It’s still dark and the air is frigid, the light wind reddening my already splotchy cheeks. But the time and weather do nothing to hinder New York City’s perpetual rush hour. Traffic is backed up for blocks. Drivers are half asleep and impatient. Headlights are blinding. I want to go back to sleep.

But I don’t.

Because I’m a (mostly) functional adult with responsibilities and a job, so I whine all the way back to our apartment and take a cold shower (because the hot water isn’t working) and I take the subway to work. By the time I get the bagels, I’m only thirteen minutes late.

I’m barely in my seat when Bree walks in, adjusting her skirt and top button of her shirt. Most days she’s still getting dressed in the elevator. She’s another one of those early morning spin class riders. I’m still trying to figure out the allure of sweating like a pig before the streetlights go off.

“You okay?” I ask. She’s looking particularly green and queasy.

“I’m fine,” she says. “Were you at the Ragnar Estate this weekend?”

There’s no beating around the bush with her. “Why?”

“Because someone said they saw you there,” she says as she falls into her chair. “And I for sure thought you would have told me that you were going up there. How’d you get invited? My parents own half of East Hampton and I’ve never been there.”

“Joey,” I say, signing onto my computer.

“I thought she hated you.”

“I thought so too.” I shrug. “But we went to spin class today and yesterday she got the cereal I like when she was at the store, which I really think was just an excuse because she doesn’t want to admit that she also likes Lucky Charms.”

“They are magically delicious,” she says, and then grimaces. “I heard Asher was there.”

“I heard Beyoncé’s makeup artist was there too, but I didn’t see him.”

Bree isn’t impressed, which I think is grounds for treason.

“He was being a dick on Friday,” she says. “I mean, he’s always a dick, but he was being exceptionally awful at the bar.”

“No, he wasn’t.”

“Liv, he was acting like a possessive boyfriend. She’s not going anywhere with them. Like? Who the fuck are you?”

“I was really drunk.”

“We all were.”

“Did you get home okay?”

“Yeah, I took an Uber. I wasn’t about to have a threesome with Thing One and Two,” she huffs. “Asher ruined everything.”

“I’m glad he did,” I say. “He shouldn’t be painted as the bad guy because he took me home when I was too drunk to take care of myself.”