-

If I were the governor of New York, or, better yet, the President of the entire country, I'd ban all slow walkers from major cities. In fact, I'd create a law that would make it socially acceptable to push any slow walkers into traffic without any legal consequences.

Unfortunately, I can't do so without potentially going to jail, so, I just yell at the man who's decided to stop in the middle of the fucking sidewalk, staring down at his phone, his mouth agape like some sort of ugly, bloated fish. "Hey, asshole, walk faster, or get the hell out of my way."

I don't see his reaction, and I'm loathe to miss it, but I'm crossing the street, and the man is a tiny speck in the rearview of my memory by the time I make it onto the other side.

Moretti & Associates is on the fifth floor of a 20-story building on Fifth Ave. Despite its name, there is only one doctor at the practice: Doc. We had tried hiring one other OB/GYN in the past, a Dr. Lawson (or was it Lloyd?), but he hadn't lasted longer than a few months. If you're asking me, I think Doc enjoys the attention all to himself.

"Good morning, Doc," I say as I knock on his door, ten minutes later. He's sitting behind his office, pen in hand. There's a stack of papers in front of him, and his pen bobs up and down furiously as he scribbles across each page. He looks up, and his face brightens.

"Hey, Erin, come in," he says. Doc stands up and comes around the table. He's dressed in navy pants and a blue and white striped dress shirt; his doctor's coat is slung over his broad shoulders. He cuts an imposing figure, at six foot three. His glasses are perched on the tip of his lean nose, and his hand, the one with the tattoo of an raven spreading its wings across the back, gestures for me to sit in one of the chairs in front of him.

I stay where I am, but I smile at him. "How was the C-section?"

"It went wonderfully," he says. "Forty minutes. Baby and Mom are both healthy and recovering."

"Thanks to a great doctor," I say. And he is, except, I mainly say this because I hadn't been kidding when I told him yesterday that it's currently bonus season.

He chuckles appreciatively. His gaze travels down my figure. "You look even lovelier today, Erin," he says. "Are those new shoes?"

I shrug primly. "Just haven't worn them to the office until now," I say.

"Well, I like them. You should wear them more often," he says.

As if you can tell me what to do. "Thanks," I say. "How was Ammos?"

Doc folds his arms, and his biceps bulge against the fabric of his shirt. "Fantastic food, I recommend it. Though I don't think I'll be seeing my date again."

"Oh?" I think back to the news this morning as I'd gotten ready: They, as in the authorities, have identified the latest victim: Bianca Diaz, a VP in Sales at a tech company, who had been visiting from Jersey City. Obviously, I don't think Doc has had anything to do with her murder — that'd be ridiculous — but I brace myself for what he's about to say.

He shakes his head and sighs. "She thinks we're better off as friends."

I, for one, have never been friendzoned, so I can't empathize, fortunately. Though, despite the fact that I work for him and have no intentions of getting with him in any way, Doc is sexy. I can hardly imagine anyone, let alone a single eligible woman in New York, turning down Doc, but perhaps he chews with his mouth open. Gross. "You'll find her," I manage to say.

He raises an eyebrow and looks at me over his glasses. "Seems impossible these days. In New York, no less."

"Don't feel too bad," I tell him. "You have a whole city's worth of women just waiting to see you in" — I pointedly check my watch — "thirty minutes."

He chuckles. "You always know what to say, Erin," he says.

As I walk back to my desk, my phone buzzes in my shorts' pocket. At the same time, Sadie, the nurse, enters through the front door, and she waves at me. "Hey, Erin!"

Ugh. "Hey, Sadie," I say but don't wave.

Her chestnut hair is tied up in its signature tight knot — how she isn't balding is beyond me — and she's wearing her usual black scrubs. Despite my fervent prayers to the universe, she comes over to my desk where I sit and plonks her bag onto the counter. "How's your morning going?"

Bad now that you're here. "Good," I say. "Yours?"

"Great! I tried this new bagel place in SoHo, called DoughDough Bagels. Have you tried it? Their lox sandwich was amazing, and their chive cream cheese was to die for."

