He waves his hand because of course that’s not a problem for a man who owns multiple restaurants and knows many more owners. He could get a five-course meal at two in the morning.

“How about Frank’s place?” he asks. He doesn’t refer to a restaurant by its name. It’s always the name of the owner, the head chef, his friend. Maybe one day he’ll call ours just Amy’s, or Sophie’s place. “Ten thirty? Eleven? I won’t keep you too late. Promise,” he says quickly. “I know you need to be at the gym early.”

I drag a hand down my face because this is awkward, but it needs to be said. “This...isn’t a date, is it?”

Paul sobers. “No. I wouldn’t do that to you. It’s business related.”

I study his face through the screen. “Is it about the show?” I ask, relief washing through me. If it’s about the show I could bring Amy. Even if it’s not a date, having dinner, alone, with Paul will feel strange. Like putting on an old sweater that doesn’t quite fit in the shoulders anymore.

He winces. “Not exactly. But it is entertainment industry related.”

“O-okay.” It’s not that I want to go, exactly. I don’t not want to go, either. But I can’t really turn down “business” opportunities. Not after looking at those numbers.

His answering smile could reflect the sun. “I can’t wait.”

The screen goes dark, and I set the phone back down. I survey the mess I’ve made from food prep, the full bowl of chickpea salad getting soggy sitting out on my coffee table. Without bothering to put anything else away, I open the pantry and pull out a sleeve of Oreos. I don’t need tangible proof to know that telling Amy I’m having dinner with Paul is going to upset her. If she had dinner with one of her exes—all none of them—I’d be upset.

I shove a cookie into my mouth. This is going to suck.

Amy’s spreadsheets are visible again on my phone now that my call is over. My spreadsheets. Our spreadsheets. And our alarmingly depleted funds. Except... I lean over the counter, crumbs leaving a trail to my phone, and navigate to the payroll spreadsheet. Fifi winds through my feet again, my earlier offense forgotten.

“I think I know how to fix this, Feef,” I say.

She rolls onto the floor and licks her butt.

“There you are.” Amy kicks the door to the staff room shut behind her and has my face in her hands before I can say a word.

She tastes citrusy, like the lemon water she’s been mainlining all night, and for a moment I just let myself cling to her. Her black knit sweater soft and warm where I clutch it in my hands.

“Service went well tonight, yeah?” She tucks my hair behind my ear. Her eyes are bright and excited, and I know she wants to debrief, like we’ve done every night for the last many nights, at my house or hers. Then she wants to topple me onto the bed and make me come two or three times. I want that too, especially with the smell of peaches in my nose. The other day while looking for a phone charger, and absolutely not snooping, I found a large, practical Tupperware storage bin underneath her bed filled with sex toys and lubricant. Things I’d never considered trying when I was only having sex with men but that the thought of now make me squirm with anticipation. I’d pulled the box out while she was in the shower, and she’d found me surrounded by her collection of synthetic debauchery. She’d promised me that we’d play soon, when we had more time, and now it’s kind of all I can think about.