I can’t do much about the boxes that fill up the corners of the space, but I do my best with everything else. A quick cleanup of the kitchen, a grab-and-dump-elsewhere strategy of dealing with the mail I’ve let stack up on our breakfast table over the last few days, a flustered attempt at tidying the coffee table and couch, which shamefully—because Reid came over here last night—involves me shoving one of my bras between the cushions. My face heats at the reminder of that particular interlude, which ended with me on my knees and Reid with his hands in my hair.

When I buzz her up I use the last few seconds to look over the space (well, and to fan my hot face), acutely aware of how small and cluttered it’ll still probably look, given that townhouse-tower she’s used to.

But when I open the door to her, I’m reminded: Lark isn’t really a princess, and her townhouse isn’t really a tower. She’s five foot two of regular person, with a self-conscious smile and—if I’m not mistaken—a sheepish look in her eyes, and seeing her stand there on the closest thing I’ve got to a front porch, I suspect she feels about as awkward as I did the last time we saw each other.

“Come in,” I tell her, ushering her to my somewhat-sagging couch. I cheerfully list every type of beverage I have in my refrigerator, but really I know she’ll pass. I’m already bad-habitting my way through this, stalling away from the confrontation I remind myself I’m determined to have—even if it wasn’t the one I was planning on practicing for.

“Thanks for letting me come by,” she says, when I’ve finally taken a seat on the other side of the couch. She has her hands clasped tightly on her lap, and her throat bobs with a swallow.

Not for the first time, I think Lark and I probably have more in common than I would’ve ever thought.

“Sorry I haven’t called,” she says breezily. “I got really busy working with this new decorator Jade hired, and we had a quick trip up to Toronto for a shoot Cam is doing, and there’s been so much shopping to—”

“Lark,” I interrupt. Seeing her struggle through this performance—it somehow stops me cold from even attempting my own. “It’s okay. I get it.”

She looks at me with a mute, embarrassed regret that makes me want to change the subject for her. Instead I say, “I know I spoke out of turn at our last meeting.”

She blinks at me, then lowers her head for a minute, smoothing lint off her black jeans.