“Where’s Ros?” I said. My voice was thin. I hated how badly I wanted them to see this pie that I had labored over, that I had worked so hard for. I hated that they handed me weak coffee and I told them it tasted delicious. I hated that I tried so hard, that all I did was try, that I was standing here with a pie I’d baked for Oliver, not them, and they were nowhere to be found. Sure, I might be better than luck, but I would never be magic, and if I wanted Ros to see me, to love me, to choose me, what I really needed was to be magic. Because of course that was what I wanted, even more than to make them jealous: I wanted them to realize they’d been in love with me this whole time.

“They didn’t leave, did they?”

“No—no—I think they just went off with Jess somewhere for a second,” said Touch. “They’re coming back. At least—I think they’re coming back.”

We all stared at the pie.

“Can we eat it, or…”

“We’re waiting,” I said. “For Ros and Jess.”

I was making everyone feel awkward; I knew that. I’d brought the conversation to a screeching halt.

“It looks gorgeous, Celia,” said Oliver. “Truly spectacular.”

“This guy,” said Touchstone.

It wasn’t the worst thing that Touchstone had said to Oliver that night. It was barely audible—an exhalation, a mutter, an aside. But it was ultimately the one that set Oliver off.

“Okay,” Oliver said, and he popped to his feet. “Celia, thank you so much for the very nice time. Phoebe, thank you for all your cooking. Audrey, it was lovely to see you again. I’ll see some of you on Monday.”

“Wait, what?” I said. “You’re leaving?”

He was leaving—in fact, he was already halfway around the house, and I was following him as best I could. Oliver was quite quick.

“Oliver,” I called. “Wait.”

He paused outside his car and folded his arms. He looked at me expectantly. I didn’t quite know what to say.

“You can’t go,” I said.

“Look—it’s not a big deal, all right? It’s just… it’s not fun for me, being here.”

“He’s just drunk and being an asshole.…”

“I’ll say,” said Oliver.

“It turns out he was drinking cooking sherry the whole time, which I don’t know if it makes a difference, but maybe there’s, like, an increased level of belligerence.…”

“He tried to get me to fight him.”

“I know, I know—I’m so sorry—I know he’s not a fan of Power Jam, but I really didn’t expect him to be such a dick to you just because he doesn’t like your show.”