“Oh, I don’t think there are seniority requirements.”

“Then why are you not applying to lead it?”

“Because—” I snap my mouth shut and look down at my screwdriver. Yes. Why? Why wouldn’t I apply for a leader position? What is wrong with me? It’s not like Sean is smarter than I am. He just loves to impose the sound of his own voice on unsuspecting passersby. And maybe I don’t have enough leadership experience to know that I’ll be a good boss, but I do have enough Sean experience to know that he won’t be. He keeps calling me Lara, for fuck’s sake. In emails. That he writes to my email address, [email protected]. Dude, you can literally copy and paste?

I look up. Liam is staring at me with a calm expression, as though patiently waiting for me to reach this very exact conclusion: I am better than Sean. Because everyone is better than Sean, and that includes me.

I feel a shiver of something warm run down my spine, as though I’m being held. Which is weird, since I haven’t hugged someone in . . . God, months. Not since Helena.

“Tell you what.” I put my hands on my hips, suddenly determined. “I’m going to apply for the leader position.”

“That’s exactly what you should—”

“If you leave your job.”

He pauses, then exhales a laugh. “If I leave my job, who’ll keep you in the expensive multi-ply toilet paper lifestyle you’re accustomed to?”

“You will, since you’re probably sitting on generational piles of old New England money. Plus, you could totally still be a lawyer for other, slightly less disgusting corporations. If there are any, that is. And if we strike this blood pact and I get the job, there’s something even better in it for you.”

“You let me hold Sean’s head in the toilet bowl?”

“No. Well, yes. But also, if I get a team leader position, I’d be making more money. And I’ll finally be able to move out.” Without needing to sell my half of the house.

Liam’s expression shifts abruptly. “Mara—”

“Think about it! You, walking around naked in a pleasantly freezing house, scratching your butt in front of a fridge full of tartar sauce, cooking tacos at three a.m. while listening to postmodern industrial pop on your gramophone. All around are giant screens, broadcasting video game playthroughs twenty-four/seven. Sounds nice, huh?”

“No,” he says flatly.

“That’s because I forgot to mention the best part: your pesky ex-roommate is gone, nowhere to be seen.” I beam. “Now, tell me you’re not going to love every second of—”

“I won’t, Mara. I—” He turns away, and I can see his jaw clench like it used to before, when my presence in this house annoyed him and he considered me the bane of anything good. But his hand tightens around the edge of the counter once, and he seems to collect himself. He studies me for a long moment.

“Please,” I press. “I won’t apply if you won’t. Do you really want to condemn me to a lifetime of Sean?”