“Well, how about this? You start looking for a restaurant job in late May, see what’s out there. Get hired because you’re a badass. Work through the summer and see how it goes. If you love it, quit teaching. If it’s not for you, go back to school at the end of summer.” I stop polishing glasses so I can lean back on the bar, putting us face-to-face. “I’m not going to lie to you and tell you a career change is easy, because it’s not. I’ve been super lucky to have you guys and stupid-cheap rent, and I’ve still had plenty of moments of wanting to throw in the towel and go back to the stability of finance. But I guess the good news about teaching is you have the summer off to give things a trial run.”

She considers my words for several quiet moments. “That’s actually not a terrible idea.”

“Duh. Since when do I have terrible ideas?” I hold up my hand the second she opens her mouth to respond. “Don’t answer that. Think you could survive the rest of the school year if you knew it might be the last few months you have to endure?”

“It might actually be the only thing making them bearable.”

The wheels inside Gemma’s mind are turning; I can tell by the dreamy look in her eyes and the frown lines furrowing her forehead. I flick the creases with my finger. “You’re gonna get wrinkles.”

“Yeah yeah.” She rolls her eyes, but there’s a tug of a real smile for the first time since she walked in. “Thank you for listening to me complain.”

Twirling my hand, I give her a courtly bow. “’Twas an honor and a privilege.”

She finishes the last of her wine. “You off soon?”

“Yup. You want to stick around?”

“Sure.” She holds up her glass for another refill. “And then bring me my check so I don’t drink any more.”

I wave her off. “On the house. As is the therapy.” She starts to push a twenty across the counter anyway, but I reach over and stick it down her shirt. “Seriously, Gem. Put it in your I-wanna-quit-my-life-suck-of-a-job fund.”

I rush through the rest of my closing-out duties, stocking and cleaning and tallying up receipts. Gemma and I walk out of the bar a half hour later, arms linked and huddled together for warmth. The December temperatures dropped seemingly overnight, and the air is chilly around us.

About a block from the brownstone, Gemma stops in her tracks. She tugs on my arm, pulling me over to a brick building, pressing her face way too close to a window with a For Lease sign hanging in it. “Look at this space, Sade.”