“Working today?” Braithe glanced over her shoulder, eyeing Rainy’s black jeans and T-shirt. But Rainy didn’t sense any judgment, just curiosity. Braithe was—for lack of a more interesting word—kind. She nodded, and Braithe’s face lit with happiness. She was a rarity: a friend who understood that, for an artist, a productive day of work was hard to come by. Rainy felt a surge of affection for her. She’d only known Braithe for the year she’d lived there, but they’d fallen into an easy, noncommittal friendship that included an occasional dinner downtown and texts about nothing in particular. That dip you made on Friday night was amazing. Did you watch the Justin Bieber documentary? The boys want to go bowling Friday night, you down?

Following Braithe past the formal areas of the home, she braced herself, keeping her eyes on the back of her friend’s head, dreading the routine of the next five minutes. There was nothing more painful to Rainy than the way women greeted each other: the high-pitched squeals of joy, the touching and hugging, the exaggerated expressions that accompanied the small talk. The high, singsong voices saying, “How are youuuuuuuu?” Bonus points if they delivered a compliment about hair or outfit. In her circles in New York, her artist friends never touched; they kissed the air beside her cheek and asked how she was in the same sentence they inquired about her bag. They didn’t wait for the answer—that was the best part to Rainy—but here, they wanted her answer. Here, they asked and expected to receive.

Braithe Mattson’s kitchen was stark white, aside from the large black butcher-block island that sat at its center. A cluster of women were seated around it, seeming to glow under Braithe’s mood lighting. These were the faithful, the loyal, her ladies-in-waiting. The room smelled of her signature scent, a Tom Ford candle—Rainy had once Googled the price of it—called Lost Cherry. It was cozy, even if it was a little overly curated. Rainy did not see herself as one of them; she was the newest, still in the first year of her feel-out phase. She came to their weekly happy hours, and since some of their partners and husbands were friends, there were crossover dinners and summer barbecues, the group discussion centering on sports, their respective jobs and family gossip. All in all, they were nice...and they were Grant’s friends. She’d come because Grant was important to her, and he had asked her to.

Rainy made a split-second decision: she sneezed violently into her elbow, and by the time she opened her eyes, a unanimous “Bless you” echoed from the women across the room. Suddenly, everyone was laughing, including Rainy, who was able to avoid the hugging and touching part as she sniffled past them. No one wanted to get sick or touch the snotty girl.