“Hang on. How come I’m not allowed to have an opinion on music, but you’re wearing this?” Susan jabbed her in the chest, right in Marilyn Manson’s googly white eye. Or what was left of it. This was a seriously vintage article of clothing, a memento of Esther’s days as an innocent baby goth. She’d been practically an embryo when she went to her first Marilyn Manson gig.

“Unlike you, I have the credentials,” Esther said. This declaration of taste was a calculated risk. A tribute band called Charles Munroe had a gig in one of the local pubs next week—a strategic T-shirt was the perfect way to invite conversation and casually suggest that she and Vectra go.

It wasn’t like Susan or Daisy would be interested.

Vectra took a long time getting to the bar, and Susan had to endure Esther’s constant fidgeting, her attention bouncing back and forth between the door and her phone while Susan made her way steadily through her first drink. From Esther’s description, she was about to meet either a kindred spirit of sarcasm or a total nightmare.

“There she is!” Esther hissed, then immediately added, “Don’t look!”

“I wasn’t.”

Vectra saw Esther a moment later, but it took her a long while to actually make it over to their little table. Maybe it was because of her tiny legs and frail little bones?

“What are you drinking?” Esther sprang up, knocking the table. Susan was interested in the disdainful flicker in Vectra’s hooded eyes and the way Esther immediately downgraded her wide beam to a polite smile.

“Vodka, lime, and soda. Double. Fresh lime.”

As Esther skipped off, seeming to forget Susan’s existence, Susan took it upon herself to initiate contact.

“Fresh lime is a bit optimistic for a student bar,” she said, raising a hand in a casual wave of welcome. “Hi. I’m Susan.”

“I’m Vectra.”

Once it was clear that was all she was going to say, Susan went on, “Vectra’s an interesting name.”

“Susan . . . is not.”

The two looked at each other for a very long moment, each measuring the other to discover she came up short.

Susan was going to need that second whisky.

The basement was always warm. Not like “hot yoga” warm, but the sweet spot between sweater off and air-conditioning on. It was the equivalent of a pleasantly snug duvet on a morning you didn’t have anything to get up for. The kind of place that, once you were in, you didn’t want to leave.

“What do you think?” Daisy asked, sticking close to Reggie to make sure he didn’t feel intimidated. She needn’t have worried.

“I think that cookie was the best thing I’ve ever eaten.” Reggie held his hand in front of his face. “I feel like I’m melting.”