The Devil You Know

I stumble through the apartment door, and it’s like snapping awake after the deepest dream. After we left Central Park, Roy drove us back to the townhouse. I’d expected I’d say goodbye to Miranda and Patricia on the steps and head for the subway, but before I could open my mouth, Miranda just said, “Come along.” So I did. By the time I’d gone through another round of panic-breathe-accepting, I was sitting in my usual chair in the den. Miranda placed a glass of ice water on a

My stay in Wonderland doesn’t end after breakfast.  Like the good houseguest my mom raised me to be, I offer to help with dishes when we’re done. I expect Miranda to let me deal with them while she goes off and does whatever she does on a normal Sunday morning.  Instead, I catch the sound of her footsteps following me to the kitchen sink. With a hopefully subtle glance behind me, I see she’s carrying our coffee mugs.  I guess my glance isn’t subtle enough, because we lock eye

I always say that the key to my job is paying attention. Not that anybody asks, but in the imaginary press interviews I hold in my head, that’s what I say. Every glance, each random comment, any magazine left open on a specific page. Absolutely anything and everything. Sure, some of it (okay, the vast majority of it) ends up being useless. But on the rare occasions when I need it? Priceless. I know Miranda appreciates how closely I pay attention—how I clock the smallest detai

There’s crust in my eyes.  I slide a hand out from under my head to wipe them away, but a ghost sensation is left behind and doesn’t leave, no matter how hard I rub. I drop my hand with a defeated sigh.  Instead of landing against the mattress, it slides to hang off the bed.  Huh?  My bed sits against the far wall of my room, and I tuck myself as close to that wall as possible, still convinced my tossing and turning will send me tumbling to my doom if I sleep too close to the

There’s a white van parked in front of the townhouse. Thank God — they’re here. I can’t get Miranda’s voice on that phone call out of my head. Choked, like she was forcing it not to wobble.  I’ve never heard her like that before.  “Andrea,” was the first thing she said. “Andrea, it’s Patricia.”  As soon as she’d said the words, I had my phone on speaker and was googling the nearest vet willing to do an emergency house call.  “The vet is on their way,” I told her as I finalize

“Andy.”  We had a good time at lunch after the movie.  “Hey, Andy.” At least, I thought we did. Then she dropped me off at my place.  “Aaaaannndddyyyy.”  And then I went to sleep.  “Hellooooo, Earth to Andy.” Ok, well I didn’t go to sleep immediately. I actually stayed up later than I should’ve, going over every moment of the day again and again in my head, too wired to sleep.  “Andy. Andy. Andy. Andy.” And then it was Monday morning, and everything was just … weird.  “Andrea

Miranda’s right: what you wear matters. And today, my outfit is here to solve a mystery. Because really—has a detective ever cracked a case without a trench coat, boots, gloves, and a scarf for dramatic effect? Miranda’s wrong if she thinks I’m going to let this cold front slide. I might not be able to change it, but I’ll be damned if I don’t figure it out. I snap my sunglasses shut and get to work. ***  Case Notes: The Blizzard Subject: Miranda Priestly, alias “The Boss” Inv

The first time I got my period post-makeover, I was a mess, emotionally and physically.  Miranda can snub my cheap, thrift store clothes all she wants, but at least I never had to worry too much about if they got stained. But a Valentino skirt? That’s a very different story.  Today, just like every day Aunt Flow is in town, I walk out of the elevator convinced that everyone developed X-ray vision overnight, and they can see past my well made up facade, to the granny panties a

I shouldn’t be surprised the theater is packed on a Sunday afternoon. Still, the crowd is a bit overwhelming.  “Mom, can we get popcorn?” Cassidy bounces on her toes. We all turn our attention to the concessions line. It’s a warzone.  Moms trying to herd children, comforting screaming toddlers in their arms.  Their husbands shuffle forward like zombies—eyes on their phones, barking into Bluetooth headsets. Somehow, over all of it, I can still hear the sticky squelch of shoes

Laughing, I shove Doug’s feet out of my face.  “Keep that stank to yourself!”  “Rude,” he chuckles. But he moves his feet.  I keep a wary eye on the offenders as I scroll through Netflix’s offerings.  Doug leans back on the couch, lounging, feet tucked close.  For now.  “I remember when Netflix was essentially Blockbuster with delivery,” Doug says, watching me click through options.  I snort.  “Yeah, a DVD delivered right to your mailbox. All so we didn’t have to drive a few

