“I know that. Logically.” I frowned at my loafers. “But I don’t feel it.”

The light changed and we crossed.

“How much of this has to do with Mr. Guest of Honor?” Jules asked, her voice eggshell careful.

“Oscar? None,” I backtracked, weirdly protective. “Zero percent.”

She looked dubious. I glanced away so I wouldn’t wilt under her glare and confess every worry I had swirling around in my head.

“I shouldn’t have even mentioned him. One hundred percent of this is coming from the fact that I quit piano in April and I’ve been waiting for something to take its place, fill the vacuum, and—”

“In three months?” She laughed. “Tight window for finding the grand purpose for your very existence . . .” She put her hand out, Shakespearian.

I laughed. “Forget purpose. That’s pretentious, I give you that. But I need a job—”

“Do you, though?” She blinked slowly at me as we rounded our block. “Do you.”

“Yes. I do.” A scowl crept into my voice. “I’m not some heiress. And I’m one of four kids, so it’s not like I have a huge fortune waiting for me.”

“But you do have a trust.”

“Yes, I have a trust.” Which I’ve come into, as of my seventeenth birthday, and done nothing with except hidden the monthly account statements that come in the mail . . . “Given to me by my father with specific instructions not to blow it on living expenses. I am expected to have a career.”

“Well, you’re in the best possible position to look for one. It’s not like you have to apply for a job at Cluck-Cluck Chicken Shack this weekend.” She nodded behind her. “Or Cravat.”

“I realize that. I do. I just wish there were a clear path forward.”

“You’re going to have to live here in the murk with the rest of us.” She winked over her sunglasses at me. “Come on in, the water’s blah.”

We’d reached her building.

She leaned against the iron railing of the stoop. “I mean, who the hell knows what I’m going to do. Work retail through college and then get some marketing job to pay off student debt and dream of a better career until it’s time to start dreaming of retirement.”

“Marketing?” I held up my garment bag. “Not fashion?”

“‘Fashion’?” She made air quotes.

“This is the place to do it, right?”

She snorted. “Yeah, if you’re rich. I could intern at Vogue and earn next to nothing. I’d lose twenty pounds, what with the whole no-money-left-for-food thing.”

I nodded up at her building. “You have free housing, at least.”