I tug on his backpack, forcing him to stop short on his walk. “You know how goddamn tired I am of people saying I’m angry or mean.”

He turns around and sighs. “You’re right, you’re right. I’m sorry. You don’t deserve that.” And he has to mean it. Because that was one of the many accusations hurled against me. That I was cunning. Cruel. Overly ambitious. Someone with a short temper and a need for things to go her way. None of which was wrong, exactly. I’d always prided myself on my steadfastness, my sharp tongue and inability to bullshit. It’s what got me hired at Magdelena, what made me rise so meteorically in an industry that spat people out before they even got a toe in the door. So what if, while I was growing up, people thought I was a mean girl; I didn’t care about being nice, especially if someone was wasting my time. But like everything else, all those qualities came back to bite me in the ass.

“Tell me about you,” I say. And Quinn obliges. He’s a journalist, on staff at a popular media company. His boss keeps assigning him inane topics, silly hot takes on social media trends, interviews with dewy-eyed skincare gurus. He went rogue and wrote this one explosive piece about Korean-pop “schools,” these intensely grueling institutions wannabe K-Pop stars go to in Seoul to be transformed into BTS or BLACKPINK. He had even gotten some interviews with a couple of fledgling wannabe pop stars while visiting cousins in Seoul. But his boss wouldn’t publish it. Unlike me, Quinn is not the type to ask for what he wants or admit to resentment when he doesn’t get it.

“Did you read my latest on that fitness influencer Marjorie Gerald’s kid? Her parents are literally buying her a kitchenware line and saying she designed it, that she’s some certifiable cooking genius. She’s six!” Quinn shakes his head and takes a quick puff on his Juul. “These crazy rich Brooklyn families, man. I thought I dealt with entitlement when I was in the service industry, but this is a whole other level.” He rambles on and I listen, my eyes roving over the crowds at the garden today. Being in the city again, spotting varied faces that don’t share DNA with me is bizarre after so many months of seeing no one.

A woman is ahead of us on the path, one hand on her belly, the other clutching a towheaded child. There’s a jolt in my brain, a quick flash of Penelope, her brown eyes, full lashes. Of Odilie. Their portraits on the wall in his brownstone. Her picture in the paper. Her pictures online. Her pictures next to mine. I stop in my tracks, close my eyes, clench my fists. My stomach burning, my heart hot.