I look away, afraid to meet Nikki’s eye.

“What is it?” she asks.

“This is more than a silly crush.”

“What? You’re in love with him now?”

I shake my head. “In love is too much. But it’s something more than a crush.”

“But you’ve never even kissed him.”

I stare my roommate down. “Have you ever kissed Paul?”

Nikki blushes. “Fair enough. So, what are you going to do?”

“If Richard wants to play games, I’ll play right along with him.”

Fourteen

Never Play Games

On Monday morning, I kick off a new game called the shoe game. Richard likes heels, so I’m going to give him a run for his money. Even if buying new shoes is financially verboten, I’ve hoarded for years, and Carrie Bradshaw’s closet has nothing on mine.

First, I shed the athleisure once and for all. If I can’t walk to Brooklyn in stiletto heels and a pencil skirt, I can surely change before getting to the office. As for grooming, I do my makeup with the same chirurgical care I used to adopt at Évoque and pin my hair in a bun with a stick. The bun is only temporary; at the right moment, the stick will come out and the hair will cascade over my shoulders in voluminous waves.

Shoes. I go with nude patent leather pumps with a cute bow to accentuate the peep toe.

Clothes. A military green halter-top over a taupe satin maxi skirt with a vertiginous slit.

I carefully fold the top and skirt, place them in a garment bag, and fit them in my ever-present duffel bag that now has been compartmentalized. One side for me and one for Chevron. I pull on an old pair of black sweatpants, a matching sweatshirt, and my running shoes.

“Are you experiencing multiple personalities?” Nikki asks as I join her in the kitchenette.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror and smirk. From the neck up, I’m Upper East Side, from the neck down, I’m sick-day-at-home.

“I’ll change at the office. Did you make coffee?”

She nods.

I pour some into a thermos, kiss Nikki goodbye, and leave for my morning walking commute with Chevron.

When I get to the office, no one’s there so I use the restroom to get changed. Besides the need for privacy, the early hour will help with the ridiculous amount of work I have to do: write two or three pieces on Saturday night, buy and match pictures to each article, investigate Maison Vanderbilt, and maintain all my other regular features. Whoa.

An hour later, it takes two steps through the door before Indira wolf whistles at me and asks, “Where are you going dressed up like that?”

“Flash news: I dress posh. Love me or love me.” I’m tired of all this hipster, grunge, athleisure nonsense.

Indira drops in her chair and spins toward me smiling. “Hell, girl. Love the attitude. How was LA?”

I give her an upbeat version, leaving out Richard’s escapades and our argument, and focusing on my dance with Christian Slade instead.