Jules skimmed through her own words. It looked like a copy editor had trimmed her language a little, but no paragraphs had been excised. All of the hyperlinks worked.

Anyone who felt like it could read her thoughts on new designers who openly embraced queer audiences and clients, bringing that indefinable something to the runway that Jules had seen in the two women in Domino Park. The clothes were still prohibitively expensive, but the shows always featured models of color, of different body types, often outside the gender binary. She hadn’t included the phrase “as a bisexual woman,” but the article made it pretty clear she had skin in the game.

At the end of the article, she saw her name: Julia Moretti is a guest writer for Salon.

Jules clicked on the article’s “share” button and quote tweeted it with a perky message about how thrilled she was. Then she flopped back against her couch, crossed her arms, and sighed. Maybe she should give a damn about reaching a huge goal.

Get yourself together, she thought. Enjoy it! Not long ago, she’d have been over the moon about this. It was what she’d been working toward and hoping for. It was pointless to let a stupid infatuation get in the way of savoring her victory.

It would help to share the good news, wouldn’t it?

Of course it would. Other people could amp her up. She texted Simon, who responded with the thumbs-up emoji and Congrats.

Allie was more enthusiastic, saying omg soooo exciting!!!! followed by a long string of pink hearts.

But then who was left? Moments like this reminded Jules how few friends she actually had. It seemed weird to reach out to people from high school or college. They rarely spoke and weren’t in the same industries, which made it just felt like bragging.

And she couldn’t text Vivian. Not now. She’d wanted to impress her, for Vivian to be proud of her, and now that memory was just depressing as hell.

Besides, Jules would hate to interrupt her if she was having a romantic evening with Stan Fucking Oppenheimer. God forbid.

There was one option left. Jules called her parents.

Five minutes later, she was on the end of congratulations so enthusiastic, even she found them excessive. It was sweet, though—nice to have parents who were always in her corner.

“Seriously,” she finally broke in, “it’s not like I won a Pulitzer. But thank you. I’m pretty excited.”

“We’re proud of you, honey,” her dad said. “Text me the link. I can’t wait to read it.”

Wait and see, Jules thought. She could picture her parents reading about queer fashion shows and trying not to be taken aback.

“Honey, do you think you could get a raise?” her mom asked.

Jules closed her eyes. “How would this help me get a raise?”