“Doesn’t he get a divorce like every month?” Yari asks, fake curiosity on her face. That’s great,” I finally say, not bothering to inject much enthusiasm or faith into my words. The flush climbing her cheeks is embarrassment, anger, or ninety-five degrees of New York summer. ” Billie says, disappointment darkening her green eyes. Yari, looking inappropriately unimpressed, slurps the last of her Pellegrino through a straw. I give something dark in my grilled chicken salad an investigative poke to make sure it doesn’t move, but otherwise don’t respond. “So I’ve got some news,” Billie says, her eyes darting between me and my roommate, Yari. The girls eating lunch with me in Bryant Park right now? They’re my Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha, all rolled into two. My bare necessities were three garbage bags stuffed with all my belongings, my great-grandmother’s sewing machine, and a knock-off Louis Vuitton Neverfull bag. I was like that Pioneer Woman on television, but instead of churning my own butter, I made clothes from scratch. When I moved from Atlanta to New York two years ago, it felt like I was embarking on an improbable adventure to an open frontier. The best, brightest, and beastliest grind here. New York City is a beautiful bitch dipped in glitter, giving you the finger while walking the runway in her Louboutins. They say if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere.
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