“Trey, remember the Christmas party?” I asked gently. I watched as everybody in the room recalled Trey vomiting into a lampshade and then wearing it around his neck “because the doctor said I can’t chew on my own junk anymore!” I watched as the women in the room remembered his liquor-soaked breath as he leaned in and said, “I can still chew on your junk, though.”

There was a collective sigh.

“Trey, you know you can’t get that kind of hammered on work time,” KQ said, putting her feet back on the floor.

“I didn’t—I don’t—”

“He was harmless, truly. Just peacefully asleep,” Cal said. I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing. It was the perfect addition. Trey would rather be the office drunk than harmless.

“Okay, well, that’s about all I need to know about that. Trey, dock your time. We can’t be paying you for getting drunk. Pey, good work. Follow those leads and see what we get. Squeaks—well, I’m glad you got to see some good salesmanship. Maybe you can learn something, if your brain isn’t as dense as your sweater.”

I didn’t look at Cal, but I wanted to. Maybe we really could be friends after all. Whatever that meant here.

“Okay,” KQ said. “Who’s next?”

MICKEY

RUTH LAY ON MICKEY’S bed, swiping through her phone. It had been two weeks since that soccer practice, and the smell of Ruth’s hair had become a part of Mickey’s pillows. Candy apples and baby powder. It was everywhere. Mickey begged her mom to find the shampoo Ruth used, but none of the ones she bought came close.

“Why do you have to leave me?” Ruth whined, throwing her phone onto the pillow next to her and rolling onto her stomach, her chin in her hands.

“I don’t want to,” Mickey answered, pulling shorts from her drawer.

“Not those,” Ruth said, wrinkling her nose.

“Why not?” Mickey asked. Ruth snorted.

“Come on, Mick,” she said.

Mickey threw them back into the drawer.

“What am I supposed to do for the next six weeks?” Ruth asked, picking at Mickey’s quilt.

“Hang out with your cooler friends.”

“You know they’re all out of town.”

It had been only two weeks, but Mickey’s whole life was different. She had a best friend. She’d never had a best friend before. Mickey opened her drawer of shirts and began rifling through them, throwing options into her open suitcase. She was positive she would wake up one morning and everything she’d gained would be lost, just like that.

“Oh, come on, Mick. You know you’re my favorite. Other girls are so fake. They’re boring.”