Maya was standing in the gold-plated lobby of the Palace Hotel, pretending not to know Tatiana and mentally revising her resignation letter. She’d never been a natural worker, but probation had pushed her so close to the edge that she’d finally woken up that morning, her head pounding with another hangover, and decided to just . . . quit. Her parents would understand, and even if they didn’t, she could think of a few ways to make it work now that she was so good at her powers.
Probation responsibilities were only slightly more degrading than they had been when she was in good standing, but with the added humiliation of knowing they were a punishment. There was a lot of errand-running, but not the glorified kind, where she had to fetch clothes for the likes of Henry Nguyen and Annie Leibovitz. The new errands fell more along the lines of grabbing coffee for Lacey and the higher-ups or making sure Lacey’s microdermabrasion facials didn’t conflict with her kids’ spring play. Gone were the days when Maya was allowed the honor of calling up pretentious visual artists to convince them to distribute CS fragrances. Even worse than running errands for Lacey et al. was the knowing that she wasn’t even the first-choice errand-runner. First there was Moses, then there was a handful of other nameless underlings, then Maya and Tatiana, who were left with all the errands that didn’t involve Lacey’s credit card number, social media passwords, or interaction with anyone remotely important. In a word, it sucked.
For example, instead of playing fetch on a CS campaign shoot starring a confused model, she now had to assist on shoots being held at shitty events, like today’s wedding for a New York socialite who was wearing Clarke Stein for the ceremony and was in the running to have her pictures published online for Vogue weddings. The misery was only compounded by the fact that Tatiana was also on the shoot. In fact, since the coffee catastrophe, Lacey had been sending Maya and Tatiana on every single errand together, even when the errand required the effort of only one, barely sentient, human being. She was clearly aware that this heightened the effect of the punishment. So both Maya and Tatiana had been in the Palace Hotel on Madison since seven that morning (well, Tatiana had been there since 6:45, naturally).
Maya
Delali
Maya
Maya was hitting send and cursing the fact that she’d had to wake up before eleven on a weekend when the slim-hipped, high-strung bride, Ainsley Buchanan, finally arrived. She crossed the lobby with a jittery gait, wearing a denim wrap dress and Hermès ballet flats. Her mousy brown hair was pulled into a low ponytail, and she shook both Maya and Tatiana’s hands with the pent-up energy of a handbag-bound chihuahua.
“Ainsley, hi. I absolutely adored your wedding announcement in the Times. It was stunning. That boatneck top from the Row? So gorgeous, and such a smart choice for black-and-white print.”
Maya had assumed the bride would see Tatiana’s kiss-assery for what it was and brush her off, but instead, she ate it up, embarking on a full-out venting sesh with Tatiana. Apparently, the wedding, and its potential appearance in Vogue, was coming at a pretty pivotal moment for Ainsley, a highly sanitized, borderline anachronistic Upper East Side socialite with a Spence education and finance fiancé to match. Just last week, Ainsley had woken up to a post about herself in the popular UES Instagram account, Hearsay Hussy, that declared her “done” in Manhattan, and, with a generous helping of the blog’s trademark snark and alliteration, even encouraged her to find a place in Brooklyn (Watch out Williamsburg! Ainsley Buchanan has fallen to the very bottom of her Manhattan socialite circle, thanks to her frenemy-turned-plain-old-enemy, Genevieve de Vries. It seems the hopelessly hip and unabashedly unwashed might be getting a new neighbor!).
Tatiana and Ainsley gushed at each other as they walked past the lobby desk and down a narrow corridor to an oak-doored elevator. A gold plaque to the right of the door read penthouse suite in shiny black lacquer. When the elevator opened on the twenty-fifth floor, Maya took in the room trying not to look impressed. She didn’t want to encourage Ainsley’s clear habit toward condescension, but the room was breathtaking.
“Oh, just wait until you see the dress!” Ainsley sang with her hand on Tatiana’s arm, as if Maya weren’t standing literally right next to them. Ainsley bounced on her toes and tapped the tips of her fingers together, her limp ponytail jumping as she moved. Maya watched in dismay as Tatiana and Ainsley gossiped for forty-five minutes straight, genuinely worrying that Tatiana would be asked to round out the wedding party and leave Maya to shoulder all the bitchwork herself. But as soon as the photographer, Brick Toddson, arrived, Ainsley was on. It seemed that whichever CS marketing person had spoken with Ainsley had told her that Maya and Tatiana were, by some bastardization of the transitive property, Ainsley’s personal assistants. And by the same property, every member of the bridal party (plus Brick) could now treat both Maya and Tatiana as if they were merely the sandwich crusts missing from the low-calorie display Ainsley had ordered for her bridesmaids. Maya’s fifth sanction could not come soon enough.
