Page 35 of Love is a Game

Misha tilts her head. “Why’s that?”

“I don’t know. I’ve always felt like the odd one out with other women, like I missed some secret rulebook. The unspoken rankings.”

I pluck at my bracelet. “It always seems like a competition to fit in or excel. Be the skinniest, best-dressed, sexiest, smartest. Even online…especiallyonline, there seems to be all this pressure. Like, be the fastest to lose the baby weight, have the most extravagant wedding, the most impressive career. I never feel at ease even invirtualwomen groups.” I grimace.

Misha shakes her head. “I would never guess that. You seem so confident and self-assured!”

“It’s an act,” I confess. “You won’t catch me at all-female gym classes, book clubs, or spa sessions. I can’t stand the scrutiny. Guys might check you out physically, that’s a given. But women? They judge everything.”

She studies me for a moment. “Well…if you can stand one more insight I picked up while trying to overhaul my life—”

“Alright, let me have it.” I put aside my napkin and fold my arms on the table.

“I did a lot of digging into my own insecurities, and I realized it’s often a case of projection,” Misha says.

“How so?”

“You ever stop to wonder if people are actually judging you…or if you’re just assuming they are?”

“Trust me, I know when I’m being judged.”

“Do you?” she questions. “Or is that just the script you’re used to? Something ingrained in you early on?”

I shrug, tracing my thumb over the floral motif on the tiny porcelain coffee cup, the dregs of coffee muddied in its base.

“For me, it was always about my sister,” Misha shares. “I decided she was the successful one—prettier, smarter, more loved. No matter what I did, I felt like I was in her shadow.”

“And something’s changed?” I wonder.

“Uh-huh.” Misha gives a faint smile. “When she came to see me while I was going through all those medical tests, I finally confessed how I felt. And she was shocked. She’s achieved so much, yet is riddled with insecurities, too! We realized how ridiculously tough we are on ourselves, how exhausting it’s been to hold ourselves to these impossible standards, when, in the end, it was all self-inflicted.”

Misha pauses to check the time on her phone and then waves for the check.

“It’s a trap, Penelope. One you don’t even realize you’re in until you step back.”

I let her words sink in, but it feels like all this emotional dredging has reached its limit for me. Suddenly, I’m restless—eager to move, to do something tangible, to find an outlet for this edgy energy.

We head down the street, looking for the antique store Misha’s been following on Instagram. And I’m pleasantly surprised when its plain, narrow frontage gives way to a crowded bottle-green interior rich with atmosphere.

Every corner is a curated masterpiece. Vibrant wallpaper and textiles juxtaposed with gleaming barware, sailor woolies, and intricately woven lightship baskets.

I drift through the space, drawn to each discovery. Art Deco prints, plush velvet lounges, ornate mirrors, giant porcelain vases, and Persian rugs in bold, swirling hues.

“Holy shit—think it’s too late to switch careers?” I burst out. “I suddenly want to be an interior designer.” I run my fingers over the stained-glass shade of an antique lamp, its delicate panels fanned out like butterfly wings. “Can you imagine having access to pieces like this to redo a whole house?”

Misha’s smile brightens, as if she’s taking extra pleasure in my excitement.

“I actually use places like this to inspire my work,” she says. “You know when your creativity just flatlines? Sometimes staring at more fabric and patterns doesn’t do shit to motivate you. But galleries, museums, antiques…can stretch your imagination in a different way.”

We spend nearly an hour lost in the main room, absorbed in every detail, before I spot a hidden Provencal garden through an open doorway. Sunlight filters over weathered stone, illuminating a series of fountains and moss-softened urns.

Misha nods, eyes alight. “It’s amazing, right?”

“Beyond,” I breathe, trailing my fingers through the cool trickle of a sundial water feature.

“I adore it even more because it’s so unexpected.” Misha drops her oversized Prada bag onto a wrought iron chair, spreading her arms as if gathering the beauty to her. “Contrast makes things more striking—when plainness gives way to something extraordinary, it has even more impact.”

Suddenly, I think about the plainness of my mother’s house. Dull, dark, anchored in the past. And it strikes me how she barely made an imprint on where she lived. No bookshelves, ornaments, or even a bowl of fruit on the counter to break up the emptiness.

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