I check the time on the sly. Eight fifteen. Time to come to grips with missing Dr. Hart’s party altogether. Probably. Unless it runs late and this dinner ends soon. Gina’s the one who told me to book a table early so I could try to make both, and it’s her birthday, so I didn’t feel guilty. The others don’t know that’s why our reservation was for six thirty—in Southampton. Kind of a haul, but this place gets amazing reviews, and reservations are hard to land, so no one questioned the drive or the time. Best available for a party of six. And, I mean, dinner was amazing. But, I mean, it’s been almost two hours.

Then again, these are my best friends in the world, plus Rosie, so why the hell should I be eager to race off to some other party—one where I might bump into Raymond What’s-His-Name, who thinks I’m crazy and threatened to ruin my life. I’m such an idiot. I’d die of shame the minute I saw Dr. Hart’s wife, anyway.

Aisha nudges me under the table. “How you doing?” she whispers.

“Fine,” I say automatically, before even realizing what she’s really asking, which is how I’m feeling about meeting Gina’s new girlfriend. “Honestly, I’m fine. I like her.”

“Yeah, but still,” says Aisha.

“Gina and I were friends for a long time before we were more-than-friends. This part is easy. Seriously. And I do like Rosie.”

Aisha smiles. “Okay. Just checking.”

I thank her and mean it, because she got me out of my head and back into my body, in this chair, at this table, celebrating one of my oldest and best friends—who, miraculously, is still my best friend after how complicated things got for a while there: friend to girlfriend to ex-girlfriend and back again, with minimal scarring. I’m surprised, actually, by how little this stings. How glad I am to see Gina so happy with someone else.

Violet is telling stories about nannying for two kids with more hobbies than brain cells, a fancy house that smells like candles that smell like salad, a mom who doesn’t believe in luck. “ ‘You make your own luck,’ is her motto,” Violet tells us. “She thinks anything is possible with hard work and a spit-shine.”

Gina hangs her head. “Oh God. The worst.”

“Luck is just another word for endurance,” Rosie offers.

“Fuck that,” says Michelle. “Luck is being born a white guy with money. Period.”

We all have to agree with that, even Rosie.

“Speaking of . . .” says Michelle, turning to me. “How’s your White Guy With Money, Simone?” To Rosie, she says, “Simone’s in love with her boss. He’s a fox and plays it up so she’ll go above and beyond her job description.”