About a half hour ago, after I’d given my gift to Cecelia and Shuhei, smiled and small-talked my way through the rounds, I’d started inching toward the exit, toward the silent safety of my apartment. Sibby’s at Elijah’s tonight, probably opening up an advent calendar of “days until I move away from Meg,” and I’d been thinking of how much I needed to tidy my bedroom, evidence of my newly returned block everywhere. Crumpled paper on the floor, half-done sketches scattered across the desk, pens left outside their color-coded cups.

But then Lachelle had spotted me—why did I wear this dress with gold Hello Kitty faces on it?—and had pointed at her table’s empty chair. “You’re staying, Meg,” she’d said. “I’m not going home until after the kids’ bedtime, and you’re the only person here other than Cecy I know well enough to talk to for another hour.”

That’d been fair enough, so in spite of the self-imposed exile I’ve been in for days, I’d taken a seat. And once I’d settled in, I’d been grateful for the way Lachelle had taken over with a very long story about her very passive-aggressive sister. By the time I’d ordered my second cocktail, I’d thought, Well, this is better than moping, at least.

But now? Now there’s a kale chip stuck to one of my Hello Kitty faces, and Lachelle is looking at me like she knows exactly what guy, and my moping plan is mocking me for abandoning it.

“The guy you went on a date with last month.”

I pick off the kale chip. “It wasn’t a date.”

“Okay. But it was the guy, then?” She smiles, self-satisfied. “I knew something was wrong with you this week when you came in for supplies.”

I sigh, resigned. I open my mouth, thinking I’ll say, We’re just friends, but then I close it again. The expression doesn’t seem right for what Reid and I are.

Or were.

“I don’t think it’s going to work out.” That feels—accurate. It’s not going to work out with me and Reid, whatever “it” is. These last seven days of silence have proven that.

“He lives in the city,” I add, which I figure will be effective as an explanation, since Lachelle thinks people from Manhattan should have to get a passport before they come to Brooklyn.

It doesn’t work. “Yeah, that’s a real barrier, given all the mass transit options. What’s the problem, really? No job? Lives with his parents? Oh, is he in a band?”

That last one makes me smile, imagining Reid in a band. “No, none of those. He works on Wall Street.”