Page confidently leads us to the corner. She has placed her hand in mine, in a vise, and when a truck comes hurtling along, almost jumping the curb, I have to pull her back, as if we’re tethered to each other. As she promised, a bar with blond wood paneling and funky tiles awaits. She plops herself down at an outdoor table and waits for me to do the same.

She asks about me, where I live, what I’ve been doing. I answer in the best way I can, stilted, but honest. I say I’m looking for another job. But am I? No one has asked me these questions in so long; they’ve only been transmitted by my mother, by Quinn. Page nods, doesn’t push, which I appreciate.

She tells me where she’s staying, that she’s not sure how long she’ll be in New York, but it’s already been a couple of weeks. She says she lives outside Detroit, near her parents, that she’s between jobs, but doesn’t elaborate so I don’t ask. She says she’s lonely here, that she hasn’t had the chance to really explore the city yet.

She pauses.

“I know this is weird of me. I mean it must be absolutely surreal to you, right?” She gazes at me, forcing me to expel a response.

“Which part?” I say lightly, my mouth twitching into a grin.

“You know, it was so shitty what the media did to you. And even shittier to pit us against each other, like we were supposed to hate you for something you seemingly had no control over. Or didn’t have the full story about. My mom, well, she just felt bad for you from the beginning. I mean, after the initial horror and trauma wasn’t plaguing her day and night. It still is, of course, but you know what I mean.” A waiter comes to take our order and Page orders a gin and tonic, like it’s 9:00 p.m. and not three in the afternoon. I order a glass of sauvignon blanc.

“I know what you mean.”