The sofa was crowded at one end with piled blankets and pillows and clothes. There was a strong plug-in air freshener at the end of the sofa—a sickly one that was probably supposed to smell like clean linen but smelled more like sticky, floral bleach. The scent rang a bell in Scarlett’s mind. She knew it.

This was Max’s bed. Max trailed that air freshener smell all day. That’s what it was.

Scarlett quickly turned herself away from the sofa she was about to sit on and made a circuit around the room instead, pretending to take an interest in the things on the walls. There was a clear theme in the decorating scheme, and that theme was Chelsea. Somewhere in Scarlett’s mind, where things she didn’t know she was thinking were being thought, this had been expected. It seemed like every inch of wall space was encrusted with a show poster or a photo. There was no sign of Max except for the pile of clothes and bedding. It was like some kind of nature documentary, where you had to hunt for evidence that the animal had a den nearby.

Miranda noticed that Scarlett hadn’t sat, then looked over and saw why.

“Oh sorry,” she said, nodding at the pile in annoyance. “I tell Max to put his things away when he wakes up, but he never does.”

To be fair to Max, which was something Scarlett didn’t really feel like being, there didn’t seem to be anywhere for his stuff to go. This apartment was full. It would have been a tight fit for one person, or one really close couple. Three people—three people who needed their own space—that was impossible. Living like this would have made her insane.

Scarlett stood there uncomfortably while Mrs. Biggs typed. It was weird enough being invited here—but stranger still to be ignored once she arrived. As someone raised in the hospitality industry, Scarlett disapproved of this.

“There,” Miranda said, finishing up and shutting the computer. “So…I thought it might be nice for Chelsea to talk to you some more…and Max. We’re new to the city, so we don’t know many…Chelsea’s busy with the show, and Max doesn’t…”

None of those sentences were complete, but Scarlett grasped the missing concept. They don’t have friends. Friends, luckily, were something that Scarlett never felt short of. She might not have studied dance for a dozen years or been in a commercial or a Broadway show…but she had people she could call at one in the morning.

“So,” Miranda said, getting up and stepping into the kitchen, “was school good?”