The truth was that, yes, Alex did have another card, but it was her debit card, and it had exactly the amount of money on it that she needed to survive for the rest of the month and make the minimum payments on the others—including this one, which she thought had a little bit of wiggle room left.

“Here,” Paul said, handing over his own card. “Put it on this.”

“Oh, come on, you don’t have to do that.” Alex felt her cheeks flush.

“It’s nothing.” He brushed her hand away with the effortless acceptance of true friendship. “But you’re carrying half the bottles.”

“Please,” she said, hooking a few of the paper handles in her hands, “I’m stronger than you.”

Paul pushed open the liquor store door with his back, holding it gallantly as Alex walked through. It was one of those blinding late-spring days in Manhattan where every color felt turned all the way up, and they both stopped to set down the bags and put on their sunglasses before continuing toward his apartment. Paul always looked best in spring: his freckles expanded across his cheeks, his slight southern drawl strengthened as his family came to visit from Charleston, and his favorite pastel color palettes felt appropriate rather than kitsch. She always stole glances at him when they walked together, drawing power from his prestige and attractiveness. Being his girlfriend had been intoxicating, yes, but being his best friend was an even greater victory: even without the pull of romantic attraction, he still chose her.

“Paul is just as lucky to have you as you are to have him,” her mother would often say, and Alex knew she was right on some level. But Elena couldn’t see what it was like when the two of them walked down Broadway or Amsterdam together, with people waving to him like he was the mayor of Morningside Heights. Alex may have been well-liked by Rochester standards, but to be popular here, the way Paul was, came with minor celebrity status.

Paul lived on a beautiful stretch of Riverside Drive at one of the more prestigious addresses in the neighborhood—and one rarely occupied by students. But his father had purchased an investment property there, and Paul got to live in it for free as long as he kept his grades up. This was a common arrangement for the Club members: parents using their children’s temporary zip codes to do a little real estate speculation.

“So where are we on Operation Crow’s Nest? Has the eagle landed? Is the fox in the hole? I don’t know what code names we’re using here.” Paul turned to face her as he slipped the key in his apartment door, precariously balancing his bags of liquor bottles with his forearms. From down the hall, a very fancy-looking older woman looked at them disapprovingly. “Hi, Leanne,” Paul called over to her, smiling.