“I mean, Sheila, my husband, Bob, I love him so much and he’s going to die. I just know he’s going to die soon.” She sniffled. I stared so hard the purple started blending in with her feet, giving the illusion that one large varicose vein was attached to her ankle. “You know, Sheila, I feel like I can trust you. You remind me of my son, Mark.” Her son, Mark, was Namibian and I was Pakistani and therefore we were one and the same. All brownies do look alike after all.

“Judge, I am so so sorry about Bob, I can only imagine what you must be going through. How this must be so hard for you.” Unconsciously, I leaned forward and put my hand on top of her hand and gave it a squeeze. For a split second, we looked at each other right in the eyes and I swear I spotted a glimmer of humanity.

“Well, I don’t—do not—have time to sit around and discuss this nonsense with you!” she barked, yanking her hand free from mine. It was suddenly clear to me that the look I saw was not humanity at all, but fear. Fear that she’d let someone in. And as soon as she let me in, I was out.

“I am rilly busy and have lots of work to do at home,” she said and started scampering around her office, shoving random briefs into her shopping bags. “You go home now, Sheila.”

“Um, I’m happy to wait for you, Judge. I don’t want to leave you here by—”

“Go. Now!”

Most of the roads had been plowed, leaving muddied snowbanks on the sidewalks. How could the judge leave Bob at home alone in such a storm? Surely that was some sort of crime. And speaking of crime, how could Heidi continue to get away with being such a bitch to Matthew, one of the most decent men I’d ever met in my life? I wondered if the two of them would end up like the judge and Bob? If Heidi was ditching him for boy bands now, I shuddered to think what would happen when Matthew got old and senile.

I walked into an empty apartment, spotting a note from Puja on the coffee table. “James and I down at Tryst, come meet us. Hoping the day got better. XOXO, Puj.”

I peeled off my dirty clothes and climbed into bed—a tryst with James Dean couldn’t have coaxed me outside again.

Chapter Seventeen

Philadelphia had thawed, leaving traces of stubborn slush as the sole reminders of what had been. Stepping over one brackish puddle in Washington Square, I smiled, noting that in a matter of months, I’d be back in New York’s Washington Square Park.