19. Small Miracles

“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 believe you managed to fix all of that. I mean, I can, but damn! And Miranda didn’t go nuclear?”

I let out a chuckle. “Nope. She didn’t blow up, and Emily still has a job.” I pause, tilting my head in thought. “She had to have known, though. The whole office was buzzing.”

Doug shrugs and reaches for the wine bottle, refilling his glass. Holding it out to me, he says, “Who knows with her. She’s known for being impossible to read.”

I flick my wrist, brushing him off. “It’s really not that hard. You just have to pay attention. The woman can say more with five seconds of silence than I can in a thousand words.” I shake my head. “People call her an icy bitch, and why? Because she’s not all warm smiles and forgiveness?”

“Or,” Doug counters playfully, “maybe because she fires people on a whim?”

I roll my eyes. “Every man in power does that, and no one blinks. Every male designer I know is a diva, and it’s just... expected. Accepted. But a woman acts the same way—succeeds because of it—and suddenly she’s a monster. Hell, I fell for it too, back when I didn’t know any better. But she compartmentalizes. She separates work and home. Every male CEO does it, and he’s a good businessman. But Miranda does it, and she’s a cold-hearted bitch.”

I take a long sip of wine. Doug watches me a little too closely.

“What?” I ask, after swallowing.

He shrugs. “You like her.”

I glance up at the ceiling, letting the words sink in.

“Yeah,” I say, looking back at him. “I do. I like that she doesn’t mold herself into what other people want or expect. I respect that.”

Doug smiles and leans forward, lifting his glass.

“To badass women.”

I clink mine against his. “I can drink to that.”

We sit in comfortable silence for a few moments, letting the calm settle around us. I need it—after the week I’ve had, after the chaos that’s become my new normal.

I never thought I’d be grateful for Emily’s meddling, but honestly? I don’t think I would’ve survived this week without the practice. The McQueen shoot is finally over, but that just means it’s on to the next fire to put out.

It was a lot to juggle—especially while trying to make sure Miranda could actually leave at a reasonable hour and go home to her girls. My fingers still ache from all the emails, texts, and phone calls it took to make that happen. But I managed it. Every day this week, Miranda was out of the office by six.

I close my eyes and lean my head against the back of the couch, letting out a long, quiet sigh.

As much as I know it’s better for her to be home with the girls, I can’t help but miss those late nights. Sitting in the quiet of her office, editing articles, trading the occasional thought—it was peaceful. I was learning so much. But more than that, it was just... nice.

Relaxing.

And being with her, even silently, felt like something rare—something I haven’t found anywhere else.

These days, I deliver The Book and head straight back to my overpriced, empty apartment. More and more, I find myself not wanting to be there. It’s too quiet. Too still.

Maybe living with three roommates won’t be so bad, I muse. It’s not like I’m ever actually home.

A few more seconds of silence pass before Doug says, “How are you doing?”

I peel open one eye to look at him.

“Really,” he presses. “You look like death warmed over.”

“Well, thanks,” I chuckle, taking another sip of wine and using it as a buffer before I answer.

“I’m okay,” I say. “Work is hard, but it’s energizing, you know? Nothing like a crisis to get the adrenaline going.”

“Then what is it?”

I sigh. Doug clearly isn’t going to let this go.

He really is a good friend.

“It’s my apartment,” I confess. “It’s just me there now, and it’s draining my bank account. I need to move, but you know how it is—finding a place here is a nightmare. And it’s not like I exactly make the big bucks.”

I smile tiredly and shrug. “I’ll figure something out.”

Doug looks at me like I’ve completely lost my mind.

“Andy,” he says. “You know I have a spare room.”

I wave him off. “I could never ask that. I don’t want to invade your space.”

But Doug is already shaking his head before I even finish.

“Seriously, it’s never used. And honestly?” He leans back, cradling his wine glass like it’s something precious. “It’s too quiet here. I’ve been thinking about getting a roommate—just to liven things up.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “I like company. I’ve just been putting it off because I don’t feel like wading through a sea of randos to find someone decent.”

He leans forward, eyes lighting up.

“This could actually be perfect. Come on, Andy. Cheap rent—probably the cheapest in Manhattan—and living with your best friend. We’d both have someone to come home to. The silence’s been getting to me ever since Jay and I broke up.”

It’s his sad smile that does me in.

“Okay, fine,” I sigh. “Maybe it’s the wine, but I can’t come up with a reason to say no.”

Doug pumps his fist in the air, and I squeal as his wine nearly sloshes onto me.

“Watch it,” I say through a fit of giggles. “This is Chanel!”

We spend the rest of the night daydreaming about our new living arrangement. Doug even shows me the spare bedroom, and to my own surprise, I feel a genuine twinge of excitement.

Thank God for good friends—and small miracles.