Misery

The Debrief

The clinking of glasses was already loud by the time I slid into the booth. Gia had insisted on a round of margaritas before I’d even taken off my coat, and Simone was halfway through hers, laughing at something Max had just said. Jordan, of course, was holding court at the end of the table, gesturing wildly with his hands like he was auditioning for Broadway.

“Finally,” Gia drawled, leaning in to kiss my cheek. Her glossy curls bounced under the low restaurant lights. “We were about to send a search party.”

“I had work,” I said, squeezing in between Simone and Mira. “Unlike some of us.”

“Darling, life is work,” Jordan declared, flipping his silk scarf over one shoulder. “And tonight, my job is to make sure you spill every last detail about this man Mira’s been hinting about.”

Mira smirked into her drink. “I didn’t say man.”

“You didn’t have to,” Max said, wagging a perfectly groomed brow. “We know that look on your face. The Angela-met-someone look.”

I rolled my eyes, grabbing the fresh margarita Simone had slid my way. “There is no look. There is no someone. There is only tequila.”

Simone, all legs and cheekbones in a slinky black dress, leaned back against the booth. “Oh, there’s definitely someone. Mira texted the group chat in all caps.”

“That was for emphasis,” Mira defended, eyes sparkling.

I groaned. “You people are vultures.”

“Sexy vultures,” Jordan corrected.

Laughter rippled around the table, and I hid behind my drink, praying they’d lose interest. But of course, they didn’t.

“Spill it,” Gia demanded. “We want height, build, hair, occupation, shoe size, preferably illustrated with pictures.”

“Six-four,” Mira jumped in before I could stop her, “dark brown hair, suit that probably cost more than my rent, and-“

“Mira.” My voice cracked like a whip.

She raised both hands in mock surrender, though her grin didn’t falter. “Just saying.”

Simone leaned across the table, eyes narrowing at me. “Angela, why are you blushing?”

“I’m not,” I shot back, stabbing a tortilla chip into the salsa with more force than necessary.

“You totally are,” Max said, his laugh spilling into the din of the restaurant.

Gia smirked. “So who is he?”

Mira opened her mouth, but I cut her off. “We’re not doing this.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Nope,” I said firmly, shaking my head. “He’s nobody. Just a client. End of story.”

“End of story, my ass,” Jordan muttered, earning another round of giggles.

I forced a smile, shifting the spotlight back onto them. “Aren’t we supposed to be talking about Simone’s disaster date last week?”

Jordan slapped his hand against the table, nearly spilling Gia’s margarita.

“Wait. Back up. You’re telling me a six-four man in a custom suit, who smells like a black card, stares at you like dessert, and you don’t slip him your number? Angela, baby…why are you making life harder for yourself?”

The table dissolved into laughter again, everyone nodding along. Simone even raised her glass in mock solidarity.

I rolled my eyes, but my face betrayed me, I could feel the heat creeping up my cheeks. “Because I’m not reckless. Because this isn’t a rom-com. And because I was… working.”

“You’re impossible,” Jordan groaned, shaking his head. “A gorgeous woman like you, and you’re out here practicing celibacy like it’s Lent.”

“Gorgeous woman,” Gia echoed, raising her brow. “He’s right, Ange. You walk into a room, and people notice. Every time. Don’t pretend you don’t know it.”

I hated when they did this, throwing the mirror back at me. But they weren’t wrong.

I wasn’t the type to turn heads everywhere I went, but I held my own. Brown hair, brown eyes, curves in the right places, someone once told me I favored Eva Longoria, and I hadn’t forgotten it. Tonight, in a black slip dress and heels, I looked polished enough.

Or at least, that’s what I wanted people to think.

“Exactly,” Jordan said, cutting through my thoughts. “Any other woman would have slipped him her number with the receipt.”

“Good thing I’m not ‘any other woman,’” I shot back, taking a slow sip of my drink.

Mira, perched beside Simone, hid her grin behind her glass. She was dying to say more, I could tell, but she knew better than to push me too far in front of the group.

It had been three years since my last real relationship, and not once in that time had I been tempted to start again. Not with the men I kept meeting, boys in grown men’s bodies, fragile egos and strange mommy issues. I’d sworn off the whole thing. Dating felt like a sport played with weak rules and weaker minds, and I didn’t have the energy to coach anyone back into shape.

Work was cleaner. Work was dependable. Work gave back exactly what I put in.

Or at least, that’s what I told myself whenever the nights got too quiet.

By the time I got home, the city was quiet enough to hear my heels against the pavement. I slipped out of my dress, pulled on an old T-shirt, and sat on the couch with my laptop. The first thing I did, before even pouring a glass of water, was open my banking app.

There it was again: another message from my mom. I typed in the amount, hit send, and leaned back against the cushions with a sigh.

Taking care of her was the one thing I could do right, even if the guilt of not being there never really left me.

I shut my eyes for a second, letting the silence fill the room. And then, against my better judgment, my fingers typed it out.

Michael New York.

The results popped up instantly, articles, company profiles, even a few photos. I hovered over one, pulse quickening, but snapped the laptop shut before I could look too closely.

“This is ridiculous,” I muttered, rubbing my forehead. “Completely ridiculous.”

I turned off the lamp, slid under the covers, and told myself not to think about him again.

Which of course meant he was all I thought about as I drifted off to sleep.

My alarm hadn’t even gone off when my phone buzzed on the nightstand. I groaned, dragging the covers over my head, but Mira’s name lit up the screen.

“Do you ever sleep?” I croaked into the phone.

“Not when heaven itself delivers fabric,” she shot back, her voice bubbling with excitement. “Angela, you need to see this. It just came in. It’s stunning.”

I sat up, instantly awake. Mira was dramatic on most days, but I could hear the sincerity in her voice.

“What is it?”

“An ivory silk with the faintest sheen. It feels like… I don’t even know. Like butter. No mistakes this time, I swear. You’re going to lose your mind.”

The exhaustion slipped off me like water. I threw back the covers, already mentally piecing designs together. “Don’t touch it until I get there.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Mira promised.

Twenty minutes later I was out the door, hair pulled into a low bun, sunglasses hiding my barely-there makeup. Coffee in one hand, I hailed a cab and tapped my foot impatiently the whole ride.

By the time I burst into the studio, Mira was already standing by the rolls of fabric, arms crossed like a queen guarding her treasure. She pulled back the protective covering with a flourish.

My breath caught. She hadn’t exaggerated. The silk gleamed under the overhead lights, fluid and rich, begging to be transformed.

“Oh,” I whispered, reaching out to touch it. The coolness slipped through my fingers, smooth as water. “Mira… this is it.”

Her grin stretched wide. “I told you.”

For the first time in weeks, excitement surged through me, eclipsing the restless thoughts that had kept me up the night before.