Her phone was full of messages from people who had seen her at the party, true friends and rubbernecking acquaintances alike. Dev was worried, Paul was worried, even Bee and Sophie were worried (or, at least, they were good at pretending to be). But there had been a distinct, deadly silence from Danial, save for some unambiguous evidence on social media that he was very much with Daphne. Alex studied the photos of them from that night with the intensity of a private investigator. Renee had been merciless in her public flaunting of her sister’s relationship: she might as well have rode a horse through Morningside Heights ringing a bell and crying, “Hear ye, hear ye, my sister is in a relationship with Danial Azad and Alex Onassis is not.”

The message had been received, the speculation was over: Danial was with someone, maybe he even loved her, and Alex’s letter had done nothing but make him too uncomfortable to acknowledge her. Even their chess game remained untouched, collecting digital cobwebs as she waited in vain for him to make his move. Normally, Alex would nudge him, taunting his hesitation. But today, she only deactivated her account, eager to erase every lingering connection between them.

“I’m coming,” she finally said, willing herself to stand. “Hold on.”

She tied the belt of her tattered robe over her oversized concert tee, pushing the greasy black curls away from her face. She had showered exactly once since the party, and it only occurred to her then that she hadn’t even bothered to properly remove her eye makeup. In the tiny IKEA mirror next to her door, her reflection showed a tapestry of blotchy red and smudgy black. She looked away from her drawn, frightening expression and opened the door.

“Hi, Paul,” she said, stepping aside to welcome him in.

Her place was never a hub for entertainment, but in its current state—dirty dishes and clothes piling up, combined with her already sparse wall decor of tacked-on posters—it felt downright uninhabitable. Paul walked himself over to the threadbare couch she had inherited from her aunt on Long Island, setting his leather backpack on the floor next to him.

Alex walked to the kitchenette, shutting off the heat to the one of two burners she had lit to make some ramen noodles. From the half-fridge, she grabbed an old bottle of orange juice and snagged two glasses from what remained of her clean dishes.

“This is all I have,” she said, setting the glasses on her overfull coffee table and pouring out the last of her OJ. “Sorry.”

It was funny how the muscle memory of hospitality still took over in the presence of Paul: it had been one of the first things he taught her, the art of making someone feel welcome in your home.

“This is perfect,” Paul answered. He watched her movements with the careful speculation of a house mother. “Thanks for letting me in.”