Even amongst this group, Bee Meyer’s pedigree stood out: daughter of a publishing magnate, founder of the coolest art magazine on campus, never not in an outfit that fell somewhere between West Village psychic and gallery curator.

“That’ll be out in just a moment,” the waiter replied, a pained smile on his face. “I have the monkfish.”

“That’s me, thank you,” Alex said, smiling back at him. She helped him ease her plate down. “And those fries, you can just put in the middle of the table.”

The waiter gave a quick thanks as he set down the piping hot basket, and she continued to air traffic control the remaining dishes. Few things soothed her as much as playing teacher’s pet for an overworked service employee.

As soon as the waiter’s back was turned, Sophie leaned in toward the table, lowering her voice in a conspiratorial way. “Am I crazy, or is he kind of hot?”

“Very hot,” Paul immediately affirmed, dipping a fry into a little ramekin of mayonnaise. Since coming out last fall, he was having a bit of a romantic rumspringa, as if his world were rendering in color for the first time.

“Okay, can someone who isn’t Paul please answer?” Sophie topped off her water from the pitcher in the center of the table.

Back when Alex was dating Paul—when his cluster of friends first entered her life—she was terrified of Sophie. It seemed impossible that Paul could see someone as beautiful and intimidating as she was as just a friend. But it became clear early on that they could not have been more different, that Paul’s boundless enthusiasm and intensity was uniquely ill-suited to Sophie’s detached French coolness.

“He’s cute,” Alex offered, playing loosely with the chain at her neck. “Not really my type, but I can definitely see it.”

A few seats down, Danial looked up from his club sandwich.

“Yes,” Paul said between chews, “Alex’s type only exists in Aaron Sorkin movies.”

“How dare you?” she shot back, turning to face him. “I hate Aaron Sorkin.”

“Babe, you made me watch The Social Network at least four times sophomore year.” He pecked her cheek. “My middlebrow queen.”

“Okay, but that’s different,” she countered, jokingly pushing him off of her. “West Wing Sorkin sucks. Social Network Sorkin is genius.”

“Genius?” Bee raised an eyebrow, always suspicious of art that was neither to her obscure tastes nor unapologetically silly.

“It’s true,” Dev insisted next to her. “It’s a masterpiece.”

“I don’t think these words mean what you think they mean,” she replied, reaching over to Dev’s plate for a bite of quiche. “Danny, have you seen it?”

“Yes.” He smiled. “But only in Farsi. And I don’t think Sorkin’s genius translates.”