I make a sour face and say, “You’re so stupid.” Everyone laughs, and I add, “The boss I’m not in love with is fine, thanks.” Maybe I’d have laughed too, a couple of months ago, when it was all fun and games and fantasy, but ever since I spoiled the fantasy with games, the fun is MIA. Gina’s the only one who knows the whole story: the flowers, the failed attempt at a kiss, the hard bargain and blood. The rest of them would die of embarrassment if they knew what a fool I made of myself.

One thing I can laugh at, though: job description. What job description? It’s not like this was my dream job. I wanted to be an interior designer. I wanted to go to Parsons, but the BFA would have cost me close to two hundred grand in tuition alone, never mind books and housing, never mind dinners with friends. So I thought: Well then, I’ll get my MFA instead. But by junior year at SUNY Old Westbury, I knew that a hundred-thousand-dollar master’s was nuts, too. So I thought: I’ll intern, get my foot in the door. On-the-job training is more practical anyway. Practical, my ass. Couldn’t even get a temp job, let alone a dream job. I was applying for half a dozen restaurant gigs a day when I got my interview with Dr. Hart. He offered to pay me twice as much as I’d have made temping, plus benefits, and I could move close to the beach, to the Hamptons. What was I supposed to do? Decline and wait for a wish to come true? Whoever heard of a dream job, anyway? Rich people. People who have the resources to buy fantasy careers. The rest of us fantasize about retirement. We dream about how we’d spend our vacation days if we had enough money to take a dream vacation in the first place.

But I have this: a seat at a round table adorned with faces of friends I’ve known my whole life—plus Rosie—who won’t let me lose myself. We’ve nursed one another through countless heartaches and family catastrophes and always vote for the wildest choice, with consequences ranging from spectacular to spectacularly bad.

Still, they don’t need to know about the flowers, favors, miscommunications, or bottom line—or about how that kid jumped off Dr. Hart’s roof and how the timing couldn’t be worse but also couldn’t be better, since it overshadowed my stupidity, so maybe Dr. Hart will forget the whole thing. Or maybe his friend will ruin my life, and I should just go ahead and die. But the server arrives with a cake full of candles, and by the time Gina makes her wish, I’ve nearly forgotten all about the other party.

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