Muriel took a sip. “Delicious!” she proclaimed, and Greta felt a surge of pride. Her friends had made that. Her friends.

“Want to meet my…” She’d been about to say girlfriend. Could she say that about someone she’d only known for a few weeks? “Carys?”

Muriel nodded, a twinkle in her eye, and they crossed to where Carys was arguing intently about math with two people who must’ve been fellow grad students.

“Omigosh, you must be Muriel,” Carys said, interrupting herself midsentence. “I’m so glad to meet you. Greta’s told me so much about you.”

She held out a hand to shake, but Muriel leaned in and kissed her cheek.

“A pleasure, my dear. I hear you’re a mathematician, so I wonder if you can explain something to me…”

Greta left them in deep conversation as someone grabbed her shoulder.

Ramona held out her arms.

“Hey, dude! I brought a friend. Hope you don’t mind.”

Ramona inclined her head to the man with her, who was dressed in purple from head to toe—suit, shirt, tie, and shoes—and mouthed, “Hot, right?”

Greta gave them both a thumbs-up and took them to get Jell-O shots.

After half an hour or so, Helen and Veronica emerged from the kitchen and struck dramatic poses in the doorway.

“The food’s ready!” Helen yelled over the music. “Plates are by the door, garbage can is by the hallway. I know each and every one of you motherfuckers—well, okay, not you…or you,” they said, indicating Ramona and her friend. “And, damn, why don’t I know you?” they asked Muriel, who responded with a flirtatious wave. “Anyway, throw away your trash or you won’t get invited back, you hear me?” they concluded.

A cheer and a flurry of thumbs-ups came from the crowd, and people made a beeline for the food.

Greta followed, stomach growling, excited to see what had kept Helen and Veronica up all night.

The large kitchen was lit by lava lamps, and platters of exquisite-looking morsels crowded every surface.

Lamb meatballs with mango-mint chutney; soppressata, pear, and brie muffulettas; red beans and rice arancini; fried green tomatoes with hot pepper jelly; baklava made with Veronica’s honey; lavender lemon poundcake bites; cinnamon-sugar beignets with bacon glaze. Every platter was neatly labeled in Veronica’s swooping handwriting.

And there, in pride of place on the stove, a huge platter heaped with latkes. HAPPY CHANUKAH! the label said. To the right of the platter were a dish of applesauce and one of sour cream. Behind each was a jar, and another sign said CAST YOUR VOTE: APPLESAUCE OR SOUR CREAM? Beads sat in a dish to be used as voting tokens.