Page 5 of Sunny Side Up

It really wasn’t. Just a perk of my job.

Also luck. One of my clients happened to make a limited run of stretchy beaded bracelets that had gone crazy viral across social media just before the holidays.

They very generously gifted me two sets, but the bracelets were way too tight.

They’d be sitting in a drawer if I hadn’t given them away.

Besides, Harrison sneaked me an awful lot of free lattes.

He placed my coffee on the counter in a to-go cup, then added two small paper cups on either side filled with dog-friendly whipped cream. “For the Golden Girls,” he said. They were locally famous.

The Girls and I had just resumed our northbound trek when my morning routine was interrupted by an unscheduled incoming FaceTime request.

In an instant, my mom’s and dad’s cheerful faces stared at me from the screen.

“It’s a Sunny day now!” my dad said, his traditional greeting.

It had been his idea to name me Sunny. Not after the weather or a fortunate forecast for a vacation, but after his favorite movie, The Godfather .

My mom negotiated S o nny down to S u nny when they found out they were having a girl.

And when my parents welcomed my little brother three years later, my father was stoked to complete the homage by naming him Michael.

( A man who doesn’t spend time with his family can never be a real man , we’d quote to baby Michael in our best Vito Corleone impressions.)

My mom spoke next. “Hi Sun, Happy New Year! Have you talked to Zack lately? We just heard a commercial on the radio for his radio show!”

“It’s a podcast, Mom. And no, we haven’t talked.”

The divorce had been hard for me—transitioning the person I’d long categorized as “love of my life” to “my ex”—but if you asked my mom, it had been hardest on her. They’d bonded over The Bachelor and backgammon. Zack and my mom used to talk on the phone more than she and I did.

“Mom.” It was too early for this. Talking about Zack with my parents at 8:30 a.m. was not the energy I wanted to bring into this day. “I think the thing about divorced couples is that they don’t call each other first thing in the morning.”

“The New Year always reminds me of Zack,” my mom continued, oblivious to my objections.

“You know how much he loved making New Year’s resolutions.

Daily workouts one year, reading through The New York Times bestselling memoir list the next.

Remember the year he committed to volunteering once a month? ”

“I remember. I’m the one who was married to him.”

“Well, I made a list of my resolutions for this year. Do you think I could email it to him? I’d love his thoughts.”

“Dad.” I needed him on my side.

“She just misses comparing,” he said, before turning to my mom, making the cut-off sign with his fingers.

“Mom,” I sighed. “I’m sure your resolutions are great. Please don’t email Zack.”

But then my dad got all papa bear on us: “Zack’s resolutions were bull-crap morning talk show fodder, Nancy.”

“Oh please, you loved him. You still do,” said my mom. Uh???

“He’s dead to me. Now, let’s talk about something more—”

“Well, Marge-from-book-club’s son said that he saw Zack on ESPN and couldn’t believe we knew a celebrity! I told her, ‘Well, we used to know him but now—’”

“Mom! GIVE IT A brEAK.” I stopped on the sidewalk, nearly scalding myself with coffee.

Realizing I was in public and getting angry at a FaceTime screen, I composed myself with a deep breath.

(More than anything, I couldn’t stand being on FaceTime in public, but my parents almost exclusively communicated this way. Together, at the same time.)

This conversation pattern was nothing new these days.

At every recent parental check-in, my dad would claim that Zack was never good enough, while my mom was certain that Zack was the best I’d ever get.

Always worrying, wondering why, after spending about seven years of my life with Zack, I wasn’t working harder to repent and repair and forget that whole “divorce” thing ever happened, even though the paperwork was final.

She’d send articles with well-intentioned-yet-off-key suggestions like “How to Win a Man Back,” or what-to-avoid horror stories from families on Judge Judy .

My dad would usually try to soften the blow with a typical “Mom’s just worried about you” comment, but that much was always clear.

When I told my parents that my marriage was ending, their concern was obvious.

In fact, I spent two full weeks licking my wounds in my childhood bedroom in Wisconsin before facing the city without him, but even now, I could tell: Worry was still alive in my mom’s darting eyes.

