“Are you still trying to protect your family’s pristine reputation to Liza? Look, she has the facts wrong, that’s simple enough to fix, but you—your whole mind-set is still about self-protection. You came to the table trying to be superior. The reason she doesn’t know that Isaiah is bad news was because you were looking out for your image. You’ve had so many opportunities to tell her about him. Liza needs to know Isaiah lied about everything. That will fix the facts problem, and then you can apologize for the rest.”

Dorsey groaned. “Do you know the last time I apologized? It was 2006.”

“And it will be 2046 before you find anyone as remotely interesting as Liza.”

Three days later, Liza received a text—more like a thread. Another one of the thirty-six questions:

Number 27: If you were going to become a close friend with someone, please share what would be important for him or her to know.

Don’t worry. I won’t be falling all over myself for you again. This text is just so we can move on with a clear conscience.

1. I told David to move on. I didn’t know your sister’s history. For that, I am sorry.

2. Jennifer and I are not and have never been an item. I would think you’d know how it is when someone feels entitled to you with no encouragement. #playcousin

3. I won’t apologize for holding myself and my potential partner to a standard of decorum, but I struggled to find an apt comparison for the complete surprise loving you was to me. That was not the best way to communicate it. I am sorry.

4. Isaiah is not a good man. This also isn’t my story to tell. My sister wants to share a story with you if she can call you at 8:15 p.m. Thursday.

Liza wanted to delete the text, but curiosity snaked around her and instead she read it three times more. What could his sister possibly say to change her mind?

8:15

You all asked for my playlist. You’re gonna get it. Listen or don’t.”

Liza jabbed the call button.

The caller’s voice was tentative. “Sis, is everything okay? These past few days the music has kind of been all over the place. I normally like to jam on my way home from work, but everything is so angry and sad.”

“Don’t worry; the station also wants me to change up my catalog to a nice, happy Top 40. There will be music to shake your ass to in four minutes.” Liza hung up the call.

There was a tiny knock on the door. Her executive producer appeared with a clipboard in her hand.

“Hi, Liza, there are at least five new complaints. And Upstairs said you need to play the list they gave you, and only the list of songs that they gave you. I’m sorry.”

“What about my Pinoy showcase next week?”