have to say yes before you know enough.” This was why Maya was her person. Not because she was relentlessly encouraging, she wasn’t, she was a nurse with the bedside manner of someone who had learned that honesty was kinder than comfort but because she understood the specific difference between caution and fear and knew which one Zoey was prone to confusing. “I’ll call,” Zoey said. “Today.” “Today.” “And text me the moment —” “Goodbye, Maya.” She called Thompson Placement at 8:15 AM. Her contact, a woman named Sandra who had the efficient warmth of someone who placed very senior people and had learned to read hesitation at a distance, answered on the second ring. Zoey asked her questions. She had a list, she always had a list. What was the scope of the role? What were the hours? What was the culture of the firm? And, most importantly: could she have any information about the employer before signing the NDA? Sandra gave her what she could. The firm was established, successful, global. The principal was demanding but not unreasonable. The role required discretion, exceptional organizational skills, and the ability to work at a high pace without complaint. “And the employer?” Zoey asked. “Anything?” A pause. The sound of Sandra considering how much to offer. “I can tell you that he prefers silence to conversation and everything else.” Zoey wrote this down. “That’s a man who’s never had anyone push back properly,” she said, mostly to herself. Sandra made a sound that might have been a laugh. “The NDA is standard and protective. Nothing that should give you concern.” She was quiet for a moment. Outside, a siren passed. The lease renewal on her kitchen counter was unsigned. The salary figure was in her head like a number someone had written in permanent ink. “Send me the NDA,” she said. She read it in forty minutes. It was standard. She signed it at 9:03 AM and emailed it back. Sandra called her at 9:11. “The firm is Ashford Group. The principal is Declan Ashford. You’d start Monday.” She wrote the name down. Looked at it. She’d heard of the company, everyone had, vaguely, the way you heard of things that operated at a level you didn’t need to think about but she didn’t know the specifics. She could look them up. “Monday,” she said. “I’ll be there.” She texted Maya: I took it. Seventeen fire emojis arrived in under ten seconds. Zoey put her phone down and looked at the lease renewal on the counter. The pen was right there. She picked it up and signed her name at the bottom with the particular decisiveness of someone who had decided to commit to things she couldn’t fully see. She was getting better at that. She’d start Monday. She had four days to learn everything there was to know about Declan Ashford. She opened a new browser tab. She typed his name. She pressed enter. She read for a long time. When she was done, she closed the laptop and sat with it for a moment. Then she said, out loud, to no one: “All right. Let’s see.” ★ ★ ★