Never Too Real by Carmen Rita Page B

client base, from her first book, to guest spots on TV, and then eventually a thriving speaking and consulting business. She knew branding and she knew niche. Cat had to admit that.
    “Yeah, but, and here’s the thing, I hate doing it. If I have to talk about a fucking loser company again . . .” Cat’s eyes stared at a knot of wood on the bar. She knew she was dropping a bomb on her friends. Cat herself hadn’t known this for sure until she articulated it—that she was worn out when it came to her main topic. As the words left her mouth, she felt there was no turning back. And it felt good, if very frightening.
    “Cat!” Gabi said. “Really? You hate covering business?”
    Cat nodded, her eyes down in a bit of shame.
    “Okay, well, that requires more thought,” Magda said as she chewed ice. She was on her second drink and it was barely six o’clock. “Have you told your agent yet?”
    “No, I mean, I’ve hinted . . . I suppose I have to.”
    “Have to? Listen, chica, if this is your happiness, head that way. But make sure you’re not just angry. This would be a big move, no?” Gabi took a levelheaded stance, then paused for Cat’s nod that she’d heard her. “Look, your bills are getting paid. Give yourself some time to figure out what’s next before you make a big jump.”
    Cat knew what she didn’t want to do, but she didn’t know what she wanted. She felt rudderless. And she could never swim that well. Cat had been the personification of purpose ever since grade school. But, without purpose, what was next? If she didn’t figure it out soon, she’d fall off the grid.
    “Hey, you—don’t forget to talk to Joe!” the red-faced interloper halfheartedly called out to Cat on his way out of the bar, pointing.
    “Yeah,” Cat responded. His blond companion looked over, eye daggers ready. Cat followed with a soft but snarky, “I’ll do that.” Taking a slug of water, she watched his back as the door closed behind him. Well, she thought, at least Joe still has a show.

Chapter 8
    M agda’s oxblood designer loafers were propped on her desk, soles barely scuffed. As she reclined in her office chair, closed her eyes, and massaged her temples, she thought, Can I go one night without drinking? Just one.
    The door was closed, Magda’s office quiet. The loudest thing was the vanilla air spritzer, a few pfft-pfft s to smoke out any lingering scents emanating off her from the night before. Magda didn’t like the quiet, didn’t like sitting, but she had little choice as her hangover was holding her hostage. Of course, there always was her favorite cure. The bottle stood at the ready in the bottom drawer of her desk, and a coffee mug rested next to her keyboard. When tempted, she’d tell herself, No, not at work. Okay, maybe. But not until 5:00 p.m.
    It was well before five.
    Magda was jostled by her cell phone’s ping, alerting her to a voice mail. She couldn’t bear to look, refusing to acknowledge the Siren song of the notification, grumbling instead at herself inside for forgetting to change her settings. Thirty seconds later, there was a knock at her door. The leader of this multimillion-dollar business straightened herself up, opened her eyes for the first time in several minutes, and popped a breath mint.
    “Come in,” she croaked. “Oh, hey, guys.”
    Magda loved her team. As the five young staffers entered, each offered a “Hey,” “Hi,” or “ Buenas, ” then sat in whatever chair was available, some on the floor. Though a sincere financial leader in venture capital, Magda’s firm was aligned more quasi with the casual hipness of west coast tech style—hoodies, kicks, and jeans—rather than the Brooks Brothers and Tory Burches of Wall Street. But unlike the typical west coast venture capital firm, which was lily white and completely male, Magda’s was led by a gay Latina with a colorful, gender-balanced staff. Diversity was her competitive advantage. Plus, she had a chip on her