27. Lagerfeld’s Ghost and Other Problems

“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 big deal,” she says, exasperated. “And during the holidays! I didn’t raise you this way, I—”

“Mom,” I cut in before she really gets going. The headache already blooming behind my eyes doesn’t need backup from my entire history of daughterly failings. “This wasn’t impulsive. I’ve been feeling this way for years. I just finally… put it to rest.”

I pause at a crosswalk, the signal flashing red, the churn of the city pressing around me.

“Sure, but honey, you could’ve gotten what you wanted without this… this confrontation.” She practically spits the word.

A heavy sigh escapes me, fogging in the cold.

“Maybe. But I don’t think so.” The light changes. I cross. “I could’ve pulled away slowly, yeah. Let things fade out. But how long would they have let that last?”

Silence. Not even traffic on her end. Just the weight of her listening.

“Exactly. There would’ve been a confrontation eventually. I chose to have it now. One, because it’s more fair. At least this way, they’re not left wondering. And two, because I needed it done. Not in six months. Not in ten years. Now. I’m done pretending that relationship wasn’t hurting me—done putting other people’s feelings before my own.”

“I didn’t raise you to be unkind, Andy.”

My lips twitch into a small, sad smile as I pass the revolving doors of a coffee shop I used to duck into during lunch breaks.

“This was the kindest thing I could’ve done,” I say. “For myself first, and for them. Kindness doesn’t mean comfortable—not to me. It means being honest. Fair. Without being cruel.”

She sighs, and somehow it comes through the phone like a breeze—like I can feel it against my cheek.

“If you were still a teenager, I’d be grounding you right now.”

“If I were still a teenager,” I smirk, nearing the corner of the Elias-Clarke building, “I never would’ve done this.” The timing is all wrong, but the pride still bubbles up in my chest.

“No,” she says. “But you’re an adult. You can make your own decisions… even if I can’t make heads or tails of them.”

“I can explain. Over and over. But I can’t make you understand.”

I glance up at the glass entrance, pausing just before the steps. The reflection looking back at me is tired. But clear.

“This is my stop,” I say softly. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“Okay, sweetie. Talk soon. Love you.”

“Love you too. Bye.”

I slip the phone into my pocket, take a breath, and push the door open.

The anxiety I shoved down to deal with my mom comes roaring back the second I step into the Elias-Clarke lobby. Right along with the headache.

Honestly, it should be illegal to work on New Year’s Day. 

Maybe it is. But what’s a federal holiday when Fashion Week is looming like a freight train?

If Miranda is working, so are the rest of us. 

Miranda. 

A shiver goes through me just thinking her name. My finger misses the elevator button, and I have to try again to actually press it. 

Of course, my brilliant plan to drown my New Year’s Realization in Bluefin’s signature cocktails only left me with a killer headache, and a vow to never drink again. The full weight of it finally hit me as I was hugging the toilet, my hot face pressed against the cold enamelled ceramic, Doug passed out in the living room. 

There’s no putting this genie back in the bottle. Though god knows I’ll be useless at granting wishes if I can’t pull it together. 

It’s not like I’ve never thought about women that way. When men keep proving themselves to be the most clueless and dangerous species on the planet, how could I not? It just never felt strong enough to disrupt my whole world.

But now … 

I’m twitching like a junkie in the elevator. How in the world am I going to do this? The entire disastrous day plays like a prophecy in my head. 

I’ll make an absolute fool of myself. 

I’ll be useless. 

Miranda will know immediately. 

She’ll fire me.

I’ll have nothing, no job, no Miranda, no–

The elevator dings at Runway’s floor, and I straighten my shoulders. 

You can do this, I tell myself. You will do this. 

With a shaky huff, I try to believe it. 

I step out of the elevator. Ready for battle. Or at least pretending to be.

I’m not ready. Not at all. 

I know it the second Miranda enters the room—a study in power and grace—as she throws her coat and bag onto Emily’s desk.

“Change the seating for the Dior show, I want to be on the other side of the runway. And make time for lunch with Donatella at some point. Apparently she simply cannot wait to tell me something—probably some gossip or other. Honestly, doesn’t she have her own show to prepare for? And get me that steak salad from that place I read about last week for lunch. And for gods sake, call my lawyer and tell him that no, I cannot do 11 AM. The meeting was set for 9 AM and I simply won’t—Andrea.” 

Miranda is two steps into her office, and she looks back at me. If I were functioning, if I hadn’t had a soul-crippling realization last night, if I wasn’t being struck with the full rawness of her power, I would be two steps behind her, tablet in hand, taking notes as fast as she can speak. 

I’m still in my seat. I’m pretty sure my mouth isn’t hanging open … I hope. 

Her gaze sweeps over me, narrowing, and my neck immediately heats under her attention. 

A single brow lifts. 

“I assume there’s a reason you’re impersonating a statue?”

And just like that, I’m scrambling. I juggle my tablet like a live grenade and just manage not to send it clattering to the floor, all while tripping over my heels to follow her. 

