But I quit that job when Pops got too sick to keep up with his work. We made the same amount of money, but with his free apartment in the mix, it only made sense for me to quit paying rent on mine and move down here to take everything over for him. And now, my weekends mean literally nothing. Because there’s nothing these people won’t ask me to do.

But at nine o’clock on Saturday night, I finally draw the line. Anyone who calls me now is going to get my voicemail until at least 10 a.m. tomorrow. I need to blow off some steam. I take a shower and even blow-dry my hair. I put on my I mean business lipstick. And decide that, yup, tonight is the night for my single pair of tight jeans. I slap on a sports bra and a tank top because, blow-dried hair be damned, I’m still me. And I’m out. Into the chilly spring night and practically jogging through Brooklyn to get where I’m going.

“Hey, Eliot.”

“Remember the other night when you were giving me a list of things that you do when you can’t sleep?”

“Yeah?”

“And one of those things was a pedicure.”

“Uh-huh?”

“Well, how does one do that?”

“Do what? Give themselves a pedicure?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re gonna give yourself a pedicure?”

“Obvi.”

“Oh. Well, you need stuff. Stuff you probably don’t have around your house.”

“I figured. I’m at the drugstore right now.”

“To buy pedicure stuff?”

“To buy pedicure stuff. Are you all right? You sound like you’re having trouble hearing me or something.”

“No, I can hear you, I just . . . didn’t know that men gave themselves pedicures.”

“Well, I never have before, but I’m clearly open to the idea. Sounds kind of nice, actually.”

“Okay, well, are you in the drugstore on Vanderbilt? Around the corner from the church.”

“Yeah . . .?”

“Well, go to . . . I think it’s aisle five or six. They have these, like, pedicure kits. It’ll have everything you need.”

“Hey, JD?”

“Yeah?”

“How the hell did you know which pharmacy I was in?”

“Oh. Shit.”

“Is this where I find out that you’ve implanted a GPS tracker up my nose while I was sleeping?”

“No! Oh, my God.”

“You hacked my phone and have been reading all my titillating work emails?”

“No! Eliot. No, it’s nothing like that.”

“Are you some all-knowing being? A poltergeist or something? Oh, crap, is this like The Sixth Sense? Am I about to find out that you’ve been dead the whole time?”

“How could you joke at a time like this?”

“A time like what?”

“You’re not freaked out in the least that I guessed which drugstore you were in?”

“All right, hold on. First off, is there a difference between the expensive pedicure kit and the cheap one?”