“Thanks for trekking all the way to Brooklyn, Nicky.” He hates that nickname, so of course it’s the only thing I call him. “I just needed to get away from anything even remotely connected to work.” Which includes my apartment smack-dab in the middle of bros-of-finance central.

“I just spent an hour on the packed-to-the-absolute-gills subway when I could’ve been at home relaxing with a beer and baseball, so yeah, you’re welcome.” He signals the waiter and politely orders a beer and three different appetizers. He doesn’t ask us what we want, already knowing exactly what we would order.

“Oh my god, I swear, teenagers are the fucking worst!” Gemma makes this declaration from across the patio as she walks through a crowd toward our table, scattering people as she goes. “Seriously, how many more days left of school, because I’m about to fucking murder some of these hormonal motherfuckers.” Gemma keeps her potty mouth in check all day long in her classroom and therefore tends to swear like a Real Housewife of New Jersey whenever free of impressionable preteens. She plops into the seat next to me, banging her head on the table, her thick, straight black hair falling in a shiny curtain around her face. Petite, Korean American, and sassy as hell, Gemma has never been shy about expressing her feelings. I basically want to be her when I grow up.

Harley reaches across the table and pats her head soothingly. “A few more weeks, Gem. You got this.”

As Harley moves her arm back to take a sip of her water, she brushes up against Nick’s hulking biceps. She bites her lip and averts her eyes while he not so subtly shifts his arm even closer to her.

Ugh. I wish those two would just bone already. But they’re both too damn nice to just hit it and quit it, so the whole thing would probably end up turning into some disgusting lovefest, ultimately resulting in me in an ill-fitting pink bridesmaid’s dress.

Hmm. Maybe if I start being nicer to Nick, he’ll consider making me a groomswoman. I could definitely rock a suit.

“Anyway. Enough tales of woe from the classroom, Ms. Kwon. Back to me.” I tug on Gemma’s arm until she sits up. Then I hand her my second cocktail. Because I am a giver.

Nick takes a long swig of his beer. “Give it to us, Sade.”

I can’t bring myself to look any of them in the eye, so I focus on the small centerpiece—a succulent planted in a low glass jar—instead. “I didn’t get the promotion. Bill gave it to his future son-in-law.” Oof. It hurt earlier, but saying the words aloud is a sucker punch to the gut.

They draw in a collective breath.