Saturday evening, I enter Garrett’s building—a Williamsburg condo that has a communal rooftop deck with stunning Manhattan and East River views—careful not to tear the paper of the engagement gift I’m carrying.

I greet the doorman with a cheerful, “Hey, Washington, how’s it going?”

“Evening, Dr. Keller. Perfect night for a rooftop party. Everyone is already upstairs; you can go right ahead.” He inches his chin toward the elevator.

I nod and cross the hall. After a quick ride up, I step out onto the tenth-floor terrace, where cool lounge music fills the air.

“Luke!” Garrett—who’s clearly been stationed on welcoming duties—exclaims. He receives me with open arms and hands me a flute of champagne. “Great to see you, buddy.”

I struggle for a second to reposition the perhaps too-large present under one arm, and then accept the glass.

“Man, can I drop this somewhere?” I ask Garrett.

“Oh, you didn’t need to bring anything,” he protests. “But the gifts station is right over here.”

He guides me to the left of the elevator and to a table piled with presents, which clearly shows I should’ve bought a gift. I drop the heavy load on a relatively empty corner, hoping the other guests didn’t go too fancy with their presents. A Google search assured me engagement gifts should be something small and sentimental.

Without the package, I’m finally free to move. I roll my shoulders and then sip my champagne while checking out the crowd.

“Wow, great party,” I say to Garrett, taking in the catered refreshments, hired barman, and vibrantly colored decorations. “Didn’t you say it’d be casual?”

Garrett rolls his eyes. “Ah, man, you know Leslie. She started with ‘just a few close friends on the roof’ and we ended up with, well”—he motions at the surrounding space—“this.”

Garrett steers me toward the closest food station, where a woman is filling a plate with hors d’oeuvres, her back turned to us. “Get something to eat,” my friend says. “I’ve got to go welcome the newcomers.”

The woman turns, and her hostile brown eyes widen in recognition.

Miss Attorney looks different tonight. Her hair is loose in soft waves that reach to her shoulders, and she’s wearing a frilly blue dress, not one of her power suits.

If this was our first encounter, I’d even go as far as saying she’s beautiful. But I know better.

“Ah, Vivian,” Garrett says. “This is Luke, my best friend.”

Medusa’s lips curve in a taut smile. “We’ve met.”

“Of course.” Garrett swats himself. “Lee found you offices in the same building, right? Well, enjoy, I gotta get welcoming.”

Garrett rushes off, and I narrow my eyes at my ill-disposed neighbor. “Thirty-five years without seeing you once, and now a day can’t pass without the pleasure.”