Preach. I don’t have the ingredients for that, but I do have half a bottle of week-old Riesling. I yank the fridge open and take a fortifying chug straight out of the bottle. It shivers sweetly all the way down. Mask of bravery in place, I FaceTime Bree. I feel no shame or guilt. It’s after hours, so I’m not bothering her at work, and she owes me an explanation.

Bree appears on my screen, looking chagrined. “I’m sorry,” she squeals. “Hiiiiii.”

“Hi,” I answer, stone-faced. “What happened? Are you okay?”

“Are you in trouble? I’m sorry about the survey, but it kept popping up on my screen and the only way to get rid of it was to fill it out. Besides, it was the truth! That date sucked complete ass.”

As opposed to partial ass? “You know, Bree,” I say slowly, so I don’t explode, “I’m honestly surprised to hear that. Can you walk me through it, please? I want to understand what went wrong.”

“He doesn’t eat. He only wanted to drink, which you knew was a deal-breaker for me. It could not have been more awk. And he didn’t even, like, register the frigging unbelievable accuracy of my hair. I DON’T DO IT FOR EVERYONE, YOU KNOW.”

“Yet I can’t help but notice you seem to have put it up that way again.” My teeth are clenched so tightly it’s a miracle she can tell what I’m saying.

She sniffs and lightly touches her coif, half of it off-screen. “There’s a Blu-ray party at midnight tonight,” she responds huffily. “It’s a re-release of the director’s cut with eighteen seconds of never-before-seen footage.”

“Okay. I’m sorry it went poorly, I really am. Did you . . .” I close my eyes briefly. “Find another ghostwriter?”

“No,” she says. “I didn’t know that I could.”

“You can’t,” I say quickly. Not until next week, Clifford said. I still have a chance to turn this around. “I get that you’re mad, and I apologize profusely for misjudging what would happen. Was there anything you did like about him? Anything we can work with?”

“He’s ripped,” she admitted. “And he’s got great eyes, and a killer accent . . .”

I can’t help smiling. I bet he does. “Oh, yeah?”

“I think he felt bad that he bombed so hard because he sent me something this morning.”

I brighten. “Was it flowers? A note? Can I see?”

“There’s nothing to see. You can hear it, though. It’s an audio file. I only listened to the beginning, because it looks long.”

“Doyouwantmetolistentoitforyou?” I sputter.

If she says yes, I’m still her ghostwriter. If she says yes, I can still make rent. Besides, I’d like to hear his “killer accent” for myself.

She shrugs. “I guess . . .”