Nigel holds my bag hostage until we’re seated in a little French bistro half a block away from Elias-Clarke.  I go to pick up my menu, but Nigel pulls it from my fingers.  “You have to get the ratatouille, it’s divine.” One corner of his lips curl up into a smirk. “I mean, it’s the only safe choice if you want to keep that size six–sorry, four –figure.”  I flash my teeth in something someone could call a smile.   “You’re lucky I know you’re only half serious. Or else I’d star

Miraculously, Lark arrives on time for her first day. Six-thirty on the dot. Of course, I told her six—just in case. So she’s actually half an hour late. She barrels into the office, barely upright, clutching a tray of coffees like a waitress in a wind tunnel. How none of the cups fly free is beyond me. “I’m so sorry!” she blurts before I can say a word. “My roommate’s cat hid my lucky socks and obviously I couldn’t leave without them, and then the train was late, and I could

“Emily.” Emily and I lock eyes across the room. Unless Miranda’s suddenly decided to downgrade me back to wrong-name status, she really does mean Emily . I can’t remember the last time that happened. Before Miranda has to repeat herself—and all hell breaks loose—Emily scurries into the office. Whatever is said behind that door is too low to catch. A few minutes later, she reemerges, face chalk white and eyes wide, blinking like she’s just stepped out of a time warp. “What is

“Five minutes until we need to be out the door for the Herrera show.” I shove in a new pair of studs and crouch—carefully, so I don’t rip my skirt—scanning the floor for the heels that go with this outfit. “Bloody hell, I know,” Emily hisses from across the room. She’s not mad at me—probably—the schedule is just brutal. New York Fashion Week is not for the faint of heart. I’m just grateful I’m not also jet-lagged this time. I jam my feet into the nearly-too-tight heels—not ma

“I really wish you hadn’t done that, Andy.” I step onto the sidewalk and press my phone tighter to my ear, weaving through the crowd outside the station. The cold slices at my cheeks, and I yank my scarf higher. I can practically see my mom on the other end of the call—head down, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I know, Mom,” I say, trying not to raise my voice over the passing traffic. “But it’s what I needed to do.” “I just don’t understand why you had to make it such a bi

It’s packed tonight. Bluefin is wall-to-wall with sushi platters, glittery drinks, and people dressed to celebrate in their own style. I’ve never seen so much black without it being weighed down by death. Of course, there has been a death of sorts. Doug is reading the fallout now, my phone lighting up his face. I shove another sushi roll into my mouth and try to focus on the sparkly decorations hanging from the walls and ceiling instead of my restless, twitching foot. It’s no

When did holiday dinners start feeling like interrogations? “Cancel culture has gone too far,” Gammie huffs. “All my friends’ grandkids are cutting them off. Why? Because they voted differently? They’re ungrateful, is what they are.” I plaster on another fake smile, brittle and tight. If I open my mouth, nothing kind will come out. I’m wedged between my “progressive” grandmother, my white-savior uncle, and across from a grandfather whose entire personality is being a retired

New Jersey is fucking cursed .  I’m a sweaty mess, sprinting to Gate 63. There’s no way I’m making it.  It’s not like I didn’t plan ahead. I’m a 2-hours-early-to-the-airport sort of girl. I went through security, sat comfortably at my gate—plenty of time before boarding. EWR is simply cursed.  They changed the gate on me. Instead of Gate 42, I’m suddenly sprinting to Gate 63—through another damn security checkpoint, because sure, that makes sense. So here I am, running up to

After three nights of editing with Miranda at the townhouse, you’d think I’d be past the strangeness of it. And mostly, I am. Just like when she first handed me that red pen in her office, our nights in the den are quiet. Companionable. Mellow, even. In just a few days, I’ve already settled into the rhythm of it. But tonight is different. Tonight, I won’t just be leaving my work for her to pick apart—I’ll be sitting across from her while she does it. I swallow hard, standing

Legal meetings are a lot like papercuts. You don’t notice the sting until you’re already bleeding. I don’t say a word the entire time—just type, nod, and pretend not to notice how Miranda’s hands clench tighter every time her lawyer says “visitation” or “best interests.” Is this really the best they can do?  I seethe. Are they giving up already? I can’t imagine why. So what if Miranda’s a single mother? She was one before she married Stephen, and it’s not like Dick tried to u