"I'll have to put it on my list," I say. I'll do no such thing, of course. I already have my favorite bagel place, and the world shall burn before I betray it.

"We should go sometime!" Sadie squeals. Her voice makes me want to clean out my ears.

"We totally should!" Not.

Her smile widens even further, and she flutters her fingers at me in a wave as she makes her way to the staff room. As soon as I'm sure she's out of sight, I drop my smile. Jesus, my cheeks are already sore.

My phone buzzes again. I grab my phone from my shorts and see that I have two texts: one from Antonia and the other from Cow. I open the one from Antonia first:

Hey, bitch. Overdue for a yap. Wanna try Cosette?

I open up a new tab in Safari and type in Cosette. Per Google, it's a French restaurant next to Little Italy and has five dollar signs next to its name. I bring up the text and type, "7?" Immediately, three bubbles appear, and within seconds, I know what I'll have for dinner tonight.

As for Cow, I don't click on the text, but it's short enough that I'm able to read all of it in my notifications without clicking on it:

Mom and Dad are worried about you. We need to have dinner together as a family soon, but you're always so busy. Let me know your schedule, and I'll set something up.

Cow is my sister, and, no, her real name is not actually Cow; she just looks like one, wide-set eyes and all. Mom is Hag and Dad is POS, as in, Piece of Shit. And no, despite what Cow says, Mom and Dad are not worried about me. They are never worried about me. In fact, if it weren't for the hefty government checks, they probably never would have adopted the "little chinky-eyed Oriental who talks too much."

I flick away the text so my phone is clear of all notifications. I'll respond when I remember to respond, and Cow, Hag, and POS can shove it.

I check my watch: it's five till open. I put my phone into my purse and my purse on the hook below my desk. I click on my computer, and the monitors wink to life. Then, I stand up and walk over to the entrance where, on the other side of the glass, pregnant Manhattanites already stand, waiting impatiently on their cankles.

I adjust my features so that I look like I desire nothing more than to greet these cunts when I'd rather drink toilet water. The work I put into work — if only Doc knew the extent of it.

-

The tiny flame in the glass flower holder is barely enough light for me to read the menu, which is, obviously, in cursive, because why the hell would it not be, so I order whatever my eye recognizes and dare that it'll be bad. On the way here, I'd searched up Cosette again, and with 4.7 stars and over a thousand reviews, surely I can order anything and not have it be a disappointment, no?

"I love your hair, Erin," Antonia says. She's sitting next to me, as she always does, and her diamond tennis bracelets, the ones I'd made for her on her 30th, catch the dim lighting as she pours another glass of water for me. I don't drink, a fact that seems to surprise a lot of people, but, to me, to rely on another substance to enjoy yourself is, simply, pathetic.

"Thanks," I say as I flick a lock behind my shoulder. "I tried one of those silk headbands, and it's worked."

"And it looks fab," she says.

Antonia Bennett was born and raised on the Upper East Side. She's fourteen months older than me, placing her at thirty one, single as a Pringle (and happier because of it, so she tells me), and one of the biggest influencers in the US. Think Kim Kardashian with a trust fund and a penchant for jewelry.

How did I get in her orbit? She saw one of my rings on Instagram and DM'ed me for a custom order. I had thought she was engaged, but when I'd met up with her to get measurements and ask about the lucky husband, she'd laughed and waved me away and said, "Oh, Zachary wishes he could have afforded this. No, this is just for me."

From then on, we meet up every month where we catch each other up on inane things I don't even remember, and she buys me dinner at places like Cosette, and I make her another ring or bracelet or earrings, should she request an order. Thanks to her, too, my client list has exploded in the past two years, to the point that I could technically quit my job at Moretti & Associates.

"I love your top," I say, not because I feel the need to compliment her back but because it really is a nice top. Coral with a print of at the hem, the halter portion ties back in a bouncy bow. Antonia decided to pair it with high-waisted white jeans and patent leather stilettos. Her light blonde hair is piled on the top of her head, in a style reminiscent of that of a '90s supermodel.

