Delaney James was wearing Chanel the night her husband told her he didn't love her anymore.
In an instant, her picture-perfect Manhattan life-complete with a brownstone on the Upper East Side, a blossoming career as a fashion journalist, and a devas...
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Panic is usually defined as sudden, uncontrollable fear. I'd define it as my new roommate—the kind who barges in without asking and refuses to leave. It moved in about five days ago and has made itself very comfortable.
At first, it was my finances. I opened my very first checking account in my own name, sliding twenty-three hundred dollars across the counter to the branch manager. For one tiny moment, I felt proud—like I was finally standing on my own two feet. But pride quickly gave way to math. How long could twenty-three hundred last before I was scraping bottom?
The second wave hit when I realized everyone I knew was at work while I was at home, unemployed. I've sent out resumes to every publication I could think of—even ones in Manhattan—but haven't gotten so much as a polite rejection. Not even a "thank you for your interest." Nothing. I can't help but wonder if my abrupt exit from Posh has blacklisted me. Maybe word spread, and now every editor in the tri-state area has stamped a giant red Do Not Hire across my name.
Jo managed to convince Chuck to give me a few shifts at Maribelle's, which was kind of him, but six hours, three days a week barely makes a dent in my hysteria.
Then came health insurance research, which felt like voluntarily walking into a nightmare. I'm healthy, I eat right, I run five days a week, and yet even the "basic" plans are so far out of my budget it's laughable. Unless I stumble into an inheritance or magically hit the lottery, I'm screwed.
And that's not even counting the lawyer I need. Because we got married in New York, the divorce has to happen in New York. I scribbled down ten names of attorneys with glowing reviews, called every single one, and got the same story: they either know Will or don't want to risk crossing his family. Not one of them will help me.
I've been resorting back to old behaviors. I have no appetite. I can't sleep. I've spent the last four nights pacing the hardwood floors of our kitchen, practically wearing off the finish, and when I'm not pacing, I'm attached to my laptop, searching for jobs where I can use my degree. I can be a Luxury Brand Manager, or a Fashion Retail Buyer. I'd literally be shopping for a living. I can be a Fashion PR Specialist, where I work for celebrities or models and attend fashion shows, red carpet events and award shows.
So, the old habits have crept back in. No appetite. No sleep. Four nights pacing the kitchen floor until the wood feels worn thin. When I'm not pacing, I'm glued to my laptop, searching for jobs I'm not even sure I want. Luxury Brand Manager. Retail Buyer. Fashion PR Specialist. On paper, they sound glamorous—shopping for a living, rubbing elbows with celebrities, attending red carpets. But they're not me. They never were. I don't want to dress the next "It" girl. I want to write about fashion. Tell its stories. Put words to the thing I love.
"Delaney?" A voice cuts through the dark kitchen.
I jolt upright, heart slamming into my ribs. "Don't hurt me!" I blurt, then see him. My hand presses to my chest, willing it to slow. "Geez, Dad! You scared the shit out of me."
