We’re in front of a bridal shop with a window display that’s filled with snow-frosted trees and glitter that sparkles against the twinkling lights, illuminating a long-sleeved gown that’s adorned with lace and pearls. I walk a few feet further, because I refuse to have this argument in front of something so breathtakingly gorgeous. I’d much rather do it in front of the rat that’s frozen to the bottom of the mailbox.

“Remember when we were in bed together and you asked me how I still manage to be late when I have twelve alarms set?” I ask. “It’s because I usually don’t get home until two in the morning and I’m exhausted. And sometimes trains breakdown and busses are late and I get that you don’t understand any of that because you have a car service that’s always on time. And then I have to wait in line to get your breakfast at what seems to be the most popular bagel shop in Manhattan. And your coffee! Your fucking coffee! They hate me. Those baristas run away when I walk through the door because they know it’s never going to be right the first or the second or even the third time. That’s why I’m always late, Asher.”

“Olivia—”

“And I try so hard.” I’m crying. God, I really didn’t want to cry in front of him. “And I know it’s my own fault. I know I do too much. I try to please too many people. But that’s me. I don’t want to disappoint anyone. So I take on the extra work. I go to that event I told you I couldn’t moderate. And I stay an extra forty-five minute to finish those emails, and then I miss my train and the bus and then I’m late for my other job—the one I desperately need because I have no one. It’s just me. I don’t have the luxury of calling my parents for some extra cash. I don’t have a trust fund or a rich relative waiting to bail me out. I have to support myself. And that means dealing with a handsy boss and gross customers because the tips are good. And that’s sad, isn’t it? That I have to suffer the gross side effects of misogyny to make a living.”

“Olivia.” Asher looks as defeated as I feel.

“But I don’t have to worry about that anymore,” I laugh. “I’ll be unemployed and homeless by the end of the month. What a way to ring in the new year.”

He shoves his hands into his pockets. His face, normally rigid and stiff from his long list of frustrations, goes soft. “You’re not going to be unemployed.”

“Oh, are you going to keep me on payroll as your plaything? Just like your father does with Bree?”