“Fine, fine. Let’s keep the quid pro quo blackmail going, I guess.” I sigh as I hook her pinkie. It’s the most childish thing ever, but it also feels like a serious covenant coming from someone like Corinne, who took a book out in kindergarten when other kids started pulling ponytails and only looked up a few weeks ago when it dawned on her that she was, perhaps, a bit intense.

“This is ridiculous,” I say.

“No, it’s not. Pinkie swears are philosophically no different than most G8 resolutions.”

I shake.

“Also,” she finally adds, chewing her lip with hesitance. “The Wyatt is a good building.”

“Okay,” I say, pretending not to understand what she’s referring to.

“You just seemed—I don’t know—kind of weird about that just now? I’m just saying, there wouldn’t be any assumptions about your family if people knew your address. I live there too.”

“Okay,” I say again, because what else do you say when someone calls you out? She’s not wrong. But I’m also not about to discuss it with her.

“So, you’ll come with me to Marvyn’s?” she asks hopefully. “So I can get my freak on?”

“Again,” I say, making sure to make eye contact first. “Ew.”

Forget Corinne being way out of Marvyn’s league by every metric imaginable; it’s borderline a sin against nature. Like . . . like pairing a weird breed of worm that only grows in the diseased pouches of kangaroos and an adorable, superintelligent Baby Yoda with a pink hat who’s already tapped into the Force.

“You know you’re too good for that guy, right? I’ll come as long as we’re all on the same page there.”

Corinne blinks twice and then gives me a surprised smile.

“Henri—that might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Without blackmail too.”

She rolls her eyes.

“Look, I’m aware of Marvyn’s more agro tendencies, all right? I am. But the heart wants what it wants. And I want that ass.”

She says it with such a shocking amount of yearning in her voice that I can’t help a snort. She really is ridiculous sometimes. We won’t even get started on her taste.

“Ugh,” I manage. “I can only confirm I’ll attend if you stop right there, right now.”

“Deal.” She smiles. “See you later!”

And with that, she disappears into the classroom, making her way to the last empty seat at the front of the class.

Twelve

Marvyn lives right in the middle of Union Square downtown. It’s far from a residential area, always buzzing and crowded with tourists, but he and his parents spend most weekends in Westchester. No one under the age of forty should use the term “pied-à-terre,” but true to form, Marvyn does so liberally.