When Katie Met Cassidy by Camille Perri Read Online (FREE)
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Katie left the stale pile of her pajamas behind her like a cow pie on the bathroom floor and put herself into the shower. Morning routines would continue, she thought as she washed her hair for the first time in days. Oral hygiene would carry on. Brush, rinse, spit. Once in a while floss. A whitening strip if you’re really feeling dazzling. These were the days of our lives, for as long as we lived, until we died. Alone.
Wrapped in a towel, she fished through the maze of cardboard boxes littering the floor of her one-bedroom West Village apartment until she found the one containing her work clothes. She pulled out the black Dior skirt suit that she always wore to closings, which would require a great deal of effort to de-wrinkle.
Now, where was her steamer? With each box she searched through, Katie felt herself becoming more hysterical, until the truth was undeniable: Paul Michael had forgotten to pack it. Or, correction, he had forgotten to direct whomever he’d hired to box up her things to pack it.
Unless he left it out on purpose? He was always borrowing her steamer even though it was carnation pink and only cost twenty dollars and he could have easily bought himself one in black or gray.
“I’m going to buy you your own steamer,” she’d once said to him while standing in the doorway to the bathroom with her blouse at her side, waiting for him to finish smoothing out the final creases in his chinos.
“Nah,” he said. “No sense in having more than one.”
Wearing a suit with shar-pei–sized wrinkles to her meeting was unacceptable, but what was Katie supposed to do? There was a little bit of steam still in the bathroom, so she shuttled everything in there. She hung her jacket, blouse, and skirt from the shower curtain rod and then sat on the edge of the tub with all of it swinging over her like a hanged woman.
Today’s closing was with a group of lawyers representing Falcon Capital. Falcon fucking Capital. Hedge funds loved to give themselves names that implemented intimidating animals, names like Lion Management or Tiger Fund. Katie swore if she ever started a fund, she’d go against type with something like Lemur Partners or Sleeping Sloth LLC. Or, in homage to her home state’s favorite backyard game, Cornhole Capital. You’d think someone might appreciate the humor in naming a fund as such, but Katie’s experience so far was that finance guys—and most of them were guys—lacked a sense of humor. They were too busy counting their money. And their lawyers were even worse because the lawyers were the ones who had to do all the arguing on their clients’ behalf.
In other words, it was safe to assume no one in the boardroom today would even crack a smile if Katie explained that she was sorry but her suit was rumpled because her life had imploded over the weekend and her ex-fiancé refused to give up custody of the one item she’d ever bought on HSN that meant shit to her.