Sure, she still had debt that wasn’t paid off, but for the first time it wasn’t getting worse. Charlotte felt like she had a little breathing room, especially with the money she saved on groceries thanks to free bagels in the ChompNews kitchen every morning. Thousands of aspiring illustrators would kill to be exactly where she was. In fact, it was the kind of job she’d always dreamed about—the opportunity to use her skills to help people understand issues that really mattered.
For a brief moment she had her dream job.
And then she woke up.
“I was too junior to know what was going on, but the company was bleeding money. Like every other digital magazine, I guess. Things started to change. The energy shifted.”
It started with the perks: no more free food or kombucha on tap. She dismissed it as innocuous corporate belt-tightening, the kind of budget-trimming a company did when it reached maturity. But then their healthcare policy changed, and premiums soared. Full-time staff writers were fired and replaced by freelancers.
“And then they sold the company, and tons of people got laid off.”
Reece shifted on the towel next to her, sitting up to see her expression. She shrugged, knowing her experience was crappy but unremarkable. Just shy of her one-year anniversary with the company, ChompNews was acquired by a venture capital firm. They promised nothing would change in a bland email lauding the editorial achievements of the brand. Not long after, seventy percent of the staff was fired during a conference call, Charlotte included.
And so she put her succulents and her ChompNews beanie in a cardboard box and started applying for jobs. As her inbox remained silent, she nannied for frantic, beautiful moms in Park Slope and sold some of her clothes on eBay. She kept it together for a while, radically economizing on a diet of bodega noodles, passing on invitations from ChompNews friends to grab drinks at the local queer bar. She was stressed and scared, but not terrified. Not truly screwed.
“Then my wisdom teeth decided to ruin my life.”
Reece groaned. Charlotte flashed him a humorless, toothy smile. She tapped her molars. “Yeah, great timing. No dental insurance, no sick leave, just a credit card.”
“That’s brutal,” Reece said.
Disasters compounded one atop the other: She couldn’t afford to go to the dentist for regular cleanings, and so she didn’t know her wisdom teeth were impacted until she couldn’t ignore the pain anymore. Then she couldn’t afford a good dentist, so she had to wait for a cheap appointment to open at NYU’s dental school. Even then, discount surgery still wasn’t free.
She had to miss nannying for the surgery itself, and for recovery time, which meant even more money down the drain. She wasn’t close with her roommates, and it wasn’t like she had family she could turn to, so she had to manage by herself while loopy on painkillers. Her bad credit went from manageable to monstrous.
“Shit got ugly for a while, financially,” Charlotte said. “I got desperate enough to contact the career center at Hein. And wouldn’t you know it, Roger Ludermore, Class of ’81, was hiring an assistant.”
She didn’t tell Reece about the weeks between the surgery and getting the job at Front End. She had trouble remembering that window of time, when it seemed like maybe she’d be better off not being alive at all. Being a human was expensive, especially in a city like New York, but relocating would cost money too—money she didn’t have. She started walking everywhere, ostensibly to save money on subway fare, but really because the edge of the train platform made her nervous.
Charlotte didn’t think Reece would judge her if she told him about the intrusive suicidal thoughts she had during those terrible weeks. She suspected he would understand. But her major depressive episode felt so far away under the early summer sun, and that chapter of her life was over. She would never let herself be that financially precarious again. She hated Roger, but she never, ever forgot the terror of her own mind suggesting that this could all go away if she wanted it to.
Her boss had saved her from ruin. Whatever nonsense he pulled, however miserable she became at work, it was worth it to pay down her debt and build a new foundation for herself. Every paycheck meant survival. Every holiday bonus meant security.
Front End’s health insurance paid for her antidepressants.
She cleared her throat, mentally changing the subject.
Reece fished a bottled water out of the cooler. He offered it to her, but she shook her head. “Do you still draw?” he asked.
Coming from him, the question didn’t smart. She wasn’t sure why it didn’t bother her the way it did with Jackie—maybe it was the gentleness in his voice. Reece didn’t look at her with expectations of who she could be if she worked harder. He knew that simply getting by could be an accomplishment too.
Reece just let her talk, bearing witness. Sometimes you only needed someone to keep you company while you cleaned out your brain.
What had he asked? Did she still draw. There was a sketch pad in her desk drawer that she hadn’t touched since she bought it years ago, but she knew that didn’t count. She couldn’t exactly brag about her collection of coloring books.
“I submitted to some places,” she said. “But there’s so much competition. I never heard anything back.”
She had a sneaking feeling that Reece could read between the lines, but he didn’t pry. “I loved your portraits in the paper,” he said instead.
“You remember those?”
“You kidding? They were great.” He tapped his knee, squinting as he thought back. “You drew one of Liam when he wrote an op-ed about the new rink. He had it taped in his locker for months. You got his eyes perfectly.”
Charlotte hid her blushing face, touched by his memory. She loved sketching portraits of students who submitted opinion pieces to the student paper. It allowed her to get to know Hein’s many personalities without having to introduce herself. On Wednesday and Sunday afternoons as the paper went into final layout, she holed up in the newspaper office and studied faces from the school directory. Every so often she got a complaint about an unflattering detail, but for the most part her minimalist profiles flew under the radar.
She chanced a look at Reece and found him studying her.
“I thought it was so cool, how much you did with just a few lines. You really see people,” he marveled.
She fought the urge to deflect.
Take the compliment, Thorne.
“Thank you.”
Reece looked proud of her, like he could see her discomfort with his praise. “I’m sorry work stuff sucks,” he said, returning to their original conversation.
“It is what it is. Not everyone gets to be a New Yorker cartoonist.” She stole the water bottle and took a sip after all, her throat dry. “What do you call someone who lives to work but hates her job?”
Reece’s eyes flashed. “A worker exploited by capitalism?”
Charlotte huffed a laugh. “I was going to say a masochist.”
“So you’re not seeing anyone, you work for a jerk, and you don’t have a dog even though you want one. Any hobbies?” His eyes twinkled at her, balancing out his snark.
“I bought myself a weighted blanket for Christmas. It feels like I’m being smothered every time I take a nap. It’s great.”
“I don’t think napping counts as a hobby, no matter how many accessories you buy.”
