But that didn’t mean I had to take it like I always did. There was a reservation, and a credit card at a restaurant waiting for me. So fine. I was going to go and use it and buy the most expensive dinner I possibly could and charge it to his card, and if my dad had a problem with it, he’d actually have to talk to me. He’d actually have to ask me what was going on, see how I was feeling.…

I bit my lip hard, because tears were waiting in the wings, in hair and makeup, listening for their cue, ready to jump on at a moment’s notice. I took a deep breath and forced them back to the greenroom. I was in control. I was okay. And I didn’t have to take this anymore.

The rational part of my brain whispered that this wasn’t the best way to handle things—and, really, wouldn’t it be better to just go home? But I was done listening to that part. I was always the responsible one, and Kat got to make the big mistakes. Well, not tonight. Tonight I was going just act, for once, and not always be the person cleaning up the messes.

As the cab sped down Sixth Avenue, I looked out the window and caught my reflection in the window. Smudged eye makeup, puffy eyes, hair flying every which way. Not great. And not the way I wanted to show up at the hottest restaurant in New York, even if I was mostly going there for revenge. I pulled my hair up into a knot and used some tinted lip balm I’d found in my inside coat pocket, figuring it was better than nothing.

I glanced at the meter, relieved to see that we were still at ten dollars—still within the realm of what I could afford. I hoped it would be enough to get me close. Even though I felt like I could probably ask people for directions safely—because what were the odds of getting mugged twice in one night? Probably not that high, surely?—I’d prefer to be as close to the restaurant as possible.

“All right,” the cabdriver said, slowing down. I looked around and saw that we’d pulled to the side of the street. And there, in front of me, was Josephine’s. There was no sign—just a small engraved plaque. It was a converted carriage house that I recognized from the paparazzi pictures I’d seen, flashes lighting up whatever celebrity was just trying to make it outside.

“Thanks,” I said, handing the driver the fare plus tip. I glanced at the time—9:20. I was even early. I pulled the door open and stepped inside. It had a cozy, old-fashioned feeling, with two fireplaces, dark wood, and décor that made it seem like you’d wandered into a tavern.