(Mary, regarding an invite from San Diego Comic-Con: “If they think I’m going to tear out what little hair I have left to wear the Pylon Party Hat, they need to triple my fee.” I also have a vague memory of a letter in her scrapbook, written to Lorne Michaels at Saturday Night Live: “Do I owe the Coneheads any royalties? Then again, I think I have plausible deniability. In outer space, no one can hear you scream (about copyrights) . . .”)

“What can I do? How can I help?” I ask gently.

“Bobby pins. As many as you can find. Now.”

When I return from my errand at, where else, Duane Reade, Bree’s in better spirits.

She’s changed into a minidress and freshened up her makeup. She reaches for the bobby pins I’m holding and secures the elaborate ’do while gazing at her reflection in the mirror. “You’re sure he loves Undersea as much as I do?”

“We’ve talked of little else.” Which you’d know if you’d read the messages!

God, what is wrong with me? Just because she doesn’t appreciate GreatSc0t’s humor on the page doesn’t mean she won’t appreciate his . . . attributes in person. (But if she doesn’t appreciate his wordplay, should she really be allowed to meet him in person?)

It never bothered me when my first client, Tess, dated her matches. It’s moot, anyway; what I told Aisha was true: I’m not dateable in my current state.

“Good luck, Bree. I hope you have a terrific night.”

But I cross my fingers behind my back.

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 9

MILES

Huh. That’s a memo I wasn’t expecting from Leanne. Has she been feeling nostalgic for Clifford? And if that’s the case, what does that say about my chances of getting over Jordan, who is at least 90 percent less loathsome than Leanne’s ex. Though, considering the cheating, maybe I should bump that down to 85.

The brewery with the beer flight specials Jude wants to test out happens to be located not too far from Dylan and Charles’s apartment.

That’s one reason for me to stop by during their date. Another is that I woke up this morning to a stack of Metro newspapers fanned out across the mahogany and glass coffee table in front of the sofa. They were all open to the classifieds section and every single available apartment was circled. Charles doesn’t have any classes today, which means he could conceivably be home all day, and having to confront your passive aggressor is just awkward for everyone.

And, finally, I admit it. A part of me wouldn’t mind seeing Bree in person, hearing if her humor translates IRL. Hey, I’m supposed to be empathizing with my client’s desires, right?