Maya and Tatiana ran around adjusting gowns and hair and blinds and lamps as the pre-wedding prep unfolded, the grand total of three bridesmaids looking incredibly smug and chic as they guzzled mimosas and prosecco. For the amount of alcohol Maya consumed in that time, she might easily have been a bridesmaid herself, if it weren’t for the fact that she was wearing an old, ripped pair of Topshop jeans and a cutoff cashmere sweatshirt. It was the best she could muster for an event like this. Finally, the wedding planner came to usher Ainsley and the bridesmaids down to the ceremony hall, and Maya and Tatiana stayed behind to change. Maya slipped into a blush Margiela gown and tried not to acknowledge how good Tatiana looked in her mint wrap dress, which sported a truly audacious surplice neckline.
Maya and Tatiana stood at the back of the hall with Brick. Maya, drunk off stolen mimosas, nodded off as the priest droned on about the sacraments of love. For the reception, Ainsley changed into another white gown, and performed a deeply embarrassing first dance to Ed Sheeran’s “Thinking Out Loud,” transitioning halfway through to “Uptown Funk.” The Upper East Side weirdos seemed totally charmed, if not overwhelmed by all the funk.
As soon as the bride was distracted, Maya hid in a corner behind the mostly-neglected chocolate fountain—she was not going to let her first BFA picture be from this wedding. She was checking her phone and wondering how much it cost to book a hall in the Palace for this long when she felt a stream of breath over her shoulder and jumped. She turned to find Brick standing there. God, Maya thought to herself, had he ever considered breathing through his fucking nose?
“One of the maidens or whatever got sauce on her dress,” he said, gesturing to a cluster of baby-blue in the corner. “But we have more pictures to take. Funny positions and stuff. Could you fix it?”
“Fix it?” Maya started through a mouthful of chocolate-covered marshmallow. The dresses were silk. “I’m not a magician.” Well, Maya thought, not exactly.
“Could you just get Tatiana? And you two figure it out? I’m gonna try to set up in twenty-five.”
Maya sighed and downed another marshmallow. These kinds of moments, where her powers could easily fix everything but she had to do things the typic way, had become the bane of her existence. She looked around the room for Tatiana, who she’d lost track of a little over an hour ago. She walked the hotel’s corridors and finally found Tatiana sitting on a staircase with her phone. When she saw Maya, she quickly hid the flute of champagne she’d been nursing.
“Oh, come on,” Maya said. “We’re all drunk.”
Tatiana didn’t laugh.
“Right, well Brick needs us to clean up a bridesmaid’s gown for some pictures. It looks like it was that pasta sauce, and there’s a little tear. Midskirt. Front and center. We have maybe fifteen minutes,” Maya said, glancing at her watch again.
“Ugh,” Tatiana groaned, standing. “We’re going to need thread. I think there’s a Duane Reade on 50th.”
Maya and Tatiana were halfway down the block when the sky opened up, first with a telltale distant rumble of thunder, then with torrents of freezing rain.
“Fuck,” Maya shouted, covering her hair with her YSL crossbody. She and Tatiana both ran toward the glowing light of the Duane Reade, their dresses and tiny sandals totally waterlogged. They entered through the automatic doors, only to run into a crowd of cranky New Yorkers huddled at the carpeted entrance. They pushed through the cluster and into the store and started looking through the aisles.
“Tide-to-Go?” Maya asked.
“Shout is better,” Tatiana answered.
Maya rolled her eyes.
“Blue thread,” Tatiana said, tossing the sewing kit into the wire basket.
“Superglue? I mean, it can’t hurt.”
Tatiana nodded. They walked toward the front of the store. “Oh, and umbrellas,” Tatiana said, trailing off as she eyed the umbrella stand. Maya followed her gaze—all that were left were bright yellow Duane Reade brand ponchos. She grabbed two and they got in line. They stood in soaked silence, inching toward the checkout and looking anywhere but at each other.
“I’m sorry,” Tatiana said abruptly. She looked down at her hands, which were clasping each other nervously.
“What?”
“I’m sorry,” Tatiana repeated, exaggerated this time. “For getting us into this whole situation.” She gestured at their filthy hemlines and the dank, hideous aisles around them. “We should both be at the Elle March issue launch with the other girls right now, but instead we’re here. And it’s my fault.”
“It’s okay,” Maya answered after a moment. “It’s not like I was a saint to you or anything.” The girls were both quiet for a second, then Maya smiled. “What you should really be sorry for is these.” She held up a poncho.
Tatiana laughed, a relieved whoosh of air, and they stepped to the register. After Maya had paid, with the annoying knowledge that the sum would probably get lost in accounts purgatory and never be properly refunded, they put on their new ponchos and stepped out.
“Are you kidding me?” Tatiana said. It was the most earnest expression of emotion Maya had ever seen from her. Like she’d broken out of the plastic wrap that had been containing her since summer. She held her palm upward—it had stopped raining.
“I can’t tell if that’s good luck or bad,” Maya said.
“Both, I guess.”
“I hope there’s a secret leak in the roof of the Palace and Ainsley got soaked,” Maya muttered.
