So even though I’d planned on staying in the studio for the next several hours, I find myself asking, “Can I come over?”

“I don’t want to take you away from your work. I’ll be fine, honey.” But I can read the slant of her voice, the tiny note of hopeful desperation.

“I want to come! I can be over in about an hour.” I’ve reached the door of the studio. All I need to do is pack up my stuff and head over. When I walk in, Gavin is hunched over some sort of diagram he’s made, and when he turns, I toss him the bag with the black-and-white cookie I got for him. It almost hits him in the face, and I grin. He always had poor reflexes.

“You remembered!” he says, unwrapping the brown wax paper.

“Of course I did. They’re my favorite, too.” He takes a bite and gives me a thumbs-up. I start packing up my stuff.

“Leaving so soon?” he asks as I stuff a bite of bagel in my mouth and swallow.

“Yeah, I’m meeting a friend.”

He arches an eyebrow. “I’ve never seen you give up on a project so easily. Usually you’re here past midnight working, and I’m the one bringing you cookies.”

I finish off the bagel. “I’m not giving up! I’ll be back. Don’t you worry.” I smile at him. Maybe he really has forgiven me for what happened last time.

“I’ll hold you to it.”

I wave to him as I leave and watch him chuck the crumpled bag into the garbage can, pumping his arms when he gets it in. He doesn’t know I can see, and I shake my head affectionately at his turned back before making my way to the subway.

When I get into Astoria, the streets are buzzing. The early evening sunlight has people drunk on being outside, cluttering the streets and stoops. On a side street, I smell barbecue wafting in the air, and in front of a squat building, two older men sit in folding chairs, drinking beer, so it’s only appropriate that I arrive at Anneleise’s apartment with a bottle of rosé champagne.

She answers the door in a floral dress that hits her knees, her hair half-up, her glasses off. She’s barefoot, and her toenails are painted pink. She wears a necklace with a big green jewel hanging from it, and it makes her eyes look effervescent, full of mirth and secrets.

I instantly make my way to the kitchen and grab two flutes kept at the very top of the cabinet shelf. “I thought we could have a real girls’ night,” I say, pouring the bubbling liquid cleanly into the glasses.

“I haven’t had a night of drinking in so long,” she says, eyes widening at the amount of champagne I put in each glass.