“There is nothing better than that photograph of you,” Fleur said. “You’re the teenage dreamer. It’s a classic American photograph. I think it’s the cover.”

“But—I mean, Max, you—Max burned it.”

“I did,” Max assured me, blue eyes wide as teacups, hand pressed to her heart. “I’ll never reprint it as a fine art photograph. Never. That’s my promise. I won’t break it. But the best chapter is about you, that photograph, and my friendship with you.”

“That’s not what I thought you meant.”

“We don’t have to use it, if it bothers you,” Max said, her voice now softer than a cat’s paw—and twice as quick. “It’s the publisher…they think that it’s the one. I’m open…to anything.”

“I mean, what’s so bad about having your face on next year’s bestselling memoir?” Fleur asked, flattering me now. “You’re the Mapplethorpe. It’s so honest.”

I turned pink and stared into my wine. “What is there to say?”

“It’s about what it meant to capture someone’s vulnerabilities and profit from them. And what it means, now, to be friends with an actual magician.”

I was shocked by that answer.

“Don’t act confused,” Max said, drinking her wine. “I know who we are to each other. I’m not afraid of it.”

“I am,” I said, not kidding, and they both laughed.

“Don’t be,” Fleur said. “It’s such an extraordinary book.”

“Are you asking?” This ambush was making me nervous.

“I’m asking,” said Fleur, sitting down next to me, cross-legged, her whole being tuned into mine. Max was suddenly at the fire, moving the logs around, on the other side of the column. “Max loves you. Max wants to protect you. I like you, but I love this book, and I want to protect it. That picture—it is everything.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I said, overwhelmed by frustration. “I’m sorry but—no. I don’t want that. I don’t.”

“I know,” said Max, pressing her hands to the ground like she was trying to calm a screaming child. I looked around; nobody was screaming. “I know, and I won’t do anything that you’re not comfortable with.”

“I mean, think about it, right?” Fleur asked.

“No,” I said, and it snapped off my tongue so cleanly that we looked over each other’s shoulders without speaking for the next thirty seconds, all of us stunned.

Ultimately, Max broke it. “I totally get it. I’m so sorry for asking,” she said, pulling one of my curls affectionately. “Let’s fucking get drunk and forget this whole thing. Fleur, you have to tell her about your apartment. It’s crazy. Fleur bought the world’s cutest apartment. It’s like half skylight. It’s so charming.”