“At least then she’d have an excuse for the lack of volume in her hair.”
Maya was overcome with excitement—she’d been dying to talk shit all day. “Can you believe she didn’t add any pieces?”
“I’m shocked,” Tatiana agreed. “All that money—”
“Only to waste it on the ugliest dress CS had to offer.”
“Don’t get me started. And could you imagine being corny enough to hold your wedding at a place called The Palace?” Tatiana quipped.
“I’m sorry, I think you mean the historic Lotte New York Palace Hotel,” Maya corrected.
“Right. Honestly, I’m just surprised they didn’t pick the Plaza.”
“I think that may have been a little Trumpy, even for them.”
Tatiana and Maya both giggled as they ducked around people on the sidewalk. “I hope that cover band gets soaked by the imaginary leak and they have to turn on some actual fucking music.”
“Would it kill them to have one line dance? I’d even take the Cotton-Eyed Joe at this point. I think Best Man has spoiled me forever.”
“Oh my gosh,” Tatiana said excitedly. It was clear now that the champagne flute Tatiana had been nursing on the stairs hadn’t been her first. “I’ve always dreamt of having my bridesmaids in all silver. Like in Best Man.”
“OMG, me, too!” Maya said. “Ainsley’s bridesmaids’ dresses look like they’re from Better Bridesmaids Warehouse.”
“Yeah, I’m not exactly convinced they’re Vera Wang like she said. I’m gonna try to sneak a peek at the tag when we get back.”
Maya laughed. “Okay, wait, I thought you were an Ainsley superfan?”
“A superfan?” Tatiana gawped. “I’m just a high achiever with access to Google.”
“Well,” Maya said, stunned by Tatiana’s honesty. “At least you know yourself.”
They reached the steps of the Palace and stopped, looking up at the building’s grand facade.
“I just—” Tatiana blurted after a moment.
Maya turned to her. “What?”
“I like this. Laughing with you. Having you on my side. Can we not change it when we get back to work?” Maya watched Tatiana for a moment. She was biting her full bottom lip and wrapping a single 4C coil around her finger over and over again. Maya’s heart thumped. Shit. Suddenly she knew what this was. The office bitchiness, the reluctant admiration, the hyperfocus and constant one-upping. Was it possible that Tatiana had a crush on her?
“I know that sounds crazy,” Tatiana said in response to Maya’s silence. “Considering—”
“It’s not crazy,” Maya said. “I like this, too.” She looked at the entrance to the Palace. Everything was quiet and still except for the occasional, quiet whoosh of a taxi along the rainy streets. It was so still that if it weren’t for the shining, glistening lights all around them, they would have forgotten they were in New York City altogether. Maya leaned down, took Tatiana’s face in her hands, and kissed her.
* * *
In the lobby, Tatiana moved to head back to the ballroom, but Maya pulled her back to face her. “Who cares,” she murmured, then leaned down and kissed her again, with none of the gentle restraint of before. When they pulled away, Tatiana jerked her head toward the secluded elevator bank, and, up against the elevator door, she twined her arms around Maya’s waist, drawing them closer together. They made out against the cold, marble wall, Maya’s hand squeezing tighter and tighter around the plastic handles of the Duane Reade bag. She pulled away, then, with her eyes trained on Tatiana’s, pressed the penthouse button. Tatiana broke into a giggle—a cascading sound that made Maya’s knees go weak—and nodded.
“Can’t wait to get demoted again,” she joked.
“Same.”
The penthouse was exactly as they had left it—food, clothes, and makeup strewn everywhere, handbags planted on the floor. The view was twice as stunning at night, the lights more glamorous than the tacky rococo décor could ever be. Tatiana went into the bathroom, and while Maya waited, she touched up her hair in the mirror above the dresser, smoothing the new frizz with a magic-filled finger. Tatiana stepped back into the room.
The two were awkward and unsure for a second, but soon they were kissing and grasping again, their movements turning frantic. Maya tilted Tatiana’s head gently to the side, then kissed carefully behind her earlobe, then down the side of her neck, then in the soft little crater beside her collarbone. Tatiana pulled her dress over her head, struggling for a moment with the stiff fabric, and Maya did the same. On the bed, Maya straddled Tatiana, eliciting a gasp when she settled one of her legs between Tatiana’s thighs, pushing the thin, satiny fabric of her underwear against her.
“Is this okay?” Maya whispered. Tatiana nodded, drawing her bottom lip between her teeth, and Maya continued, slipping her hand downward. Maya watched Tatiana’s reactions as she touched her, her lids fluttering closed, coils of her hair popping out to frame her face as she started to sweat. In the windows behind them, the moon was high and full, bathing the room in moody white light. Maya couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed Tatiana’s softness before, her sincerity. Tatiana let out a low moan as Maya’s fingers moved against her, slow at first and then faster, and then, deliberately, slow again.
“There?” Maya asked.
Tatiana nodded again, breathless, and heat threaded through Maya’s stomach. “Yeah.”