“Thanks. I love it here.” Ava dropped tea bags into two mugs.

“Do you live here alone?”

“Yep.”

“Want a roommate?” Nat was joking, obviously. She barely knew Ava. But if the girl had offered her a space, she would have jumped at it. Nat loved Bushwick—the galleries, the bars, the street art—but she would have said goodbye to her cramped bedroom, her crowded commute, her judgmental roommates, and never looked back.

Ava laughed. “Sorry. It’s a one-bedroom.”

“Does it have a closet? A bathtub? I can sleep anywhere.”

The blonde laughed again in lieu of a response. “Want to see the best part of this place?”

“Let me guess . . . It has a roller coaster? A stable full of ponies?”

“Better.”

Ava led her to double glass doors that opened onto a good-size patio. The furniture was stacked and covered for winter, but Nat could envision the enclave with plants, a patio sectional, glowing lanterns. Like the interior, it would be tasteful, classy, a calm oasis from the bustling city below. Ava pointed due east, to the prime view of the Empire State Building.

“It’s amazing at night when it’s all lit up,” Ava said, eyes affixed to the iconic structure. “In the summer, I sit out here with a glass of wine, and I just stare at it. I can’t believe I actually live here.” She turned to face Nat. “I grew up working-class in the armpit of Ohio.”

“Me, too. Except I’m from Washington State.”

Their eyes met then and they shared a look of recognition. There’s friendship potential here, Nat realized. She had dismissed Ava as different, with her fancy clothes, bags, and lashes. But they were kindred spirits, in a way. The kettle whistled then, and they hurried back into the warmth of the apartment.

With their steaming mugs of tea, the women settled in the living room. The designer couch was more comfortable than it looked, and Nat sank into it, sipping her hot drink. Ava, in the leather wing-back chair, dug her textbooks out of a sleek backpack and placed them on the black marble coffee table. Nat was about to reach for her own books, when her eyes fell on a framed etching on the wall. It was the portrait of a man’s long, ruddy face: ugly, entrancing, powerful.

“Oh my god”—she leaned forward for a better look—“is that a Lucian Freud?”

Ava glanced toward the artwork. “Yeah . . . It was a birthday present.”

From whom? Nat wanted to ask, but she couldn’t. It would be gauche. She’d taken enough art-history classes to know that the etching would be worth at least fifty grand. “It’s intense,” she said instead.

“I’m not a huge fan, but my friend said it was a good investment.”

Her friend?

Nat pasted on a pleasant smile even as her brain scrambled to piece together the details of Ava’s situation. She came from a working-class family in Ohio but lived in a pricey Chelsea penthouse. Despite her humble beginnings, Ava clearly had rich friends. Nat had so many questions—how do you afford this apartment? Your clothes and bags? Who bought you the Freud? But she couldn’t interrogate this girl. She liked her.