Worry was alive in my dad’s creased brow.

Worry was how they looked at me every day, and how they were looking right now.

“I’m fine,” I tried to assure them. “I’m even going on a vacation next month. To the Bahamas!”

“That’s exciting,” my dad said. “With those new friends?”

My mom sighed. “Sunny, how are you going to find a new man if you keep spending time with only divorced women?”

I rolled my eyes, but they kept going.

“She doesn’t need a man right now,” my dad cut in. “She just needs to focus on herself.”

“Well, you’re right about that,” my mom said, finally another topic she loved. “Sunny, have you found a new gym yet? There’s so many good New Year’s deals. I’ll email you some. Then maybe once you’ve got your groove back, you and Zack can—”

“Hanging up now…” I could see my face had grown red on the screen.

I tried to soften; I hated being angry with my parents.

It never solved anything. Especially when the conversation veered toward my weight.

It was easier to placate, pretend, and pivot.

“Sorry, I just want to start this year off right.”

“You will, sweetheart,” my dad said.

My mom forced a smile. “We’re here for you.”

“Thanks, guys,” I said, picking up my pace, ready to end the call before my fake smile could falter. “I’m almost at my office. Call you later?”

My dad nodded. “Yes, yes, we know how busy you are.”

“And don’t forget to check your mail this week!” my mom said, brightening at the last minute as if a light bulb had clicked on in her mind. “Something special is coming!”

“If it’s a letter with your resolutions, I don’t want it,” I said with a forced laugh. “Bye, guys.”

Putting my phone in my coat pocket, I relaxed at last. I’d made it to Le Ballon Rouge.

Lbr’s office was my safe space. The lobby welcomed you in with a cozy seating area and good music.

There was a gorgeous navy velvet couch with an enormous sun-bleached, well-worn, pink Turkish rug underneath—my proudest ABC Carpet & Home outlet score.

Atop an oversize vintage leather ottoman-style coffee table sat a rotating stack of photography books, candles, flowers, and at least one forgotten phone or coffee mug at any given time.

In between the office’s giant windows were shelves lined with our clients’ products.

The back room, filled with samples for photo shoots and editor trials, was slightly less organized and not quite as visually appealing.

Desks were arranged in an open concept—a major benefit during brainstorms and office-wide pop-culture debates, a true reprieve for those of us who grew up fearing a future of cubicles, and the smartest use of space—although I was told after the fact that such layouts could be nightmares for those who do their best work in a less chaotic environment.

I couldn’t relate, but I tried to keep everyone happy, so there was always at least one person taking calls from the lobby, working in the empty boardroom, or asking to borrow my office.

Apart from our weekly in-person team meeting, press appointments, editor desksides, and client visits, we had a pretty fluid work-from-home policy.

Do what you have to do to get your work done and maintain your sanity, you know?

Still, it never failed to warm my heart and make me feel like I truly made it when I walked into an office full of people who wanted to be part of this cool thing we were building.

My own office sat at the end of a hall—the only two white walls in the office, though you couldn’t even see them.

They were covered in framed press clippings of my clients’ and Lbr’s proudest moments and scattered photos of beloved pets, plus doodles on Post-its, inside jokes, concert tickets, and tabloid cutouts all held onto the wall by strips of neon painter’s tape.

I sat down at my custom Liberty of London upholstered desk.

The Golden Girls settled onto the cushions of their respective individual sofas—miniature replicas of the human-sized tangerine couch that sat under two street-facing windows.

(I acknowledge my insanity. Carry on.) Off to the side, there was a desk and computer setup for my new assistant, who was officially starting today.

I’d given her a later start time so she could avoid that awkward, first-day-of-work feeling where everyone around you is all busy and bustling, and you just sit there, feeling like an asshole, because you don’t know enough yet to be helpful.

I always hated that. Also, my morning routine now involved answering my first round of emails from bed.

I liked to put out any fires before I got into the office, so that when I did get in, I could take a few minutes for myself.