Chapter 1 TEXT MESSAGE FROM JACKIE SLAUGHTER TO CHARLOTTE THORNE, 3:10 PM: sorry flight delayed will be there as soon as I can!! TEXT MESSAGE FROM CHARLOTTE THORNE TO JACKIE SLAUGHTER, 3:16 PM: Can't wait to see you. Please do not make me face these people alone. During their senior year of college, Charlotte's roommate Jackie printed a color wheel on a sheet of canvas. Each slice of the pie was labeled with an emotion: the burning crimson of hostile, the spiky cobalt of depressed, the vibrant, consuming orange of joy. The Feelings Chart, as they called it, hung in a place of honor on the living room wall. Whenever Charlotte crossed her arms over her chest and withdrew from a tense conversation, Jackie would point to the chart and demand, "Use your words!" Now, standing in front of a nondescript door on the ground floor of their old dormitory, Charlotte looked at the tiny envelope in her hand embossed with the Hein University crest and realized that déjà vu hadn't been on the chart. She held her breath as she unfolded the flap of the envelope. A thick metal key fell into her palm, then slid into the lock with a familiar give and tumble. Muscle memory returned like it had been days, not years, since she last lived in a dorm. When the door swung open, her déjà vu only intensified. Her eyes swept over the high popcorn ceiling and cinder-block walls. The dull gray square contained two sets of chipped wooden furniture: narrow single beds, heavy desks, and chairs that complained against the linoleum floor. Twin dressers sat on either side of the door, and a squat bookshelf lined the far wall underneath a wide window. Every room on campus looked the same, dated and utilitarian, differentiated only by the furniture arrangement. The smell hit her the hardest: that old fog of industrial cleaner, rubber mattresses, and spilled beer. It brought back late nights working on papers, her desk covered in coffee cups and empty bags of Doritos. Charlotte flicked on the overhead light and listened to its fluorescent buzz, the soundtrack of her college years. Cold spread through her chest, blending indigo (astonishment) and a flat pale blue (dread). For the next four days, she was back at Hein University. Nothing whatsoever had changed, except for her. With a grunt, Charlotte dropped her duffle bag on one of the beds. When she rolled up the blackout curtain, a thicket of trees greeted her outside. The forest helped orient her in the dorm's labyrinth of twisting hallways-this side of the building faced north. She shoved the window open, and the smell of mulch and damp leaves poured into the room. Charlotte breathed in deep and slow. She had always preferred the earthy aroma of the suburbs. Her life in New York City smelled like humid garbage and subway exhaust. The closest she had gotten to nature since graduating was pigeon poop drying on the fire escape outside her bedroom window. She never expected to miss living in a dormitory, least of all the reviled Randall Dormitory for freshmen, but she couldn't remember the last time she had this much space. Room 107 easily dwarfed every apartment she called home since graduation. It could fit her old place in Manhattan's Financial District, the illegal three-bedroom with the partition walls that didn't reach the ceiling. Then came the roach-infested loft in Bushwick after she lost her job at ChompNews . . . and the sublet in Queens with a colony of feral cats in the attic. At least her current place in Crown Heights had a bedroom window. She lived with just one roommate-a high-strung publicist named Kit-and she didn't need to worry about her packages getting stolen in the vestibule. But the new place was still teeny: Room 107 would contain her bedroom, Kit's room, their shared kitchen-slash-living-space, and the coat closet stuffed with Kit's camping equipment. Until Jackie arrived, Charlotte practically had a luxury SRO all to herself. Brutalist charmer bursting with natural light! the Craigslist post would say. Spacious square footage, complete with vintage industrial furniture! 420 friendly! NO PETS, NO IN-UNIT LAUNDRY. COMMUNAL BATHROOM SHARED WITH DIVERSE YOUNG PROFESSIONALS. Her phone bleated in her pocket. Her shoulders tensed at the electronic chirp. She fished a charger out of her duffle bag and plugged her phone into the outlet beside the dresser, scanning the notification. SLACK MESSAGE FROM ROGER LUDERMORE TO CHARLOTTE THORNE, 4:47 PM: interns yelling again. what happened w HR about the quiet policy? Charlotte swiped to dismiss the message and turned her phone upside down. As she stared at the mirror anchored to the cinder-block wall, she gave her reflection a can you believe this glare. Her phone vibrated again. She reached for it reflexively but caught herself, clenching her fist. The phone stilled, only to skitter across