“Got the greenlight for my one-woman show. But more importantly, Nana asked me to bring you something,” she replies.

We sit on the couch and Mary riffles through her bag. There’s no luggage anywhere, so clearly she’s not planning to spend the night. From her bag she retrieves an aluminum-foil–wrapped object and offers it to me.

“Bibingka!” I peel it open and gaze adoringly at it. “Thank you for not eating it. Your restraint is appreciated.” I display no such restraint and shove half the treat in my mouth.

“Why would I have eaten it?” Mary asks. “She made it for you.”

“Tell that to my parents,” I say around the mouthful I’m chewing.

“Huh. That explains why Nana referred to it as ‘the backup.’ ” She drains her glass—I still don’t know where it, or its contents, came from—and regards me over the rim of her spectacles. “Were you alone on the big three-oh?”

“No, actually, I . . .”

Her eyes widen and I quickly change the subject. “When did you start wearing glasses?” I ask.

She used to say she’d rather get hit by a bus than give up her contact lenses.

“I don’t need them to see,” she assures me, a twinkle in her eye. “It’s a shorthand, alerts people to my intelligence.”

I grin. “A warning beacon, good idea.”

“Who’d you spend your birthday with?” she asks. I should’ve known I couldn’t deflect her that easily.

“No one. Just Miles, from next door.” I flap my hand toward the shared wall.

She taps her chin. “Miles, right, the new tenant. Decent writer. I approve.”

“There’s nothing to approve!”

“Your lips say no but your eyes say oh, yes.”

“My eyes say nothing of the sort.” My lips were too busy kissing him.

“I’ve got all night,” Mary threatens, settling into the couch cushions and placing her stolen (?) martini glass on the side table. “You can’t kick me out of my own property so you may as well spill the juicy details.”

“We go to the same café, that’s all,” I reluctantly acknowledge. “It’s across the street. And he came to dinner with my parents.”

“Why?”

“Like I said, he lives next door.”

“Lives next door, goes to the same café . . . Sounds convenient. Reminds me of Nick, Mr. Fresh Hot Dick delivered straight to your door—”

“Oh my God!” I’m blushing furiously now. “Nick was not—delivered straight to my door. It was your door.”

“You didn’t have to go anywhere, get dolled up, or exert any effort whatsoever. You think I didn’t notice you two getting handsy? God forbid you meet someone who doesn’t come to you on command, who’s not willing to fit into your schedule—”

“I can’t even follow this conversation, so . . .”

“How’s your broken foot?” she asks, concern etched on her face.