“If you’re into pastels,” I venture, “that’s a good option for the chalk wall.”

She pushes the sheet away reluctantly.

“No, I’m into—you know. Black.” She gestures down at her outfit. It looks as though she Googled “How to Dress Like a New Yorker.”

“Sure, we can stay neutral. But even an accent—”

I’m interrupted by the sound of the front door opening and closing, the loud, warning beeps of the alarm system. At first I think it must be Jade, who’d taken off to run errands for Lark when I’d arrived, but then I hear a deep voice call out, “Goddammit! How do I shut this fucking thing off?”

Lark stiffens atop her stool, obviously surprised. When we’d set this meeting, she’d said Friday afternoon worked for her, that Cameron would be out late scouting locations for a new shoot he’s working on. “Cameron,” she’d said, going for the natural beginning to almost sixty percent of her sentences, “prefers if I handle everything related to the house.” As though having to be involved in small decisions about what will greet his eyes every morning on the wall of his own bedroom is too much of a hardship for his artistic sensibilities.

There’s another muffled curse from the entryway.

Lark gives me an embarrassed wince. “Sorry,” she says, and then she calls, “Babe, remember? Put in the passcode!”

Silence. Lark seems to count to herself.

“Our first date?” she calls out.

More silent counting; then she slides off her stool. “I’ll be right back.”

The beeps are getting louder, closer together. I’d be nervous, I guess, to meet the half of this job who seems to be gumming up the decision-making works, but I’m too busy wondering if he’ll be wearing that beanie and the leather bracelets.

When Lark and Cameron come into the kitchen, they’ve got those pinched-but-polite looks on their faces couples sometimes get, when you can tell they’ve shown up to a party after having a massive fight in the car about who always empties the dishwasher. My parents used to be super good at that look, always more polite than pinched. Lark and Cameron clearly need practice, but still—I feel an answering quiver of recognition, a discomforting familiarity deep inside of me.

“Hi!” I chirp, which is also how I used to deal with my parents. It’s as though my brain has sent my mouth a message: default to protocol. I stand from my stool, stretching a hand out to Cameron. “I’m Meg Mac—”

“Look at you!” Cameron says, pumping my hand. I don’t like it, that Look at you! As if I’m a toddler taking my first steps. “The Planner of Park Slope, right? We’re pretty lucky getting you to this side of Brooklyn.”