She chuckled. “Fine. Some adulting might be in order, but be kinder to yourself. You’re working toward a dream, and I support it and you wholeheartedly.”

“What you’re not saying is that it’s about time your grown-up offspring snapped out of her quarter-life crisis and got her shit together like Kate.” The same age as me, my best friend already had her own apartment, a serious boyfriend, and a solid career.

Immediately following my whiny internal monologue came feelings of guilt and shame. Kate didn’t exactly live on Easy Street either. She’d had her share of shitty, half-assed romances before Diego. She’d more than paid her dues. She’d also worked tirelessly in law school only to fail the bar anyway.

“No. I don’t think that at all. In my selfish fantasy world, we’d live together forever. The Gellar girls against the world.”

I rolled my eyes even though I knew she meant it, at least the part about not counting the minutes until I left her nest.

“I don’t want to hear any more talk about giving up. Quitting is not in the Gellars’ dictionary.”

“I know but—”

She wiggled a finger at me. “No buts. No excuses. Tea gave you a platform to tell a story. Use it. But don’t write it for me. Don’t write it for us or our housing situation. Write it for you. Then, if it doesn’t work out and Derek says no, at least you’ll know you gave it your all.”

My eyes stung with unshed tears and my chin trembled, but I nodded my agreement.

“By the way,” she whispered, “how impressed are you that I haven’t asked a single question about Finn?” She grinned knowingly.

I recoiled at his name.

“Uh-oh. That doesn’t look good.”

I glanced behind me to confirm the coast was clear. “He’s just a friend.” Or a colleague, depending on who you ask. Normally, I’d tell her everything, but there was no time.

“If you say so,” she said, one eyebrow raised skeptically. “I’m tired. Time to kick everyone out.”

I followed her back out to the living room, where we started the process of saying goodbye, which I prolonged as much as possible to put off being alone with Finn in the car. I circled the dark wood dining-room table we’d had forever. It occurred to me it was the last time we’d celebrate Rosh Hashanah in this apartment. It might be the last major dinner party we’d ever hold here.

“Remember the time I left a gob of macaroni and cheese under the table to eat later?” I asked Mom.

“You were a disgusting child,” she said.

Everyone laughed. Finn the loudest. Until his phone rang again and he stepped to the side.

I don’t care who it is. I don’t care who it is. I don’t care who it is.