She glanced at him, and then at me. “What’s he babbling about?”

“I kind of forced him to kiss me yesterday,” I said, already feeling Finley’s silent wrath. She didn’t want Sterling this second, but he belonged to her. “To get rid of the firefighter.”

Finley’s eyebrows rose, and she looked to Sterling for confirmation. They were an odd pair, between them wearing clothes and accessories that cost more than the average home, but both emotionally and morally bankrupt. Finley might have been able to talk me out of a spiral, but she had a pocket full of people and a closet full of things: all expendable. Sterling loved Finley, but would never beg for her, and preferred to wallow in infinite misery than admit defeat and try to love someone else. We were friends because less than one percent of the world’s population could identify with the sorrow of having too much money and too many opportunities—with the boredom of total freedom of monetary limitations.

We could depend on each other to neither expect anything but time, nor hope that we’d be invited on the next paid vacation. Our friendships would never be more about connections than inside jokes or late night talks. We knew if we were to ever bitch about the throes of money, it was not because we were hinting at needing any. We had nothing in common but the fact that we had one more thing in common than we did with everyone else.

“You really kissed her?” Finley asked Sterling.

He nodded, realizing too late his mistake. He was hoping for jealousy. Finley’s anger had always been a slow boil, and she was just beginning to simmer.

“Fin,” I began.

“Shush. You don’t get to talk.”

I sat back in my seat, hoping the night didn’t get any more awkward.

We ate our seabass and veal, buffalo ricotta, and chicory. We drank far too many Kir Royales that somehow turned into rounds of Irish whiskey, and then after giving the waiter the largest tip he’d ever seen, we headed out into the cold to light cigarettes and breathe puffs of white into the air.

Finley seemed to have forgiven us both, giggling against Sterling’s chest at my jokes, but I knew better. Sterling pulled her in, taking any chance to hold her that she would allow. I guided them down the alley to Turk’s, the local dive bar with a back entrance, hard to find on purpose.

“I want to see your hotshot,” Finley said, drunk and silly.

“He’ll probably be here. I’ve seen him here before. Most of the locals hang out at Turk’s.”