Page 1 of This Love is Under Construction

“Authentic living isn’t about perfection—it’s about creating spaces that tell your story.”

“Our campaign connects Evergreen Apparel to the mindful consumer who values substance over status,” I continue, watching our client nod along while my boss, Diana, taps her French-manicured nails against her tablet. Bad sign. “We’re targeting the demographic that’s hungry for?—”

“Penny.” Diana’s interruption is velvet-wrapped steel. “This feels... earnest. Could we pivot to something more aspirational? Less...” she waves her hand like she’s dispersing an unpleasant smell, “ emotional? ”

The fluorescent lights hum overhead, making everyone look slightly jaundiced. Even the office plants— fake, obviously —seem to be wilting under their artificial glow.

“Of course,” I say, because that’s what I do. Pivot. Adapt. Become whatever version of myself fits the moment. “I was thinking we could also explore?—”

My phone buzzes against the conference table. I’d normally ignore it, but Diana’s already pulling up her own messages, and the client is checking his watch, so I glance down.

And feel my stomach drop through the floor.

It’s an Instagram notification. My ex, Tyler. The one who told me six months ago he “couldn’t see a future with someone so unsettled.” His latest post features him on one knee in front of a disgustingly photogenic brownstone, holding a ring up to a woman with perfect beach waves.

The caption reads: Finally found my forever home .

“Penny?” Diana’s voice snaps me back. “The aspirational angle?”

I swallow hard and force my face into what I hope is a confident smile instead of a grimace.

“Right. What if we position Evergreen as the uniform of the overachiever who still makes time for self-care? ‘Success doesn’t have to look stressed.’ ”

Diana’s expression shifts from irritation to consideration. “Now that’s aspirational. Nobody wants authenticity if it looks like their actual lives.”

I laugh along with everyone else while something in my chest deflates a little more.

Twenty minutes later, I’m hiding in the third-floor women’s restroom, splashing cold water on my face and trying not to look at my phone again. Tyler’s engagement has 347 likes already. I’ve been counting.

The bathroom door swings open, and I straighten up, reaching for a paper towel. But instead of another PR drone with perfect hair, it’s Zoe Williams, our newest junior associate. She doesn’t see me at first—just locks herself in the handicap stall.

Then I hear it—the unmistakable sound of hyperventilating.

I hesitate. Office bathroom etiquette suggests pretending not to notice your coworker having a breakdown between the hand dryer and the tampon dispenser. But the gasping sounds grow increasingly desperate.

“Zoe?” I tap lightly on the stall door. “It’s Penny. Are you okay in there?”

A choked sound that might be a laugh. “I’m fine! Just... just fixing my makeup!”

“With your lungs?”

Another strangled noise, then the lock slides open. Zoe sits fully clothed on the closed toilet lid, her presentation notes crumpled in her hands, mascara tracking down her cheeks.

“I can’t do it,” she whispers. “My first client presentation and I’m going to projectile vomit on their sustainable cotton samples.”

I crouch down beside her, my own crisis temporarily forgotten. “Hey, look at me. Take a deep breath.”

“I can’t breathe. That’s the problem.” Her eyes are wild. “Everyone’s going to see I’m a fraud.”

“Welcome to adulthood.” I dig through my purse and find a wrinkled packet of tissues. “Here’s the secret: we’re all frauds. Diana in there? Total fraud. That client with the artisanal beard? Super fraud.”

Zoe hiccups a laugh, taking the tissue. “You’re not a fraud. You always know exactly what to say.”

If she only knew. “Zoe, I once called our pharmaceutical client ‘Pfister’ instead of ‘Pfizer’ six times in one presentation because I was so nervous. They still signed.”

“But you always seem so... together.”

I think of Tyler’s post. Of Diana’s dismissals. Of my apartment with its catalog-perfect décor and not a single photo on the walls. Together isn’t the word I’d use.

“Listen.” I take her hands, which are ice cold. “You know that breathing exercise I showed you at the holiday party? In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. Do it with me.”

We breathe together on the bathroom floor, my designer slacks soaking up whatever mysterious liquids live on office bathroom tiles. After a minute, her breathing steadies.

“You’re going to be fine,” I tell her. “You know why? Because you actually care about this stuff. That comes through.”

“Diana always says I’m too emotional.”

“Diana says that about everyone with a pulse.” I stand up, pulling Zoe with me. “You just have to breathe through it. Every storm passes. You just have to keep your foundation from cracking while it does.”

The words come out automatically—wisdom I’ve collected but never applied to my own life. I’m great at giving advice I never take myself.

Zoe looks at me with something like admiration, which makes me deeply uncomfortable. “How do you stay so positive here? When everything’s so... fake?”

The question hits harder than it should. I don’t. I’m not. I’m just better at faking it than most. But I can’t say that to this kid who’s looking at me like I have answers.

“Practice,” I say instead, helping her fix her mascara. “Now go crush that presentation. Remember—they’re more afraid of you than you are of them.”

“I think that’s bears.”

“Same principle.”

As Zoe leaves, more composed but still shaky, she pauses at the door. “Thanks, Penny. Really.”

I smile and wave her off, then turn back to the mirror. My reflection stares back, professional and polished in my emerald silk blouse that photographs well for company headshots.

I look exactly like someone who has her shit together.

I wonder when I’ll stop feeling like a stranger in my own life.

“To getting through another day of selling our souls!” Abby raises her ridiculous cocktail—something purple with smoke billowing over the top—and clinks it against my wine glass.

