We erupted into laughter. I cried harder than I’d cried over the onions. The stress of the dinner party fell off my shoulders. Ros was my friend again, and all that was left was to serve the pie. We were home free.

“Phoebe,” I said. “I just want to make crystal clear—like, whatever you need—like, someone to model the yeti costume for you, someone to drive you to the hospital when you sew through your finger, someone to bring you an emergency case of LaCroix—I’m here for you.”

“Thanks, Celia,” she said. “You’re a good friend.”

“Okay, okay, they’re back,” yelled Touchstone as soon as we climbed the steps. Everyone had arranged themselves on the porch: Touchstone was perched on the edge of the couch, not so much sitting as hovering, like he might have to jump up at any moment. Audrey looked exhausted; Oliver, annoyed. Ros and Jess were curled up together on the couch.

“Important question,” said Touch.

“I’m actually not sure how important it is,” said Oliver.

“Who do you think would win in a fight? Me or Oliver?” His face was red from cooking sherry.

“Oh, Jesus,” Phoebe said.

“I’ll get the pie,” I said.

The pie, in spite of its dubious beginnings, had actually turned out beautifully. Phoebe had dutifully scraped off the charred edges of the crust so that it resembled something more properly baked. I’d whipped the cream on top and shaped it artfully, transforming it into churning whitecaps. With a cheese grater, I’d zested one of the runty limes, tiny curls of green settling over the choppy whipped-cream waves.

It was, if I do say so myself, a work of art.

A work of art that might also finally force Ros to see what they were missing out on. Jess might be able to win in a fight, but could she bake? Ros would never get a girlfriend who baked such delicious key lime pie.

I stepped onto the porch balancing the dish on one hand—it was surprisingly heavy—and silence fell. All eyes were on me. I wondered if this was what Touchstone or Oliver or Audrey felt like when they stepped out onstage, if this was what Phoebe felt when she saw her costumes on the stage.

“And here we have Mr. Oliver Teller’s favorite dessert,” I said, placing the pie in the center of the table.

“Wow,” said Oliver.

“It’s gorgeous,” said Phoebe.

“You made that in our oven?” said Touch. “How?”

I looked around. I was dimly aware of the praise that people were heaping on the pie. It was what I’d wanted, sort of—it was all just coming from the wrong people.