It’s in my nature to give Max a hard time, but I appreciate the reminder. Because as much as I hate to admit it, I needed one.

Chapter Fourteen

Dean

The party Saturday night kicks off with a dud. On the drive over, I get three texts in quick succession:

Kimberly: Hi Dean! Nia isn’t feeling well so we’re going to sit this one out. Karaoke got the best of her. Sorry for the late notice, but we’ll see you on Wednesday for Career Day and dinner. Have fun!

Peter: Hey Dean. Molly found out my ex is hosting the party and flipped. Says I’ll sleep on the couch for a month if I go. Staying home to keep the peace. Just use my name to get in. Give Kimberly and Nia my regrets. Tx.

Solange: be there in 5 mins

Well, shit. This changes everything. And makes it a thousand times harder to limit my remaining time alone with Solange as Max suggested.

Since Kimberly’s and Peter’s texts aren’t time sensitive, I respond to Solange first.

Me: No need to rush. I’ll explain when you get here.

Solange: ok!

Funny how a tiny exclamation mark can make you feel better about seeing someone again. It tells me Solange and I are still on good terms. The alternative—that I caused irreparable harm to our budding friendship when I kissed her last night—is too unsettling to contemplate.

I take a moment to respond to Kimberly, then I send Peter a thumbs-up. It’s petty, yes, but I’d like Peter to think we’re having an excellent time; I’ll tell him about the cancellation on Monday.

My Lyft driver pulls up to the address in the invite just as a few people are entering the only row home on the block with a front porch.

I add a sizable tip for the trip and climb out. “Thanks, man.”

My otherwise quiet driver snickers. “No problem. Have a good time.”

It’s an odd thing to say—he doesn’t know what I’m doing here—but I figure that’s his standard farewell, or he meant to say “take care” in that same embarrassing way I always say “you too” when a server tells me to enjoy my meal.

I wait for Solange by the stoop, occasionally nodding at the other partygoers filing in. Most people are dressed in dark slacks or suits, as if they’ve come directly from work even though it’s the weekend. Considering we’re in DC, I’m sure that’s the case for at least some of the folks passing by me.

Solange appears when she said she would, her cell phone pressed against her ear as she speaks to someone on the line. Her hair is fluttering around her shoulders, and her long strides are eating up the sidewalk as if it’s a runway. Like me, she’s dressed in black from head to toe. Unlike me, she’s mesmerizing in a gauzy top and pants that cinch above her ankles. I clench my hands, then release them, my breath quickening the closer she gets. Probably residual nerves from the unexpected turn of events last night.