Her boss had become a media darling over the winter when he gave a talk about philanthropy at the World Economic Forum in Davos. His impassioned, heavily ghostwritten case for helping as many people as possible, as efficiently as possible, won him new fans in Silicon Valley. It was all bullshit, as far as Charlotte could tell, but Roger’s face clogged her LinkedIn timeline for weeks after a hustle culture guru shared a clip of the speech to his millions of followers. Roger launched the podcast shortly after, eager to capitalize on the attention. Charlotte found it unlistenable, but Hein’s Reunion & Commencement Committee probably hadn’t gone beyond a cursory Google search before booking Roger to speak at graduation. It helped that he was a Hein alum too. Class of 1981.
She considered her sneakers. Too dusty. She replaced them with her favorite pair of loafers, the leather worn and soft.
Roger’s voice flattened into a sneer. “You have a lot riding on this weekend too. Don’t forget I make my recommendation for the art job on Monday.”
Charlotte stiffened at the warning-slash-threat. Her thumb rose to her mouth, teeth worrying the skin at the edge of her nail.
Of course, she wouldn’t forget. If everything went smoothly during the next four days, she would finally be free of Roger’s petulant tyranny. The potential transfer to the art department was the only reason she hadn’t told her boss to go fuck himself when he instructed her to book a train ticket so that she could live-tweet his address. Nothing else would have gotten her to come back to Hein University.
Deep breath in. Hold it. Release.
“Yes, sir,” she recited in her best Siri impression. “Aubrey booked you a taxi from the train, and I’ll meet you on campus when you arrive on Sunday.”
“Excellent.” She heard ice clatter into a glass on the other end of the line. Then the hiss of alcohol meeting the cold. Vodka, if she had to guess. “So lucky you’re a Hein grad too, Charlotte. I didn’t even have to get you a hotel room.”
Roger laughed at his own joke as she willed him to burst into flames. The line went dead; he’d hung up.
Charlotte returned to the mirror and let out a sigh of relief. There. That worked. She could pass as fine. Older, but put together.
Adulthood looked nothing like she’d expected it to when she walked across the President’s Lawn and received her diploma five years ago. She had four pairs of pantyhose, a roommate who communicated through rude Post-it notes, and a moderately helpful antidepressant. Whatever she’d imagined of her future, it wasn’t working for a man like Roger Ludermore.
As long as no one asked her, “No, really, how are you?” she would get through this weekend with a guaranteed promotion and her dignity intact.
—
TEXT MESSAGE FROM NINA DORANTES TO CHARLOTTE THORNE, 5:03 PM: Are you here yet?
TEXT MESSAGE FROM CHARLOTTE THORNE TO NINA DORANTES, 5:08 PM: Yes, room 107. Meet you in front of Randall?
TEXT MESSAGE FROM NINA DORANTES TO CHARLOTTE THORNE, 5:18 PM: YAY
“Look who it is,” Nina boomed from her perch on a stone bench outside the dorm. “The queen of Brooklyn!” She stood to her full five foot eleven in a black jumpsuit and bright hoop earrings, her dark hair swishing in a perfect curtain, and threw her arms out for a hug. Charlotte had a moment to blink up at her before Nina squished her tight.
“Hi, Nina.” Charlotte untwined herself from her ex-girlfriend’s grip. “You look amazing. You’re so jacked!”
“You’re a sweetheart.” Nina flexed a biceps. “You can thank six months in Peru for that.”
Nina had just returned from a research assignment in the Amazon. Charlotte followed her adventures on Instagram, scrolling through pictures of water lilies and poison dart frogs as she waited for the subway. They hadn’t talked in…
Oh jeez, how long has it been?
But social media made it easy to keep in touch without keeping in touch.
“You put the bod in botanist,” Charlotte joked.
Nina snorted and nudged Charlotte’s shoulder with her own. “You’re terrible. Where’s Jackie?”
“Stuck in L.A.”
Nina tutted and folded her arm through Charlotte’s. “You’ll just have to settle for me, then.”
Nina and Charlotte met during orientation at Acronym, the LGBTQIA+ program house at Hein. They fell madly in lust during a mixer for queer freshmen and transfer students, wisecracking about the baseball bros in Nina’s dorm who’d already gotten in trouble for mooning the university president. Charlotte was too enchanted to be annoyed when Nina teased her about their height difference: I’d like to kiss you, but we might need a step stool.
Nina held herself with bulletproof confidence. Under the surface, she struggled with feeling unwelcome just as much as Charlotte did—even more so as a woman of color at a fussy New England school. But she presented a strong front, asserting her right to belong in every room, an energy that Charlotte found deeply appealing. She glommed on to Nina like a life preserver.
They delighted in flirting openly, holding hands in the cafeteria and fooling around back at Randall Dorm when Charlotte’s roommate was at the gym. Charlotte didn’t have to worry about her mom catching them together or explain why she returned home wearing last night’s clothes. Plus, she could tag along with Nina to parties without feeling like a clueless, uninvited frosh.
And what a joy it was to be wanted…Charlotte liked to watch Nina from across the room and think, That woman picked me. Acceptance was a heady drug.
But Nina didn’t just want to be wanted—she wanted a real relationship, one rooted in commitment and vulnerable conversations. Nina addressed conflict head-on and maintained healthy, firm boundaries, while Charlotte dreaded advocating for her needs. She’d only just moved out of her mother’s house; dissecting her attachment style was the last thing Charlotte wanted to do. When Nina told Charlotte she wanted more, Charlotte balked.
Why her, really? Why would Nina choose her?
And college had only just started. Surely they were too young, and Hein was full of people for them to meet and make mistakes with. Settling down so fast had to be risky. It was better for them to stay independent, and heck, they could always change their minds.
“You’re an idiot,” Nina told her when Charlotte found the courage to break things off after Thanksgiving. Charlotte’s hands shook, but her new ex-girlfriend rolled her eyes and patted her on the shoulder. “But that’s okay. Give me three weeks of space and I’ll forgive you.”
That was exactly what happened, and they’d been friends ever since. Nina fell in love with Eliza, a temperamental butch in the computer science program, and they built the relationship she wanted. Charlotte found the best friend she craved in Jackie, who worshipped Nina’s sophistication from the moment they met. Charlotte and Nina had been platonic for so long that she almost forgot they used to date.
“Tell me about your fancy job!” Nina prodded.
On the walk to their class reception, Charlotte regaled Nina with the silly work anecdotes she saved for moments like this. The benefit of working for a magazine with name recognition was that people didn’t expect her job at The Front End Review to suck, and they only wanted to hear the glamorous gossip. She started with the controversial founder of a ride-sharing app with a surprise allergy to pineapple. His tongue had swelled up to double its normal size during an interview, much to the delight of the photographer assigned to shoot his portrait.
She saved her less fashionable work stories—Roger’s unrelenting phone calls, and the venture capitalist who left a spare hotel key on her desk with a vulgar note—for another time.
Preferably after several drinks.
Or never.