The bar is packed with the Thursday after-work crowd, all of us seeking chemical assistance to forget that Friday is just another day of the same. Abby has been my best friend since college—the only person in LA who knew me before I became whatever this version of me is.

“My soul is on backorder,” I say, taking a large sip. “Supply chain issues.”

“So how bad was it today? Scale of one to ‘considering a career in goat farming’?”

I think about Diana’s dismissals. Tyler’s engagement. Zoe’s panic attack that felt a little too familiar. “I’m researching heritage goat breeds as we speak.”

Abby’s smile fades. “You hate it there, Pen.”

“I hate everywhere eventually. It’s my special talent.” I try to keep my tone light.

“No, you don’t. You’re just so busy making yourself fit everywhere that you never build a place that fits you.”

I blink at her, the truth of it landing like a slap. “That’s... unnecessarily profound for happy hour.”

“I’m just saying—” She stops as my phone lights up with a text. “Please tell me that’s not work.”

It is.

Diana:

Need to have necessary restructuring discussions tomorrow. 9AM.

Translation: someone’s getting fired, and everyone needs to witness the execution.

“Just Diana being Diana.” I slide my phone away, but not before catching another notification about Tyler’s engagement. The post is up to 612 likes now.

“You saw, huh?” Abby says softly.

“Saw what?” I examine the bar’s exposed brick wall with sudden fascination.

“Tyler. The proposal.”

“Oh, that.” I wave dismissively, the wine making my gesture sloppy. “Good for him. Apparently Malibu Barbie is his ‘forever home’ now.”

Abby snorts. “What does that even mean? She’s not a rescue dog.”

“I think it’s supposed to be romantic. Like, she’s where he belongs.” The words taste bitter. “Whatever. We broke up because I’m ‘emotionally nomadic,’ remember? His words, not mine.”

“His loss,” Abby says loyally. “Also, who talks like that?”

“Therapists and assholes.”

“And which was he?”

“Both. Definitely both.”

We laugh, and I’m grateful for her ability to pull me back from the edge of self-pity. I glance around the bar, taking in the carefully curated authentic vibe—Edison bulbs, reclaimed wood, bartenders with suspenders and elaborate mustaches.

My eyes land on a poster near the restrooms: a tiny house nestled in the woods with the caption TINY HOUSE, HUGE FEELINGS.

I point it out to Abby. “See? Even the anti-establishment aesthetic is manufactured. ‘Look how authentic we are with our tiny carbon footprint and enormous emotions!’ ”

Abby raises an eyebrow. “You know what your problem is?”

“My crippling self-awareness?”

“You can see through everyone’s bullshit except your own.”

I wince. “Ouch. What happened to ‘his loss’?”

“Still true. But so is this.” She reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. “You’re so afraid of being stuck that you never let yourself belong anywhere. And then you wonder why nothing feels real.”

The truth of it sits heavy in my chest .

“When did happy hour become therapy hour?”

“When you started needing it.” She drains her smoking purple concoction. “One more round before we call it?”

I nod, grateful for the subject change, and signal the bartender. But Abby’s words echo in my head, mixing with Tyler’s caption: Finally found my forever home.

I’ve never had one of those. Not really. Not when I was bouncing between Mom’s artistic chaos in San Diego and Dad’s rigid structure in Minneapolis. Not in any of the apartments I’ve lived in since college. Not even in my own skin, constantly reshaping myself to fit whatever room I’m in.

Maybe that’s why I’m so good at PR.

I’ve been marketing myself my whole life.

My apartment is exactly as I left it this morning—stylish, spotless, and sterile as a hospital room. I kick off my heels by the door and pad across the hardwood floors to the kitchen, where I pour another glass of wine I don’t need.

Everything in here came from West Elm or CB2, carefully selected to look effortlessly curated. The walls are the perfect shade of greige. The throw pillows are artfully mismatched in complementary tones. There’s not a single personal photo anywhere.

I open Instagram again, masochistically scrolling to Tyler’s post. 843 likes now. I zoom in on the brownstone behind them—bay windows, flower boxes, a red door that probably doesn’t stick in the humidity. It looks like a place with history. With roots.

“Finally found my forever home,” I mutter, closing the app and tossing my phone onto the couch.

I wander to the window that overlooks the city, lights twinkling in the darkness. Five years in LA, and it still doesn’t feel like mine. Nothing does.

My lease is up next month. I could move again—new apartment, new neighborhood, maybe even a new city. Start fresh. Reinvent myself one more time.

The thought exhausts me suddenly.

I slide down to sit on the floor, back against the wall, wine glass dangling from my fingers.

The apartment is so quiet I can hear the refrigerator humming.

No one would know if I disappeared tomorrow.

The plants are fake. The neighbors don’t know my name.

Even the furniture feels like it’s just passing through.

My phone buzzes with a calendar alert: Luxury Living Charity Auction – 8PM.

I’d forgotten about the event—some industry thing where companies donate “experiences” and executives get drunk and overbid to prove how generous they are. Diana had “volunteered” me to represent the agency. I should shower. Change. Put on my networking face.

Instead, I take another sip of wine and stare at the empty walls of my not-home.

Maybe Abby is right. Maybe I am afraid of being stuck.

Or maybe I’m more afraid that I could stay somewhere forever and still feel this hollow.

Either way, I’m about to discover just how wrong a life can go in one champagne-soaked evening.