A psychic once told me that in a past life, I was a squirrel who died in the middle of the road. I laughed it off then. Sometimes I still do. But on nights like this, when it’s just past one in the morning, and the only thing keeping me company is the ever- present NYC traffic eighteen floors below, I see that squirrel.
And it’s not so funny anymore.
I shouldn’t text him.
I won’t.
My fingers begin drafting a message to get it out of my system. I won’t press send. A late-night You up? text is for the lonely. That isn’t who I am.
I, Eleanor Elizabeth Chapman, would rather be by myself forever than suffer through the agony of having a real relation- ship with someone wrong for me. My standards are so high it’s impossible for anyone to meet them. There’s no use in even trying anymore.
Yet here I am, all thoughtful calculation, typing out, Any chance you’re around right now?
He knows I’m never off the clock. Some of my best work
happens between the hours of one and three in the morning. This is when my thoughts are the clearest. If I don’t sit down and do something productive, I will think of that damn squirrel. Plus we text enough outside of office hours that maybe I do need to reach him on something urgent. If I send this, it could be about business.
Tomorrow morning—this morning, technically—the Broad- way PR firm I work for has set up a last-ditch press event for our biggest flop in recent memory, Hannity Banks and the Great Es- cape. It’s an original musical that has about a dozen terrible re- views from all the major outlets and ticket sales that continue to plummet, and Anthony is a lead producer on it. The show’s star will be singing her money number during the eight a.m. hour of one of the morning shows. Most of our team will be showing up to the venue at five a.m. to do a sound check ahead of the live taping. We need all hands on deck to make sure it goes well, somehow charming thousands of theater enthusiasts in the fly- over states into booking immediate tickets to New York to see this marvelous spectacle as soon as possible. There are many scenarios that could merit me reaching out to him a few hours ahead of time. When my thumb presses send, it’s easy to convince myself I don’t mean to deliver the text. That’s what my half-empty glass of wine tells me. It was an accident. You’re not in your right mind, Eleanor.
The wine and I both know I’m only buzzed. We’re conspiring to believe otherwise.
So I texted him. What of it? If it’s not me sending this kind of message, it’s him. We hook up when we’re bored. It’s a mutually appealing situation. Just because I’m not going to date him doesn’t mean we can’t have fun together.
When a full hour passes without a response, and the conversation between the wine and me becomes much more sincere, I do what I tell myself I shouldn’t—I pull up his social media. Like me, he posts about once a year. If tonight isn’t the time for his annual update, maybe it’s the moment for mine.
Three old take-out boxes fall off the edge of my dining table as I jerk upright. There is indeed a new picture on his page—one of those joint posts between two users. The first image is of a hand. A left hand. Displaying a diamond ring.
The caption reads, After four years together, he popped
the question tonight in front of our closest friends and family. I love you so much, Anthony Michael Teller. I can’t wait to be your wife.
Wife.
Girlfriend. Four years.
I haven’t even known him more than one.
“Fuck,” I say to my two cats dozing on my couch. It feels important to vocalize my disbelief, in case another psychic sees this moment while reviewing the past lives of my soul’s next iteration. I want them to comprehend the hot burn of shame engulfing me. These tears that fill my waterline are ones of pure disgust.
Excerpted from ANYWHERE YOU GO by Bridget Morrissey, published by Berkley, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House, LLC. Copyright © 2025
