Unexpected tears stung my eyes. Darling Meg. I wasn’t the same without her, either. She had dragged me to parties and dressed me for prom, her popularity smoothing my way through high school. She was my oldest ally, my other half. My better half, according to Aunt Phee. All our lives, people had compared me with my pretty, kind, sensible older sister. Without her I was less defined, less myself. Lizzy without Jane, a brain without a heart.

I didn’t run to my big sister with every imagined romantic drama, the way that Amy did. But we’d shared a room until I turned fifteen, whispering secrets across the darkness between our beds. For every major event in my life, my sister was there. When I moved away to school, when I broke up with Trey for the final time, Meg called me every day to see how I was doing.

I couldn’t wait to tell her about Eric.

Unless I never heard from him again.

I texted her back—Glad to see you and the boobs going out! Hope you had fun!—before scanning the rest of my messages.

Nothing from Eric.

What did I expect?

The subway car jolted to a stop. A night-shift worker in scrubs got off. A trio of student types with backpacks and earbuds got on. The train chugged away from the platform, escalating into the dark tunnel. I checked my blog. Scrolled through my notifications, liking, replying, and retweeting. I shared a picture of potatoes fondant to Instagram, promising to post the recipe tomorrow. And . . . Oh my God, there was Beth, in my newsfeed, tagged in an onstage photo of Colt Henderson. My sister never posted anything. Too shy. But that was definitely her. The angle almost made it look like they were singing together, Bethie in her angel costume with her eyes half-closed, the show’s star smiling behind his guitar. I typed a caption—A star is born?—added a smiley face and forwarded her the photo. Not that she’d see it tonight. It was after midnight in Branson, way past my sister’s bedtime.

The train rattled and jerked to my station. I climbed the stairs to the street. Down the block, the bodega’s windows glowed. A far-off siren wailed against the dark. Walking home alone at this hour used to scare me. Now it was routine. I lengthened my stride, watching the shadows, listening for footsteps, holding my keys ready in my pocket. My building didn’t have a doorman.

I had locked and bolted the door behind me when the phone buzzed in my hand. Stupid with fatigue, I stared at the unfamiliar number, the single word message. Hungry? E

Hungry was my blog. But E . . . That E . . .

My heart tripped. It was Eric. He knew. I was busted as a food critic. An idiot hipster food blogger.

Except . . . I pressed my fingers to my eyes, forcing my sleep-deprived brain to think. He was texting me. At one in the morning. I knew what that meant. Booty call.