Martin groaned. “How do we even begin to defend that? That piece of trash is going to bomb.”

“I don’t know,” I said hopefully. “Maybe you’re underestimating how base the American population has become?”

“Even Americans won’t go for that drivel,” Harris said.

I could feel Harris’s mood begin to shift from lighthearted and fun to agitated. And I got it. I really did. Nothing could sour my mood like a perfectly good project gone wrong. My mind turned to the notes from my frozen embryo story, still sitting in my desk drawer. I hadn’t been able to stomach them, for obvious reasons.

But I was super bummed about what the shift meant for my night. I was hoping for a nightcap, a kiss at the stoop, a promise of a second date. New York Amelia was fresh and fun and open to, if not love, at least a handsome man to escort her about town.

Martin cupped Harris on the shoulder and said, “I’ve got your back, man.” It was very reassuring and very… straight.

“You always do,” Harris said, as though they had been working together for decades, not months. “I’m just going to leave it all to you.”

I could tell he meant it because some of his stress seemed to dissipate in that moment. Not all of it, unfortunately. When we got back to our apartment, Martin took off down the sidewalk, claiming he needed to grab something from Duane Reade. I was still hoping that Harris might suggest a drink, but there was no question that his mind was somewhere else.

He took my hand, kissed my cheek, and said, “May I call you some time? Take you out on a proper date that doesn’t involve a movie high school boys will be streaming on repeat soon?”

When I said, “Please do. I would really like that,” Harris squeezed my hand.

Then he turned, got back in the car, and, with a final glance, was gone. It made me feel wistful and wanton. And I was confident that he felt the same. He would call tomorrow. He wouldn’t be able to wait. I just knew it.

Only, after three days of silence, I was beginning to feel like he either hadn’t been interested or I hadn’t laid my cards on the table obviously enough.

“So he hasn’t said a single thing about me?” I prodded Martin, yet again, as he shook martinis. Our apartment might have been shoebox tiny, but Martin—and my mother—had made sure it was fabulous. The entire thing had a very Hollywood Regency vibe. It wasn’t the comfortable, classic look I normally went for, but this was a new life, a fresh start. I needed something different than normal. And this high-glam vibe was perfect. Plus, the egregious number of mirrors made the space feel slightly bigger.

While my mother had made sure the apartment was decorated to the nines with furniture she had stashed in the attic from Aunt Tilley’s first apartment decades ago, she had also made sure to tell me how cramped the apartment was. She asked if it’d be nice to go back to Palm Beach. Or maybe come home? I had quipped, “Why, Mom? One family member in the attic just not enough for you?”