“S-sorry, Miranda,” I stutter. Why are you stuttering?! Snap out of it, Sachs! “I’m ready, I’m–”

Miranda turns and keeps walking. 

“The groomers gave Patricia a ridiculous bow at her last appointment, that cannot happen again. And someone please find out whether Lagerfeld’s ghost is haunting the Chanel atelier again. Their palette looks funereal. Black and white may be timeless, but it still needs a pulse.” 

I follow Miranda though the office, desperately trying to focus on her words, and not the way the light hits just right, making her long earrings sparkle and drawing my attention to her throat–

Abort! Abort! Look at the wall. Look at the wall. Don’t look at her collarbones—

The warning bells in my head are useless. I’m useless. 

It’s going to be a very long day. 

Ritualistic suicide, I pencil into the 3 PM slot of my schedule. 

“A little dramatic, isn’t it?” 

I yelp, jumping in my seat. I immediately sink down when I see Miranda look up from her salad in her office. 

I turn my glare to Nigel, who appeared like a fashionable phantom at the side of my desk. 

“Trust me, it’s the perfect amount of drama.” 

“She’s been a disaster all day,” Emily chimes in from her desk, not even looking at us, just typing a mile a minute. “It would be hilarious if it wasn’t so pathetic.” 

“Aw, Em,” I say, saccharine sweet. “I didn’t know you cared.” 

Nigel raps his knuckles on my desk. “Alright Six, what’s got your panties in a twist? I keep telling you, thongs are much more comforta–”

“I prefer my underwear shoestring-free, thank you,” I say before he can finish. “And everything’s fine. I’m just … hungover.” 

Not a total lie. 

Nigel rolls his eyes, running a hand over his bald head. “You need to lie better than that, honey. Besides we’re all hungover, but you don’t see me scrambling around like a loon.” 

“That’s what I said,” Emily mutters. 

“I think I just need some sleep,” I deflect. 

Nigel reaches into his pocket, and slides a small pill bottle to me. 

I pick it up. 

“Ambien?” I turn the bottle over. “Wouldn’t this knock me out for, like, a day?” 

Nigel turns and starts walking out of the room. “At the rate you’re going, I doubt it’ll make a dent.” 

Emily snorts a laugh, and I’m left glaring at both of them. 

“Andrea.” 

I only trip once on my way into her office. 

God, today can’t end soon enough. 

I hang the dry cleaning in the closet and make my way—slowly, so slowly—to the den.

I’m not sure what I’ll do if there are two cups of coffee there.

Or if there’s only one.

There’s no good answer. Either Miranda is pretending not to notice my distracted skittishness and expecting our usual routine, or she’s decided I’m too frantic to be around.

I don’t know which one I’m hoping for.

I turn the corner.

There’s one mug on the coffee table.

Apparently I really am a train wreck today, because I can feel the first prick of tears. I hold them back—barely—and place The Book into Miranda’s waiting hand. She hasn’t looked up from her novel.

Before I can decide whether to leave or linger—awkwardly, desperately—she says,

“There’s coffee in the kitchen.”

When Miranda glances up, I realize my sigh of relief had been audible.

Crap.

I turn and make my way to the kitchen. I don’t get lost anymore, but today I wish I could. I could use the extra time to pull myself together.

She gave me a choice, I realize, pouring myself a mug. If I hadn’t wanted to stay, I could’ve waved away the coffee and been on my way.

The gesture was oddly… kind.

I should go. I should pour the coffee down the sink and say something came up. Or that I need sleep. Or anything.

But I don’t.

This idiotic crush is more like a curse. I’m a bumbling idiot in Miranda’s presence, but I still can’t make myself leave.

I settle into my chair and take that first, treacherous sip. Maybe a burnt tongue will distract me from Miranda’s peering, examining gaze.

“Have a pair of rodents taken up residence in your trousers?”

I barely manage to choke instead of spewing coffee across the table.

I grab a napkin and mop up the minimal damage. The reference clicks.

I look up and catch her eyes. “Phineas and Ferb?”

A slow, mischievous smile spreads across her face, and a trapdoor opens in my chest, sending my heart into free fall.

God. Just… God.

“The girls enjoy it,” she says with a casual wave of her hand. “And the writing isn’t entirely childish.”

I grin back at her.

She clears her throat and looks down at The Book in her lap.

“Runway’s writers, on the other hand,” she says, flipping through pages. “Are completely unacceptable. Honestly, look at this.”

She rips out a page and slides it across the table.

I pick it up and scan it.

“Yikes. I think my middle school book reviews were better than this.”

“Quite.”

I look up. Miranda is relaxed in her chair, and it’s only now I realize how stiff she’d been.

She turns back to The Book, and I grab a red pen. And just like that, my anxiety dissolves.

This impossible crush—this curse—doesn’t matter.

This matters.

We work in companionable silence, as if my world hasn’t changed.

And maybe it hasn’t. Not really.

I can do this, I think.

And this time, I mean it.