the top of the dresser a third time. A Roger Ludermore classic: If at first you don't get a response on Slack, even when there is an away message up, call your assistant again and again. A piece of wisdom that would not be included in his commencement speech this weekend. Charlotte worked at The Front End Review, a business and technology magazine favored by the venture capital set. It was the kind of publication most folks in her generation had heard of but few actually read, an industry-specific dinosaur behind an expensive paywall. Her petulant boss sat at its helm as CEO and editor in chief. Roger fell into the amorphous professional category of "thought leader," which as far as she could tell meant he was a rich white guy with endless opinions. Charlotte's job, as his executive assistant, was to make sure he paid his ghostwriters, showed up sober enough at his speaking engagements, and didn't murder anyone. She performed a cost-benefit analysis of sending Roger to voicemail. If she ignored him now, she'd just have to clean up his mess later. Once upon a time she skipped answering a late-night call in an attempt to establish a healthy work-life balance. The next thing she knew, her boss was being detained by customs after trying to cross the Canadian border with his Amex instead of a passport. With a sigh, she turned her phone over and accepted the call on speaker. "How am I supposed to get any work done with a daycare in the kitchen?" he barked into the phone. "This is unacceptable, Charlotte. Unacceptable!" Health insurance, she reminded herself. You need health insurance. He continued: "Isn't there a closet we can shove them in? What about the East Conference Room?" Charlotte adopted her neutral work voice. "We can't, sir." "Why not?" "You converted the East Conference Room into your podcasting studio." Thin silence greeted her words. She poked at the worry lines etched into her forehead as she waited for Roger to realize that he was the one who displaced the interns. "Are you saying this is my fault?" he finally hissed. You need to pay your heating bill, Charlotte thought. And your electric bill. "Of course not, sir. We just need to find a more permanent spot for them." Or they could cancel Roger's vanity podcast and put the interns back in the conference room. But what did Charlotte know? She was just an assistant. All the way in Manhattan, Roger muttered under his breath. For the last three years, this was Charlotte's life. It infuriated and suited her in equal measure. Her boss's previous assistants hadn't lasted more than a year, but she had a knack for organizing details and managing egos. Her salary, while not great, could certainly be worse. She knew from experience. The line went quiet as Roger shuffled around his chrome-and-glass office. She squinted at her reflection in the mirror while his attention wandered. If she needed evidence that she wasn't a fresh-faced teenager arriving for orientation, the dead-eyed woman staring back at her offered ample proof. An early suggestion of silver started at her temples and wove through her blond hair. When she adjusted her part, she revealed an insurgent force of grays. Her skin was dull from sleep deprivation and too much time spent indoors. Twenty-seven was still young, she knew. But she looked tired. Charlotte pulled a tube of concealer from her purse and dabbed at the circles under her eyes. A sharp snort burst from her cell phone speaker. She flinched and accidentally swiped the cream across her ear. "Peter's new draft makes me sound like a guidance counselor," Roger snapped. Charlotte sucked her teeth, fighting the urge to hang up on him. Think of that direct deposit twice a month into your checking account. Think of how much bigger that direct deposit will be once Roger gives you his blessing to move to the art department. "Is it too late to find a new ghostwriter?" he asked. She hoped this was a rhetorical question-his commencement address was only three days away. Roger's voice sank into a playful purr. "Charlotte, why did I agree to do this?" Because you're a narcissist who can't say no to a microphone, she wished she could say. Because the universe is conspiring against me. She found a tissue in her pocket and tried to wipe the concealer out of her ear. "You've been wanting to come back to campus for a while," Charlotte reminded him gently as she turned to her duffle bag. What exactly did one wear to relive her not-so-glory days? She frowned at her mediocre packing job: a jumble of bland work clothes and clean underwear. Nothing that said I am a successful and interesting adult now, thank you very much. "Hmm," Roger granted. A rare win. Charlotte picked up a pencil skirt she wore at the office. As an undergrad, she'd have thrown on a men's button-down and a pair of ratty denim shorts. Her