47. A Year in the Making

“A toast!” Doug stands, actually stands, and raises his third glass of wine. 

“Sit down! Oh my god, I can’t believe you.” I meant for it to come out as a hiss, because we really don’t need any more eyes turned our way, but I end up giggling instead. There are plenty of people already turned in their seats, taking in our spectacle. There’s no helping it now. 

Doug is blissfully oblivious to it all. He just gestures his drink in my direction, meets my eyes, and continues as if it’s my wedding reception. 

“Five hundred twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes.”

I snort my sip of wine.

“Five hundred twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes,” he repeats, ignoring my attempts to mop up snorted wine from the table and my face. “How do you measure a year?”

“In daylights,” a man a few tables over chimes in. 

“In sunsets! And midnights,” the man’s date adds, giggling. 

Doug spears them with a glare. “This is my toast, thank you very much.” He clears his throat. “In cups of scalding hot coffee. In inch-long blisters from sprinting miles of city blocks in heels to get those particular Calvin Klein skirts. In laughter over Emily’s antics, and most certainly in the strife that is working for Devil in Prada heels herself.” 

Doug sways a bit, but he steadies himself before I can make up my mind to jump up and catch him, or let him tumble over as payback for this humiliating, adorable scene. 

“The job a million girls would kill for. The job that’s undoubtedly killed a million girls. But you made it. Five hundred twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes. An entire year, and you haven’t just survived. You’ve thrived. Our little Andy, all grown up.” 

He sniffs, and I’m afraid tears will make an appearance if this goes on too much longer. Maybe sensing the same thing, Doug raises his glass even higher, and announces,

“To Andy!”

To my chagrin, at least a dozen of our onlookers raise their own glasses, echoing, “To Andy!”

Fighting the blush in my cheeks, I raise my own glass and nod around in appreciation. 

“Thank you, Doug,” I say. “Now will you please sit down? Like, now?”

He grins that infuriating grin I just can’t stay mad at, and finally takes his seat. Thankfully, the rest of the restaurant’s patrons turn back to their own meals, too. 

“Thanks for that.” I’m not sure if I’m joking or serious. Probably both. 

“If anything deserves a toast, it’s surviving Miranda Priestly for an entire year.”

“If I get a fancy dinner and a public impromptu toast for one year, what will I get for two?” I smirk, stabbing a piece of steak and popping it into my mouth. Utter perfection. 

Doug raises an eyebrow. “Girl, if you make it two years, I think Miranda might marry you.”

The piece of steak gets stuck in my throat, sending me into a coughing fit for my life. Great. For the wine, now the steak. Is nothing sacred? 

“Whoa,” Doug rounds the table and pats my back. “You alright?”

“Fine,” I croak, reaching for my wine. “Totally fine.”

Doug goes back to his seat, suspicion in his eyes as he studies me from across the table. If I squint, he’s wearing a detective hat, and there’s a smoking pipe hanging from his lips. After a long moment, he tilts his head. 

“You know,” he drawls. “You’ve never struck me as totally … straight.”

There’s nothing in my mouth to choke on, but my throat tightens up just the same. The blood leaves my face, and I feel my nostrils flare. I open my mouth to say something, anything, but … no denials spill out. 

Doug’s expression turns soft. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

“Yes.”

It’s not until the word leaves my lips that I realize it’s true. 

Up until this point, I’ve barely wanted to acknowledge it in my own head. For half a year, I’ve known that I’ve been falling in love with my very female boss, and yet I’ve avoided the whole I’m-not-quite-straight aspect of it. I chalked it up to the unique magnetism of one Miranda Priestly. A one off. A once in a lifetime occurrence. But sitting here, across from Doug, during Pride Month of all times, I can’t rationalize it away anymore. 

“Yes,” I repeat on a whisper. “I’m just not sure how.”

Doug grins at me, and suddenly, I know it’s all going to be okay. At least for tonight. 

“Luckily,” he says. “You have a very good, very gay best friend who’s been around the block. How about I ask you questions, and you answer the ones you want to?”

I take a deep breath. “That actually sounds doable.” 

“Perfect. So,” he waits as I pop another piece of steak into my mouth. “When did you realize you had a crush on Miranda?”

