He pulls out his phone and taps on the screen at warp speed. It buzzes a few times as he texts with someone, Lina presumably, then he places the phone on the side table. “Okay, I’m yours.”

“Excuse me?”

He groans. “Dean, I recognize a cry for help when I hear one. Sure, I’ll stay over and watch rom-coms with you. Clearly, you need to get your mind off Solange, and I’m the right person for the job.”

“But I didn’t ask—”

“You’ll thank me later,” he says, jumping up from the couch, then opening and closing several kitchen cabinets. “A movie marathon is the perfect distraction.” He returns with an unopened bag of chips under his arm. “This’ll work out just fine. I can sleep in my gym clothes.”

“How convenient,” I mutter under my breath.

“What’s that?” he says as he rips the bag of chips open.

“Nothing.”

“So, what are we going to watch first?”

He’s determined to stay, and I’m determined not to be ungrateful. “I was thinking about When Harry Met Sally. Solange and I never got around to finishing it, but one time we . . .” I smile at the memory of our fake sex session when Ana and Carlos were visiting.

Max socks me in the face with a pillow. “Wrong answer. Let’s watch Always Be My Maybe. Don’t tell Lina, but Ali Wong is my celebrity crush.”

“I don’t even know who that is,” I say, honestly.

“Oh, you’ll know by the end of this movie. Adorable. Smart. Grumpy. Reminds me of Lina.”

“Or we could watch something you haven’t—”

“It’s fine,” Max says, getting settled on the couch. “I don’t mind.”

I grab the remote and queue up the movie. I’m willing to do whatever it takes to drown out the thoughts that would take up residence in my brain if he weren’t here. Once the opening credits appear, I tap Max on the arm. “Thanks for doing this.”

“No problem. You’d do the same for me.”

“Actually, I wouldn’t.”

He smirks at me. “Fuck off and watch the movie.”

Yes, that’s excellent advice. I can deal with the rest of my chaotic life tomorrow.

*  *  *

Friday morning, I exit the elevator holding a single sad banker’s box with the few personal belongings I kept at Olney & Henderson. I surrender my employee badge to the building security guard, Harold, a middle-aged white guy with pythons for biceps. For the past eight years, Harold was often the first person I saw in the morning, a friendly face amid the hustle and bustle, a neighborhood reporter who always told me what to expect when I got upstairs.

“Henderson’s pissed today.”

“Olney’s running late, and she spilled coffee on her blouse.”

“Must be a partner meeting this a.m. A gang of ’em just went up.”