Sam cuts into their duck. “Please. Vera doesn’t need any coddling. So next step is to hang out with Page again. I know you’re used to being invited to things and making zero effort in any kind of relationship, but what you’re going to do is ask Page for a movie night. At her place, not this zoo with your dark art filled with her sister’s face. Then you’ll tell Page you’ll accompany her wherever she wants to go with Odilie’s friends.” They take a bite and chew happily.

“That was my plan. But the thing is, I don’t think Page needs me anymore. I think she’s learning how to assimilate on her own, getting whatever info she needs about her sister,” I say and Sam gives me a stare like I’m stupid.

“That’s why you have to nudge her. Have you ever in your life had to work an ounce to keep a relationship alive?” I pause, think. “Yeah, I didn’t think so.” They grab my phone sitting next to me on the table, ask for my passcode, which I reluctantly give.

They pass the phone back to me.

Hey Page! Hope you’re well! Want to do a movie night this week?! I would invite you over to mine, but it’s a MESS. LMK when you’re free! Xx.

“This is not how I text,” I say, annoyed by the excessive exclamation points.

“Exactly,” Sam retorts, serving themself more rice.

Page is a lot cooler toward me than usual when she invites me in, like she’s doing me a favor by having me over, barely even looking at me as she concocts a couple of margaritas. I make a decision early on not to mention my visit to Brandon Newburn—I’m not sure how Page would react, if at all.

But I can see I’ve made an impact. She looks very Cobble Hill with understated makeup and a subtly expensive gray athleisure outfit. Her hair is cut into a better style and there’s something about her hands, too, that tugs at my brain, a twitch in my memory.

We sit in front of the giant TV with our drinks and popcorn and I’m grateful for the movie, The Devil Wears Prada, because she’s being uncharacteristically quiet. She’s been on her phone all night, very clearly texting someone.

When the credits start to roll, I’m two margaritas in and feeling bold. “Who’s the lucky person?” I ask, gesturing to her phone.

She finally looks at me, blushes, slides the phone onto the table, screen down. “You’re going to judge me,” she says, almost darkly, like whatever’s coming is about to throw me off course.

“No, I won’t.” And I smile welcomingly, even though yes, it’s very possible I will judge her.