With that being his first question, I know I’m in for a long night. And I’m going to need more wine. 

But I don’t choke this time. Barely. 

***

The ringing of my cell jolts me awake the next morning. I grab for it, nearly tumbling out of bed in the process. 

“Yes, Miranda?” I wheeze into the phone. 

“Oh gosh, Andy,” my mother’s voice comes through the speaker. “Does that woman really call you this early? What could she possibly need at 5 AM?” 

I flop back onto my bed, one arm resting across my eyes. 

“I think that the better question is what do you need from me at 5 AM?” I grumble. Then I remember who I’m talking to. “Not that I’m not glad to hear from you, Mom.”

“Yes, well.” I can see her eye roll from here. “I have your father here, too. We wanted to catch you before work. You finished your year at that magazine, right? Congrats, honey! So, what are your plans now that you put in your two weeks notice?”

I blink. 

“Well, thanks. Yeah, I’ve been at Runway a year now. It’s kinda crazy how it’s flown by. But I haven’t quit, or anything.”

Silence stretches on the other line. 

“You mean you haven’t quit yet, right honey? But that’s obviously the plan. Or do you think that woman won’t give you a good reference? Honey, if you’re nervous about what comes next, that’s only natural. And if that woman gives you any grief, well, both your parents are lawyers. I’m sure we’d think of something–”

“No, Mom, that’s not it,” I interrupt. “I’m just not ready to quit. I’m finally actually good at the job. Did I tell you about the promotion? I basically run the whole office now. Miranda’s whole life, really–”

“Andy.” Apparently it’s my dad’s turn to interrupt. “What the hell is going on? You decided against law school.  You went to New York and got this insane job because it was a stepping stone to journalism. ‘A year in this job and I can go anywhere in publishing.’ That’s what you told me. Now it’s been a year, and you’re abandoning journalism? What happened to wanting to write?”

“I am writing,” I say, my hackles rising. “A lot, actually.”

“What?” My dad demands. “What are you writing? When do you possibly have time, with all that running around and fetching coffee and–”

“For Runway,” I blurt out. “Miranda’s been giving me assignments, and I write them. A few of them have actually been published in the magazine.”

More silence. 

“Since …. Since when?” my mom asks. I have to strain to hear her voice. 

“Since November,” I sigh, screwing my eyes shut. I brace for the fallout. I know it’s coming. 

“Honey, that’s huge. Why didn’t you tell us?”

I wipe away a rogue tear, trying my best to hold back any more. “I don’t know, Mom.” That's a lie. “I didn’t know how to tell you, not when you were both so against me working at Runway in the first place. I was so excited, and I just … didn’t know how to tell you and keep being excited, I guess.”

There’s a hiccup on the other side of the call, and I feel my throat tighten up. God, this really is the worst. 

I pull the phone away from my ear to get the time. Nearly five thirty. 

“Listen, mom, dad,” I say, putting the phone back to my face. “I’m really sorry. For not telling you about my articles, and for having to leave things on a sour note, but I really have to go. I have to get ready for work.”

“Ready for the job that you’re not supposed to be doing anymore,” my dad gripes. “God, Andy. When are you going to see sense? Where could your career possibly go from here? Who wants to hire an ex-assistant as a writer? Who’s going to take you seriously?”

His words hit me like a slap, stunning me into silence. After a beat, heat creeps up my neck and anger takes over. I swallow to keep it from controlling my tongue. 

“Dad, I really can’t do this right now. I promise that if it all goes to hell and I fall flat on my face, I won’t come begging for a handout. I’ll figure it out. But I doubt I’ll need to. Whatever you think of my job, I take it seriously. I’m not going to be late because I’m trying to convince you to trust me to make my own decisions about my career.”

I don’t give either of my parents a chance to respond. 

“I’ll talk to you both later. Thanks for the congratulations. It is kinda a big deal. Bye.”

I end the call and take a precious moment just staring at the ceiling. 

God. What a way to start the day. 

***

“Andrea.”

Just like that, I’m in front of her desk, tablet and stylus at the ready. I think I might have teleported. 

Not looking up from the various papers on her desk, Miranda gestures to the seat across from her. 

“Sit.”