style as a Hein youth was lazy-'80s-movie-heartthrob-but-gay, combat boots and denim jackets with greasy hair and aviator sunglasses she stole from her mom. When they became friends their freshman year, Jackie called Charlotte's look "thrift store dirtbag." It was the coolest she had ever felt. She dropped the skirt and put her blazer back on over her tank top. It smelled like sweat and Amtrak, but hopefully no one would stick their nose in her armpit. She could always take the blazer off and swing it over her shoulder like a finance bro on the subway during his evening commute. "How's the weather up there?" Roger asked. "It's New England in May," she said. "So, cold and withholding." Charlotte chuckled. An accurate description, she'd give him that. Roger could turn his charm on and off, and she fell for it more than she liked to admit. "Aubrey will pick up your suit from the tailor tomorrow morning. It should be nice here on Sunday." "It better be. This speech is important. The podcast still hasn't broken the charts." Sure, because a commencement address at a liberal arts college in Massachusetts would send subscriptions to The Ludermore Power Hour surging. "Of course, sir." Her boss had become a media darling over the winter when he gave a talk about philanthropy at the World Economic Forum in Davos. His impassioned, heavily ghostwritten case for helping as many people as possible, as efficiently as possible, won him new fans in Silicon Valley. It was all bullshit, as far as Charlotte could tell, but Roger's face clogged her LinkedIn timeline for weeks after a hustle culture guru shared a clip of the speech to his millions of followers. Roger launched the podcast shortly after, eager to capitalize on the attention. Charlotte found it unlistenable, but Hein's Reunion & Commencement Committee probably hadn't gone beyond a cursory Google search before booking Roger to speak at graduation. It helped that he was a Hein alum too. Class of 1981. She considered her sneakers. Too dusty. She replaced them with her favorite pair of loafers, the leather worn and soft. Roger's voice flattened into a sneer. "You have a lot riding on this weekend too. Don't forget I make my recommendation for the art job on Monday." Charlotte stiffened at the warning-slash-threat. Her thumb rose to her mouth, teeth worrying the skin at the edge of her nail. Of course, she wouldn't forget. If everything went smoothly during the next four days, she would finally be free of Roger's petulant tyranny. The potential transfer to the art department was the only reason she hadn't told her boss to go fuck himself when he instructed her to book a train ticket so that she could live-tweet his address. Nothing else would get her to come back to Hein University. Deep breath in. Hold it. Release. "Yes, sir," she recited in her best Siri impression. "Aubrey booked you a taxi from the train, and I'll meet you on campus when you arrive on Sunday." "Excellent." She heard ice clatter into a glass on the other end of the line. Then the hiss of alcohol meeting the cold. Vodka, if she had to guess. "So lucky you're a Hein grad too, Charlotte. I didn't even have to get you a hotel room." Roger laughed at his own joke as she willed him to burst into flames. The line went dead; he'd hung up. Charlotte returned to the mirror and let out a sigh of relief. There. That worked. She could pass as fine. Older, but put together. Adulthood looked nothing like she'd expected it to when she walked across the President's Lawn and received her diploma five years ago. She had four pairs of pantyhose, a roommate who communicated through rude Post-it notes, and a moderately helpful antidepressant. Whatever she'd imagined of her future, it wasn't working for a man like Roger Ludermore. As long as no one asked her, "No, really, how are you?" she would get through this weekend with a guaranteed promotion and her dignity intact. TEXT MESSAGE FROM NINA DORANTES TO CHARLOTTE THORNE, 5:03 PM: Are you here yet? TEXT MESSAGE FROM CHARLOTTE THORNE TO NINA DORANTES, 5:08 PM: Yes, room 107. Meet you in front of Randall? TEXT MESSAGE FROM NINA DORANTES TO CHARLOTTE THORNE, 5:18 PM: YAY "Look who it is," Nina boomed from her perch on a stone bench outside the dorm. "The queen of Brooklyn!" She stood to her full five foot eleven in a black jumpsuit and bright hoop earrings, her dark hair swishing in a perfect curtain, and threw her arms out for a hug. Charlotte had a moment to blink up at her before Nina squished her tight. "Hi, Nina." Charlotte untwined herself from her ex-girlfriend's grip. "You look amazing. You're so jacked!" "You're a sweetheart." Nina flexed a biceps. "You can thank six months in Peru for that." Excerpted from But How Are You, Really: A Novel by Ella Dawson All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
