New York

“He’s not going to fire you.”

“He might.”

“He won’t, Sam. You’re basically his protégé. And also one of, like, three straight men in publishing. They need to keep numbers up.”

“Funny.”

I switch my phone to the other ear as I accept my coffee from the already exhausted looking barista. It’s not even eight a.m., and the Monday morning rush is in full swing. Behind me, a pack of finance bros in crisp white shirts and open spread collars read their emails as they wait to order, and for once I don’t look completely out of place next to them. Granted, my shirt is neither as crisp nor as white as theirs, but I wanted to make an effort this morning. As if forgoing my usual uniform of dark jeans and the first sweater I find will make my boss go, Here’s a man I need on my team. Or, at the very least, Here’s a man who owns an iron.

I mean, it can’t hurt.

“Plus, he asked you to come in early,” Lizzie continues as though reading my mind. “If he wanted to fire you, he’d ask you to stay late.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Because that’s what I’d do.”

“But you don’t have a job.”

“Excuse me?” My sister’s tone sharpens. “You think looking after three boys under five isn’t a job?”

“An office job,” I correct, clutching my laptop bag to my chest as I squeeze past the line. “Like the one I’m about to lose.”

“Could you stop sounding so defeatist? At least save some of that self-​­pity for when it happens.”

“When it—”

“If,” she hurries on. “If it happens.”

“You’re bad at pep talks.”