The Devil You Know

“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

In college, two months felt like forever. I was a different person between the first day of classes and midterms.  Now, two months is nothing.  “No, the second row will not  be acceptable,” I snap on the phone. “Do I need to remind you that this is Miranda Priestly we’re talking about? She does not sit second row at New York Fashion Week. Or any Fashion Week.” A pause on the other end.  “I don’t care who you’ve reserved those seats for. You’ll unreserve them. Better yet, you’

Just five more steps,  I tell myself, panting and sweating through my winter coat. Just four more steps and I’ll never have to move ever again. I’m leaning against the stairwell, forcing one foot in front of the other, clutching the last box— the last box —with both hands and the raw desperation of someone who hasn’t slept in three days. My knees are buckling, but I push through, fighting to climb just two more— My foot slips. There’s a screeching moment of panic where I imag

“She did what?” Doug sputters, laughing. I lounge back on his sofa—way comfier than the one I picked up off the side of the road and tearfully convinced some massive dudes to help me carry upstairs after Nate left—and take another sip of white wine, grinning. “Oh yeah. Four simultaneous photoshoots, all in pandemonium. Total chaos. Emily rerouted half the stylists to the wrong sets. Now that  was a day.” Doug stares at me in wonder from the other side of the couch. “I can’t b

I’m scrolling through apartment listings, the entire office quiet and dark.  This is pointless,  I think, scrolling past yet another apartment I can’t afford. At this rate, I’ll need at least 3 roommates to make something work. And one of them will have to sleep on a pullout.  I sigh and slink back, my chair gently swiveling back and forth. It’s almost enough to lull me to sleep.  But of course I can’t leave. I’m waiting for The Book, for one thing, and even if I wasn’t, I’d

The twins look absolutely miserable.  Sure, they’re not exactly angels on the best of days, but seeing them slouched in their chairs across from Ms. Newmark’s desk, arms folded, their eyes holding none of their usual mischievous sparkle makes my stomach tighten.  There’s a row of seats set up across the desk, all filled except for the one closest to the door I’m gently closing behind me.  The soft click sounds like a gun shot in the tense silence of the room.  Miranda moves t

“No, Nigel.” I’m typing furiously, messaging with one of McQueen’s underlings. If she thinks having the flu is really going to be enough to reschedule this shoot, she has another– “You don’t even know what I was going to say,” Nigel huffs. In my peripheral vision, he crosses his arms and shifts his weight in annoyance.  “Sure I do,” I reply, not taking my eyes from the screen or my fingers from the keys. “You wanted to move your meeting with Miranda up to this afternoon.”  Ni

I walk into the office Monday morning exhausted and determined.  It’s time to put Mission: Protect the Queen  into effect.  I’ve spent every moment since resolving the Lanvin crisis yesterday wracking my brain for how I can possibly help Miranda with this custody battle. A million potential ideas, none of them good, and each of them digging me deeper into a pit of helpless despair.  At some point—3 AM, maybe later—I start questioning myself. Am I overstepping? It’s presumptuo

More adrenaline junkies should work in publishing,  I think as I lean back in my chair, slipping my heels free from the beautiful but deadly stilettos that have been torturing me for hours. I cross the last item off my list and let out a slow breath. Done. In just under seven hours, we’ve gone from total disaster to a fully organized shoot with a brand-new concept, all fueled by caffeine, sheer willpower, and blind adrenaline. Who needs skydiving? The office feels almost unfa

The elevator doors slide open, revealing the eerily still reception area.  Alright, Andy. Crisis mode, engage. With a quick breath, I step out of the elevator and start for the conference room. I try to exude confidence and competence with each step. I learned a long time ago not to show fear, even when the world seems like it’s crumbling down around you.  “Are you trying to impersonate a deer?” Miranda once taunted me . “One of these days, those big eyes of yours will lock o

I wake up and my cheeks hurt. I think I was smiling in my sleep.    It’s Sunday morning, and my smile widens before I even open my eyes. I pull the covers up to my chest and give into my giddiness, squealing and kicking my feet, sending the covers flying in all directions.    Today’s the day! The day!    I roll over and grab my phone, furiously typing in Runway’s web address. After a few typos, it finally loads, and there it is.    Margot Robbie commands the cover, poised a

My stomach, grumbling loud and actually painful, eventually ends my Survivor  marathon of dissociation. I guess it’s time to be a human again. I haul myself off the couch and head to the corner store, grabbing the bare minimum for jambalaya. It’s a good slow cooker meal—low effort, high reward. I throw a bag of frozen wontons into my basket, too. Something to snack on while I wait. Walking back to my apartment, I roll my eyes, remembering Nate’s irrational jealousy over the s

The phone barely rings twice before my mom’s voice bursts through the speaker.  “Oh, Andy! It’s so lovely to hear from you sweetie, just let me get settled on the couch–RICHARD! Your daughter is on the phone! How are you, sweetie? It’s been so long since you’ve called.”  I can’t hold back my chuckle. They’ve always been this way, and it almost feels like I’m back in Cincinnati instead of leaning against my kitchen counter, New York taxis screeching and screaming nonstop outsi

I stare at the bottle—hard. It taunts me. I bought it with the clear intent to drink and forget my problems. I still want to drink and...