“I’ll put on coffee,” she says. “Wasn’t sure when you’d be up.”

“What time is it?” I ask, yawning.

“Almost eleven,” she says. “Ash called and said we could go over whenever. I don’t have work until tonight. My first appointment is at eight . . .”

“Well, whenever sounds good,” I say. “I’ll have coffee there.”

“All right,” she says, getting out a thermos for her tea.

She’s in a better mood now than she was last night. Still not great. It’s like someone lowered the dimmer switch. She’s not as bright as usual.

“We don’t have to go over if you’re not up to it,” I tell her. “Ash will understand.”

She shrugs. “Whatever you want.”

We end up staying home, sitting on the couch for hours without much interaction between us. I read and answer emails, and she sketches. The day slips away. She orders us pizza for dinner, and we eat it straight out of the box while watching a documentary about elephants.

“Not hungry?” she asks me.

I’m not actually eating the pizza, only the pepperonis.

“Not really,” I lie.

After I drop her off at work, I eat slices of deli turkey and leftover Bolognese by the spoonful, sans pasta. I’m microwaving some frozen chicken fingers when Ian texts me, asking if I’m free Thursday night.

Yeah, I say. I’m not busy.

—

“What do I wear bowling?” I ask Scarlett. She sits on the bed as I raid my closet.

“Why don’t you wear what you had on the other night?” she asks. “You looked supercute.”

“What other . . . Oh. Halloween.” I flip her off.

She falls over onto a pillow, laughing.

“Frankly, that outfit worked in my favor,” I say.

“I’m sure it did.”

“All right,” I say, combing through my usual going-out dresses, which are all too much for a suburban bowling alley. “My wardrobe is not functional. I’ve got, like, hanging-around-the-house-running-errands clothes, or going-for-cocktails-in-Manhattan clothes. There’s no in-between.”

“Did you bring everything you own?” she asks, peering into the closet.

“Not my work clothes.”

“No power suits?”

“Nope.”

They’re all back at my apartment, which I sublet to my trusted friend Laura, a former coworker who now reviews bars and restaurants and various hot spots for a bougie New York City lifestyle magazine. Whenever I go out with her, I spend too much money and, more often than not, make out with someone low-key famous. There’ve been several New York Rangers. A few supporting actors on New York–based TV shows. If I’m ever watching TV, thinking, Where do I know him from? I probably know him from a night out with Laura.

“What do you usually wear on dates?” Scarlett asks.

“I don’t go on dates.”

“Right,” she says. “Are you nervous?”

“What do I have to be nervous about?” I look over my shoulder at her. She’s deep in thought. “What?”

“I’ve just been thinking. With Mom coming to visit, and I guess because I’m about to have a kid, I’ve been thinking about what Mom did right. She gave us a lot of confidence.”