Looking at her now, I notice that she fits The Barbie Slayer's preferences: she's blonde and has huge boobs that I wonder, not for the first time, how she hasn't fallen on her face yet. But then I remember that the serial killer's into baby blues and a height of at least five foot nine, and Antonia has green ones and is nearly a head shorter than me at five foot two.

Good. She'll be able to buy me another dinner, at least.

"Believe it or not, I got it from Zara," she says. She angles her body this way and that to give me the full view.

I make a mental note to search for "printed halter top" on Zara when I get home later tonight. "It's pretty," I say. And I know it'd look even better on me.

"Thanks, babe!" Antonia says. "By the way, before I forget." She pauses here as the waiter comes over to tell us that our dishes will be out shortly. The service has been satisfying so far, but I'd expected nothing less from a restaurant with five dollar signs. Anyway, the waiter has been eyeing me ever since I sat down. I can't blame him: I look like Chanel's It girl with my waves, peplum top, and high waisted dress shorts and sheer black tights combo that show off my long legs, but who did he think he was to interrupt?

I don't look at him, but Antonia smiles at him and thanks him for letting us know. She's always had the better manners. I feel the waiter's eyes on me. "And, are you alright, Miss?" he asks me.

"Yes, fine," I say with a tone that effectively dismisses him.

"Wonderful," he says. "Just let me know if you need anything at all."

"Sure, yes."

He lingers. I finally look at him. He's kind of cute. He has wavy brown hair and clear blue eyes and a dimple in his right cheek. He's looking at me as if I'd just gifted him gold. I give him my prettiest smile and nonchalantly tuck a wayward wave behind my ear.

"I appreciate that," I glance at his name tag, "Felix."

There. My one good deed for the day: Smile at the help as if they're not being annoying as fuck.

He smiles, his dimple deepening, and he finally leaves.

Antonia smirks. "You're such a bitch sometimes, Erin," she says. "And I mean that with all my love."

I snort. "What did you want to tell me?"

"He's a cutie," she says, referring to the waiter.

"He's all yours."

Antonia shakes her head, and the ringlets that frame her face move back and forth. "I don't do men anymore, remember?"

She doesn't do anyone anymore, it seems. She had dated Zachary for four years before she'd called it off. I'd never met the man — the breakup had happened before she had ever reached out to me on Instagram — and she has yet to tell me why she'd broken up with him, but since then, I haven't heard of her going on a single date, much less talking about a man for longer than thirty seconds.

Not that it matters to me: I don't care who she dates or doesn't date — just that she continues to buy me dinner and bring me clients.

"What did you want to tell me?" I ask her again, impatience coloring my tone now.

"Oh yeah," Antonia says. She picks up her wine glass and swirls it; the Merlot inside sloshes. Her nails are a classic French; thanks to her, the style has made a comeback. "Are you taking new clients?"

"Always," I say.

She sets down her wineglass without taking a sip and leans in toward me. Her green eyes sparkle as she says, "Have you heard of Courtney Taylor?"

"The one who created Court Cosmetics?"

Antonia nods. "That, and she's dating that Wall Street financier, Jack Chung. Word on the street is that Jack is thinking about proposing soon because" — here, Antonia leans in even closer — "she's also preggo, but they haven't made an official announcement about it yet; they want to make an announcement along with the engagement."

Antonia picks up her wineglass again. "Anyway, I told them both that I knew the perfect person to get in touch with. Would you be interested?"

A rich and expectant couple in need of an engagement ring and obstetrical services? It was almost too good to be true.

"Why didn't you tell me about them sooner?" I chide the influencer, but she merely laughs, thinking I'm joking. I'm not — I never joke.

"I'll send you their contact info after dinner," she says, touching my hand on the table. Her hand is cold.

I open my mouth to tell her to give it to me now, but then our food comes, and it's only then that I realize that I hadn't had anything to eat since morning.