26. Ten, Nine, Eight …

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 good, though. I’ve read those texts so many times, not even the drunk banter between Andy and Anderson on the corner TVs can keep me from reciting them over and over in my head. 

Hi Jay and Amber,

I’ve been thinking a lot since Christmas—and honestly, long before that—about where I want to put my energy going forward. After a lot of reflection, I’ve decided that I need to step back from our relationship.

I’m not making this decision lightly. But the truth is, our dynamic often leaves me feeling smaller. I’ve felt dismissed, talked down to, and asked to perform emotional labor that’s frankly not mine to carry—whether that’s being expected to comfort you about relationships you hurt, or being pulled into family tension that I didn’t create and can’t fix.

There’s a pattern in how our conversations go: boundaries get pushed, feelings get brushed off, and somehow I’m always the one expected to keep things nice. That’s not sustainable for me anymore.

This isn’t about bitterness or blame—it’s about protecting my peace. I’ve been learning that just because someone’s family doesn’t mean they automatically get access to me. I’m allowed to choose the relationships that support who I am and who I’m becoming.

I’m asking that you respect this boundary and not reach out to me directly. If we happen to be at the same family event in the future, I’ll be polite, but beyond that, I need space.

I hope you can understand this choice, even if you don’t agree with it.

Take care,

Andy

I spent hours crafting that message. And of course, it still wasn’t good enough. I don’t think anything but silence would have been good enough for them. 

Amber: We’re completely side-lined by this and confused and obliterated; that you are literally writing us off! We’re so sorry you feel this way, we had no idea!! You never made clear that we were hurting you, and even as recently as Christmas, you seemed so happy to see us. We would’ve loved a chance to see you one last time and actually ask for clarification on what exactly we’ve done so wrong. We would’ve tried to adjust how we dealt with you, even more than we already had been. We would’ve appreciated a chance to fix any misunderstandings and to defend ourselves, so that all of our emotional well-being could be dealt with in a more adult, respectful manner. We won’t reach out to you further, and we’re beyond distraught that you feel you need to remove us from your life, in order to be more fulfilled. We will always love you and miss you. If you ever need anything, you can always reach out and if you ever wish for us to be back in your life, please don’t hesitate to let us know. Good luck with all your future endeavors!!

Jay: Wish we would have known we were so toxic, would have apologized and adapted to try and make things better. If/when you need anything know that we are still here for you. We wish you nothing but the best!

I take a deep breath in. Then out. 

Honestly, their responses validate my decision. They imply I’m immature but their messages are laced with emotional manipulation, martyrdom, and dramatics. 

And for what? A relationship of infrequent, tone deaf texts, and Christmas dinner every other year? What about that was worth holding onto? 

“Did she mean blindsided?” 

I turn and find Doug sliding my phone back to me. 

I smirk. “I think so. You’d think someone who’s always going on about her English degree would know that word choice matters.”

Doug’s look turns conspiratorial. “Of course, she was so obliterated, she probably couldn’t even think straight.” 

I nearly snort out my cocktail. I put it down before I can do any worse damage. 

I lean back in the booth, arms folded. “So. What do you think?”

Doug’s smile softens. He holds out a hand across the table, palm up.

I give him a wobbly smile and place my hand in his.

“That’s not the question you should be asking.”

I blink.

He squeezes my hand gently. “How do you feel about it?”

The one thing I haven’t let myself say out loud.

“Good,” I whisper, the word almost swallowed by the rising noise of the crowd.

Doug’s smile deepens, warm and steady.

“Then that’s your answer.”

He lets go of my hand to reach for his own fizzy, blue cocktail. 

“But for the record,” he says between sips. “I think you were badass. Very Miranda Priestly of you.”

I break out in a grin. 

“Nah. Miranda would’ve let them have it—cordiality be damned. She’s an icon like that.” 

My grin doesn’t fade as I take a big gulp from my drink. 

“Oh? So the humiliation of the Cerulean Sweater take down is forgiven?” 

I laugh, waving him off. “Nothing to forgive. It was an ugly sweater. And itchy. Besides,” I take another drink. The lights seem brighter, the reflections off the tinsel decorations more entrancing. “If it hadn’t been directed at me, it would’ve been thrilling. I’ve never seen anyone command a room like that. She owned that space, those moments. It was incredible.” 

I sigh the last word, my gaze caught on a coiled silver streamer spinning slowly, light catching like tiny silver sparks.

“Oooooh sounds like someone’s got a crush.” 

I turn back to Doug, brows drawn together. 

“What? No, no that’s—That’s not—I mean, she’s—”

I can’t think of any words to finish that sentence, and besides, Doug’s dancing eyebrows are distracting me. They look a little like worms. 

“The sashimi combo,” a harried waiter drops a large plate between us and practically runs away before I say so much as a thank you. 

“Ooh, yum!” Doug dives in. 

But I’m frozen in my seat. 

He was joking. I know he was. But … 

“It’s time!” someone shouts in the crowd. 

“Ten!” 

A montage of moments flies through my head. Miranda, looking back at me on the Paris steps. I almost tripped. 

“Nine!”

The hurt of her cutting words. 

“Eight!” 

The relief of that 5 AM phone call. 

“Seven!” 

Riding in the elevator with her that first time. 

“Six!” 

Quiet evenings editing articles together. 

“Five!” 

Our fingers brushing as she hands the magazine back to me. 

“Four!”

Her fingers gently lifting my chin. 

“Three!”

Oh my god. 

“Two!”

No. There’s no way. 

“One!”

But … it’s true. 

“Happy New Year!” 

I have a crush on Miranda Priestly.