Page 3 of Not That Into You

Turning back to Claire, I try to think of more synonyms for “thing.” I was actually impressed I’d come up with “object” and “item” so quickly. Claire and I both freelance, but while I’m a graphic designer, she’s a writer, so words are usually her forte. I’m more accustomed to formatting text than writing it. Nonetheless, Claire’s clearly not as impressed with my efforts as I am, since her attention remains trained on her computer.

I purse my lips. “What about doohickey?”

She glances up and tucks a blonde curl behind her ear. “That might work.” Nodding, she drops her gaze back to her computer, fingers flying across her keyboard.

I chuckle. “What are you working on?”

“A story on Matisse’s painting, The Red Studio.”

“Oookay.” I frown. “I didn’t realize you were writing about art now.”

“I’m not. Not really.” Claire bites her bottom lip before continuing to type. “The painting is on display at the Museum of Modern Art, and I was asked to write a short piece from the perspective of a casual viewer.”

“A casual viewer?”

“A non-art historian. And there’s some debate about one of the”—she glances up with a smile—“doohickeys Matisse included in the painting. It looks kind of like a light switch, but others have argued it’s a bell pull, a drawing or painting, a paint swatch. Some even think it’s a condom.”

I frown. I’m familiar with Matisse’s work, but I clearly missed the discussion of the condom hanging in The Red Studio in my art history class. Opening my web browser, I do a quick search and bring up the image.

“Where’s the doohickey in question?”

“Right side. Can’t miss it.”

I take a closer look. “Huh.” I’m... really not sure what it is. “Matisse had three kids. Maybe it’s a drawing one of them did?”

“Oh.” She looks up. “I like that. I’m going to add that as a possibility.” She returns to typing with a smile.

Not for the first time, I’m struck by the happiness Claire radiates. Her fair skin is practically glowing, her blue eyes shining.

In many ways, we’re opposites. Where Claire is short and curvy, I’m taller with a more athletic build. She has curly, blonde hair she usually keeps short, while my straight, dark hair is most often pulled back in a ponytail. And thanks to my Filipino mother, my skin has a warm olive tone while Claire blushes easily and is forever applying sunscreen.

And at the moment, Claire’s smile is an annoying counterpoint to my frown. Granted, her good cheer is partly due to her new boyfriend Elliot. It’s hard to believe only a month ago, I was concerned she might get back together with her ex, and now, I can’t imagine her with anyone other than Elliot, who seems as infatuated with her as she is with him.

Of course, Claire’s good cheer is also due to her work. She recently had one of her articles published in a major publication, which has breathed new life into her career. It also helped her see her passion lies with feature writing rather than investigative reporting.

Which is a relief. Claire’s talented, but she was never going to be the next Christiane Amanpour.

And now, she seems more settled and confident. As if things have fallen into place. I’m not envious of the details of her life—though I wouldn’t mind living with a handsome, billionaire boyfriend—but I am envious of her newfound ease.

I lift my mug and frown at its contents. I recently switched from coffee to tea in an effort to limit my caffeine intake. Mint tea might be full of antioxidants, but it’s a poor replacement for the dark brew I’d much rather be drinking.

With a sigh, I put the mug down and consider whether the tea is a metaphor for my life—uninspiring and no longer satisfying.

Which is unfair, if not entirely untrue. I love being a graphic designer—most days—and I have steady work from a core group of clients. But my work has plateaued, and I’m struggling to find bigger projects with more interesting challenges. When I chose to freelance, I thought it would give me the flexibility to set my own schedule and travel. But in the last few years, I’ve been working long hours just to stay afloat, and I’ve only managed trips to Dayton, Ohio, to visit my parents and a mid-week expedition to Queens. My bank account has allowed for little else.

Frowning, I glance over at Claire. Lately, I’ve been considering leaving New York. I love the city and my friends, but I don’t love the cost.

I usually communicate with clients over email or the phone, so I could move back to Dayton, for example, and continue freelancing while keeping most of my clients and saving considerably more money.

Not that I want to move back to Dayton. When I left for college, I left Ohio firmly in the rearview mirror. The only thing I miss about it is my parents.

But maybe I could move somewhere more enticing, where the cost of living wouldn’t squeeze my bank account till there was almost nothing left.

Making matters more complicated, one of my favorite clients—a women-led design studio that focuses on social impact—is hiring a full-time graphic designer, which will eliminate their need for freelance help. Although the managing director offered me the job in our last phone call, my first instinct was to decline, even though it would mean not working with them anymore. She told me to take the next few weeks to consider their offer, but I doubt I’ll change my mind.

I’m not a team player. I’m not sure I’d fit in. They’d have expectations about my time and might even want me to come into the office and participate in meetings. I hate meetings.

Claire stops typing and looks up. “What?”

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