I do. Back straight, legs together and crossed at the ankles, I don’t even wobble. I’ve come a long way since my days of falling out of my chair, face first into the carpet. I’m not even worried about my balance as I wait for Miranda to speak. 

She twirls a pen between her fingers. 

“You must think I’m a mind reader.”

I blink. 

“Um, no, Miranda.”

“No?” The pen stops twirling, instead marking a staccato rhythm in the air. “Then how did you suppose I’d know where to send your reference? Is your last day marked in invisible ink?”

The blood drains from my face. 

“Last day?” I keep the professional smile glued to my face. “Miranda, I’m really not sure what you mean.”

She still doesn’t look up from her desk, instead picking up a glossy eight-by-ten to examine. 

“Mind reading is your talent, Andrea, not mine.” She tilts the photo in the light. “So, where will it be? Emily seems convinced it’ll be The New Yorker, though I have better connections at Rolling Stone.”

Miranda looks from the photo to me. My mouth is hanging open, ready to catch any fly that would dare call Miranda’s office ‘home.’ 

“Really, Andrea,” Miranda says, rolling her eyes. I clamp my mouth shut. “Enough of the dramatics. No need to leave us all in suspense, just name where you want to go, and when you want your last day to be.”

As if this whole exchange isn’t completely ridiculous, Miranda turns back to her desk, trading one glossy photo for another. 

For a whole ten seconds, I just stare at her. 

And then, I burst out laughing. 

It’s not quiet, polite giggling. What comes out is doubling-over, wheezing, wiping-away-stray-tears laughter. 

When my view of Miranda isn’t quite so blurry, I can make out her expression. It nearly sends me into another fit of laughter. I’ve never seen Miranda look so shocked, so gobsmacked! Damn, if only I had a camera. And a death wish. 

“I’m sorry,” I say, trying to regain my breath. “I’m sorry. It’s just, the idea of leaving. You. Alone. With Lark.” The corners of my lips are lifting, and I have to force myself into some semblance of calm. “I’m sorry, it’s not funny. It’s not. It’s disastrous, actually.” 

I meet Miranda’s gaze, smile still on my lips, shaking my head. “No, Miranda, I don’t want to leave.”

Miranda doesn’t say anything. She sits back in her chair and holds my gaze. Like she’s seeing though my flesh and blood, straight through to my soul. 

“Well,” she says after an uncomfortable minute. “Far be it for me to foist a professional shift on you. Easier though it might make things.”

She utters that last part on nearly a whisper, looking away from me and back to her desk. 

“If you’re waiting for that rainbow disaster to rise to the occasion, I wouldn’t hold my breath. She’s always going to need some handling. But don’t let that stop you. Runway will be fine without you, Andrea. It was a global success for years before, and it will continue to be in the years once you’re gone.”

Miranda lifts her eyes to meet mine again. There’s no shock or bafflement in them now. Now, there’s just steely determination. I’m just not sure what triggered it. 

“You really should make your wishes known sooner rather than later,” she advises. “As Nigel will undoubtedly tell you, I only become less inclined to let go of competence over time. Not more.” She adjusts a few of the papers on her desk. “That’s all.”

My body reacts as automatically to the dismissal as it did to the call. I shake my head and roll eyes as I make my way back to my desk. 

Did Miranda really suggest I leave her? With Lark? A shudder runs through me at the thought. 

I’m sitting at my desk when the phone rings. I go to grab it, but Lark rushes in from … wherever she was, and dives for the phone. 

“Miranda Priestly’s office, this is Lark, how can I help you?” All bubbles and cheer, it comes out in a rush, squeezed together like it’s just one word. 

If that performance isn’t entertaining enough, her ensemble definitely puts it over the top. I’m not sure if Lark only just remembered that it’s Pride Month, but she seems to be going all out for the last week. She manages to be a somewhat fashionable, if blinding, ode to the rainbow. And sparkles. And sequins. Truly, it is too much to look at. 

Yeah, there’s no way I can leave Miranda with just Lark. She might say they’d be fine, but somehow, I’m not convinced. 

And if the idea of leaving, of not seeing Miranda eight to ten hours every day, leaves me feeling a little nauseous … I’ll blame it on Lark’s outfit.