We go to the parking lot and she gestures to a red VW Golf that’s seen better days. There’s one of those COEXIST bumper stickers on it, with all the different religious symbols of the world forming the letters, and an illustrated sticker of the Golden Girls with the words STAY GOLDEN underneath.

“Life goals,” she says when she sees me notice the girls.

I can’t imagine being old. Or happy. They’re always smiling, those Golden Girls. About what?

We get in the car, and she starts it up. The Seu Jorge rendition of “Starman” floats out of the speakers—Bowie in Portuguese. I think my dead father is stalking me.

We are still not on speaking terms, I say to him.

Jo’s car smells like cigarettes, but she doesn’t light up.

“So, Hannah, your life totally sucks right now. I’ve got news for you: Your life is always going to suck a little.” She backs out of the parking spot and whips out of the garage. “So if anyone feeds you some bullshit story about sobriety in which the sun is always shining, don’t listen to them, because they don’t know what they’re talking about.”

“My parents died in that tsunami,” I say. “And I had an abortion. And my boyfriend cheated on me. And I had to move here from LA, and I fucking hate Boston, no offense. And I don’t think I’m going to graduate. And I just broke up with a boy I think I really love. Oh, and I tried to kill myself. This all happened in the past nine months. I’ve accepted my life is always going to suck.”

“A little,” she says. “It doesn’t have to suck a lot. When it’s a lot, that’s when we’ve got trouble.” She stops at a red, glances at me. “But: Damn, girl.”

My mouth twitches. “It’s been a bad year.”

When we get to Zaftigs, we slide into one of the leather booths, next to a zany painting of a corpulent woman. I love the art here. It’s colorful and weird, like getting to walk around in the brain of a Venice boardwalk artist as they dream. Since it’s the holidays, there are Hanukkah decorations and generic American holiday fare: pretty ornaments dangling from the ceiling, bits of holly.

I run my hand over a snazzy dreidel propped up against the salt-shaker. “They tried to bring holiday cheer to rehab, but it was sad. Like, mini Christmas trees next to the Suboxone dispensary doesn’t help.”

Jo snorts. “Aw, man. At least you got out before the big day.” Four more days until Christmas. “I once spent New Year’s in rehab. Fucking sucked. They gave us Martinelli’s, and one of the alcoholics cried.”

“Lame.”

“How’d it feel, being in there? Being sober?”