“Thank you for such a thorough explanation of the circumstances of our meeting. I was glad to hear them again.” That he could hurl veiled accusations at her without even looking up from his phone was a fucking skill set.

“All right, maybe next time we can all go out together. Maybe get some Philippine cuisine?”

Dorsey shot WIC a look that was as clear as a statement. Not on your life, pal. WIC’s brand of charm seemed to slide right off Dorsey, because he took his coat and slipped it on with an angry jerk. He flashed an impatient glance at Liza. Oh, he wasn’t cool; he was pissed.

“Liza, allow me to take you home,” he said. He seemed suddenly intent on getting home, even though he’d just bailed on dinner. It seemed like he suddenly realized he was in inferior company. WIC went out of his way to be kind to him, and Dorsey did everything but spit at his feet.

“I’ll take the train,” she said, and waited a beat for WIC to offer, but he must’ve been stunned into silence. She lifted her chin and shouldered past both of them.

“Liza!” She heard Dorsey call out to her, but she let the wind swallow his cries.

It was well before happy hour as Dorsey sat two days later swirling a cocktail.

“What in the hell are you making, Dorsey?” David Bradley sat on the other side of the empty bar room on the ninth floor of their offices.

“I’m trying to get the ingredients just right on this terrible drink I had the other night. It was a smoky mezcal and honey-pineapple syrup cocktail set on fire for the drama.”

“If it’s so terrible, why are you making it?”

Dorsey stuck a match dramatically and touched it to the rim of the cup. A sparkling blue flame leapt to life. “Because it’s a wonderful memory,” he said.

“Does this memory involve a person?”

“Most do.” Dorsey blew out the fire and sipped his drink and winced. Not enough mezcal. Though there was nothing he could add to reproduce the inebriated feeling he’d had that night. What a boozy watercolor dream Liza had been. It was the perfect night—until it wasn’t.

“So, I’ve been talking to Janae,” David said.

“Why? Didn’t she ghost you?” Dorsey huffed. These games were tiresome. Why waste time on people who couldn’t return your feelings? Not that he had this deep well of feelings, but there had been something warm and welcoming blossoming between them under the twinkle of the Christmas decorations—until Liza crushed it under her UGGs. He hated to think it, but is Liza ashamed of me because I’m not Black? Did she think he couldn’t understand her because of his wealth? This was all too complex. Dorsey hated complexity.