But even as I would nudge her about it, I understood that was just who she was—it was who her whole family was. Stevie had grown up as an only child in a house filled with priceless art, with thick woven carpets on the floor that seemed to muffle everything. Whenever I was in Stevie’s house, I automatically started speaking more quietly. You couldn’t imagine anyone yelling in her house—not in front of the Rothkos.

“Want me to have a word with him?”

“No,” said Stevie and Teri together, and I tried not to be insulted by that as we took the four steps down to the north exit together, three sets of feet falling at the same time.

We pushed open the door and walked outside, heading across campus, past the faculty parking lot and the dumpsters people were always vaping behind. The theater building was separate from the rest of the school, and big—two stories, with a main stage, a black box theater, a tech shop, a costume shop, and classrooms.

I drew in a breath—there was a dampness in the air that meant snow later, I was sure of it. “It’s going to be cold tonight,” I said, glancing at Stevie. “Might be even colder in the city, since you’ll be walking around.”

Stanwich was forty-five minutes outside Manhattan by train, an hour by car. It was a commuter town, which meant you never ever needed to specify which city you meant. You always meant New York—nobody was ever talking about Hartford or Boston or New Haven.

Stevie pulled her coat on without breaking her stride, switching her purse expertly from shoulder to shoulder as she did. “I don’t think I’m going to be spending a lot of time walking, but thanks for the tip.”

I pulled my coat over my shoulders without actually putting it on and turned to Teri. “Are you busy tonight? Stevie’s going into the city and abandoning me.”

“Ooh, fun,” Teri said, clapping her hands together. “Well—the city part. Not the abandoning part.”

“I’m not abandoning you,” Stevie said, rolling her eyes.

“I’m just kidding.”

“I know you are.”

“What are you doing? Seeing a show?” Teri asked.

“My dad’s taking me to dinner at Josephine’s.” Stevie’s tone was offhand, but she wasn’t fooling me. She’d been looking forward to this for a month.

Stevie had turned eighteen last week, and like always, she didn’t want a big fuss made for her birthday. I had never understood this—I loved when a big fuss was made. To mark the occasion, she’d done a high tea with her mom at the nicest hotel in town, and then she and Teri and I had gone to the movies and had pizza afterward. But I did arrange for cupcakes and candles post-pizza—you can’t celebrate a birthday, especially not one as big as eighteen, without a little sparkle.

She was celebrating with her dad tonight—he had somehow gotten a reservation at Josephine’s, the tiny fancy restaurant in the West Village that celebrities were always being photographed at.