Gemma folds her coat over the couch’s back. “Pretty music.”

“It’s a choir in the city.” Ava heads to the kitchen. “This piece is called ‘A Boy and a Girl.’”

“A boy and a girl,” Gemma echoes. Her red dress flutters around her knees. She takes in the apartment fully. It’s cluttered but not dirty—books and spice bottles scattered on tables, a coat on the carpet. And on the other side of the room are three closed doors.

From the kitchen comes the sound of a cabinet opening, then Ava’s voice. “Are you drinking right now?”

“I am,” says Gemma. “Thanks for asking.”

Ava returns with glasses and a half-empty bottle of red. She settles next to Gemma and pours. “How’s that going?”

“It’s fine,” says Gemma. She sips and the blooming peace inside her magnifies. “It is what it is. You know?”

“Not really.” Ava laughs. “I’d hear more about that if you wanted. Not that it’s any of my business.”

“Well”—Gemma shifts to face her—“how do I put this?”

Ava looks at her patiently. Gemma puts her glass on the table. She doesn’t usually say this, but she sees so little point in lying.

Or, rather, she understands that coming here and lying will not get her what she wants.

“I’m an addict,” Gemma says. “I understand that.”

“Okay.”

“And I could”—Gemma puts her hands up in a charming “who knows?” gesture—“I could pretend it was otherwise. But I’ve tried that. So I try to be safe. That’s the best I can put it. Stopping again is always an option, and that keeps me sane. Just like when I’m not drinking, I know starting again is always an option, and that keeps me sane, too.”

Ava looks very focused. She is focusing very intently on Gemma. “I think I understand.”

“You don’t have to.” Gemma smiles. “It’s okay not to understand.”

“Can I tell you a story?” Ava says. “I hope it’s appropriate. It might relate.”

“Sure.” Gemma leans back and puts her legs on Ava’s lap.

“So my mom used to smoke a pack a day. My earliest memories, I was like, ‘My mom’s gonna die!’ Those labels were scary, hey? I had dreams of her skin rotting off and her becoming a skeleton. But when I was in high school, she quit.”

“Good for her,” Gemma says. “How?”

“My dad turned forty. Story goes, Mom asked what he wanted for his birthday, and he said, ‘I want a wife that doesn’t smoke.’ Mom goes, ‘Gosh, better make sure that’s me.’”

“That’s cute,” Gemma says kindly.

“She quit cold turkey. For ten years. Then she started again. Pack a day, picked it right back up.”

“Fuck. What’d Dad say?” Gemma did this whenever someone talked about their family, adopted terms in conversations without possessive pronouns. (Grandpa really did that? Oh no, Mom!) Everyone liked it without noticing.

“Eh, they were already on the outs by then.”

“Gotcha.”

“When she started again,” Ava continues, “I was pissed. Like, I was fucking mad.” An ugly look momentarily appears on her face. “I just thought, ‘Why? Why quit so long, then throw it away?’ But, as maybe you’ll understand better than me, that was the wrong idea. Because the right idea was: Mom got in a whole decade of no smoking. Wow. Good for her.”