Dani ran her fingers over a tangle of necklaces that hung from a stand on her dresser. She needed a statement necklace. And she needed that statement to be Eff you very much, Vince. No, that wasn’t right. The message she wanted to send was more Sorry, what was your name again? I have moved so far on while you were away that I can’t quite remember but please sign the fucking papers. If only she had an accessory that would communicate that.

Hang on. She grabbed the phone. Max, apparently having finally gotten the point, had stopped texting.

Dani: On second thought, there might actually be a scenario in which I want to get together with you today.

Max: I wait on bated breath.

Dani: Any chance you want to be my plus-one to my work holiday party, at which my soon-to-be-ex-husband, Vince, will be in attendance, as will his new girlfriend, who is a former student of both of ours and who is twenty years younger than he is?

Max: Is your soon-to-be-ex-husband the main character in a Philip Roth novel?

She laughed out loud.

Dani: He might as well be. He’s on sabbatical this year in Spain communing with the spirit of Picasso, but he’s back for the holidays.

Max: The answer is yes, but I have questions. Question the first: Is this going to be one of those elaborately complex romantic comedies where we pretend to be in love to make your ex-husband jealous?

Dani: Unfortunately, he’s not technically my ex-husband. My fondest wish is to relegate him to that status, but we’re not there yet legally. As to your question, let’s leave it vague. No need to make out or anything.

Max: Well, that’s disappointing. I do so enjoy making out at office holiday parties.

Dani: No making out at the party. Or anywhere. In addition to being post-men, I am post–making out. If pressed, I’ll call you a friend. But if you wanted to do me a solid and appear to find me the pinnacle of wit, that would be appreciated.

Though, really, there was no reason Max should “do her a solid.” She’d been nothing but cool to him last summer in Eldovia.

Max: Question the second: Am I myself, or am I pretending to be, say, a visiting scholar of nineteenth-century literature who is therefore extra susceptible to your pinnacle?

Dani: You’re yourself.

She was impressed, though, that he knew she studied nineteenth-century literature. If she’d said anything about it last summer, it had been in passing.

Max: So what I hear you saying is that in this one very specific scenario, you find it convenient that I’m an almost-duke.

God damn him.

Dani: God damn you.

Max: I might even go so far as to say that you’re using me for my almost-dukeness.

Dani didn’t want to be this petty, but . . . Okay, yes she did.