34. The Chill

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 and tampon string underneath. 

I really should try a diva cup or something, I think as I sit down at my desk. The tampon shifts just enough to remind me that two hours between changes won’t cut it today.

Thankfully, I’m not the one running around the streets of New York, begging a Michael Kors associate to let me use their restroom. No, these days Lark is the one wearing out her soles. 

The door bursts open. I brace for the sound of it slamming against the wall, but it doesn’t come.

Like a perfectly rehearsed stage production, the door swings open and lingers, the doorway acting as a spotlight for Lark, wearing what can only be described as the Theater Kid American Flag. 

Red blazer. Blue sequined top. Mustard yellow pants. Gold star earrings and a masquerade mask necklace for flair.

Somehow, she manages to make it look deliberate. Confident, even.

She marches to her desk with a tote bag so overstuffed it looks like she’s smuggling props for Wicked. I catch a glimpse of what might be a feather boa or a very aggressive scarf.

“Oh my god, you would not believe the weekend I had,” Lark immediately starts in. “One of my friends is a stagehand for Wicked, and she got me in to see a rehearsal! Oh my god it was amazing, like, I think Lencia might be the best Elphaba I’ve ever seen.” 

“That’s great. Now, about the schedule today–”

“I mean, of course Idina is iconic. She’s the OG! And if I ever meet her, I’ll obviously say she’s my favorite Elphaba, but it’ll be a lie. Do you think she’d know I’m lying?”

Lark gasps and whirls toward me, hand on her heart. 

“Would she still give me an autograph if I lie?” 

I put my hands out, like I’m calming a horse. 

“I’m sure it would be fine.” When did reassuring someone about hypothetical situations become part of my job? I think I might prefer running around the city in heels. 

I guide Lark by the shoulders and steer her toward her desk. 

“How about we focus on work now? We’ve got some big events coming up.” 

Sitting in her chair, Lark takes a deep breath. 

“Yeah, I need to think about something else. The idea of disappointing Idina is just …” She shudders. Like, actually shudders. 

Ok, then. 

We get to work. The Met Gala is in just over a month, and there is a lot–and I mean a lot–to do. 

I send Lark off with her marching orders, the first of which is, like always, to get Miranda’s coffee. I glance at the clock. Good, we have about thirteen minutes until she’s supposed to–

My phone buzzes. I glance down at it, and the blood drains from my face. 

She’s early. 

Shit shit shit! 

Some schedule magician I am, I berate myself, running around the office, hastily trying to get everything in order. Damn it, I should’ve been more prepared!

I’m going to blame it on the period brain fog. Though I’m not delusional enough to let it be an excuse. 

I text Lark to hurry up as I speed walk toward the elevator. Lark responds that she’s almost back, with a smiley face, just in time for the elevator doors to open. 

In all the chaos, for just a moment, everything stops. 

There she is, impeccable as always. She takes her sunglasses off and I see it in almost slow motion as her eyes lift and meet mine. 

I hadn’t realized until this very moment that I was … excited to see her. Excited for her to see me. I hadn’t realized until just now that some small, hopeful, giddy part of me knew that those nights in the den, watching She-Ra with the girls on Fridays, and going to a movie and dinner with all of them meant something. 

Meant we were changing. 

And standing there, meeting Miranda’s eyes again after not even twenty-four hours apart, after a great day out with her and her girls, I realize that tiny, hopeful, part of me had been right. 

Things had changed. 

The coldness in Miranda’s ice blue eyes is definitely a change I wasn’t expecting.  

Oh shit. 

Today is not going to be good. 

*** 

And it isn’t. 

Miranda barely speaks to me all day—just clipped commands and sharper-than-usual glances. Nothing cruel, nothing dramatic. Just ... distant.

I bring her notes, she nods. I follow up on samples, she doesn’t even look up.

Not once does she say my name. Not a single Andrea.

By lunch, I’ve cycled through every possible offense I might have committed, including but not limited to breathing wrong, smiling too much yesterday, being in the car at all, or simply existing.

God, was it the Diet Dr. Pepper?

I don’t know what’s up with her, and it’s spooking me. 

I glance at her through my lashes from across the den, from where I’m perched on my chair, legs crossed, ankle bouncing with nervous energy I can’t quite exorcise.

Miranda’s seated at her usual chair, posture as perfect as ever, eyes on the proofs in front of her.

Only now, every page turn feels sharp. Every note she makes, too fast. Too precise.

She hasn’t looked at me. Not once.

And when I ask a question—something small, something I already know the answer to—she answers with a quiet, “Mmm,” and nothing else.

No lift of the eyes. No dry commentary. No Miranda-isms.

The silence isn’t hostile.

It’s worse.

It’s neutral.

Honestly, after the disaster that was today, I had expected her to call off our ritual editing night. But when I arrived with The Book, two cups of coffee were waiting, like usual. 

But tonight has not been like usual. Miranda has barely said a word. 

I’ve been wracking my brain, trying to think of what could possibly have gone so wrong between her dropping me off at my apartment on Sunday, and Monday morning. 

Maybe it’s the girls? Dick–ahem, Richard–has them for the week. Miranda is always a little off when they’re gone, and it’s only been getting worse the longer this custody battle drags on. 

But I can’t shake the feeling that it’s something else. 

I just don’t know what. 

Finally, after an excruciatingly silent two hours, Miranda finally speaks. 

She doesn’t look up from The Book. She just turns a page, makes a note with the red pen, and says, 

“That’s all.” 

Is this what a knife wound feels like? 

I’m pretty sure I’ve been demoted to stranger, but … why? 

I’m not sure what’s going on, but I know when to pick my battles. 

I gather my things and head for the door. I head for the subway, already planning. 

This might be an impossible mystery to solve. But the impossible is what I do best.