“That’s where the mushroom risotto recipe came from too.” Heather loaded her spoon with gooey chocolate and put the whole thing in her mouth. “And yet mine went wrong.”

Katie raised both eyebrows. “And I’m sure the recipe said to stir continuously, rather than constantly refreshing the Guardian website, getting into a rage about something, and then wandering off—leaving the pot on the stove—to tell Twitter why you were so angry?”

Heather gave her a giant grin as she removed the spoon. “What can I say? Those two hundred and seven followers need me.”

I pointed a bite of cheesecake at her. “You should totally write your book, and then you’d have more.”

“I love your optimism, Fern, but nobody wants to read The Diary of a Vag Nurse.”

“But there’s so much to say about what you do, and the patriarchy, and the NHS and hormones and bodies and...and...herpes.” My arm felt pretty heavy from waving it about, and it was then I realized I was tipsy from drinking on an empty stomach.

“So, what’s with your hot mess friend, anyway?” Heather asked through another mouthful. She always changed the subject when I talked to her about writing a book. I thought maybe she was worried how she’d cope having her opinions contested. Heather liked to be righteously right about everything. I feel like she truly believed, one day, a historian would sit the whole world down and say, “Right let’s judge every single human living between the years 2010–2022 and work out who was on the right side, and give their surviving family member a medal.”

“Her name is Jessica,” I said, feeling protective rather than suspicious of her for the first time since our reunion. “Not a hot mess.”

Katie laughed as she carved a tiny slice of cake with a teaspoon. “Don’t say that, you’ll ruin her new working theory.” I raised my eyes over my glass of wine. “It’s my fault. I made her rewatch Fleabag, and she reignited.”

Heather rolled her eyes in good humor. “I’m just saying, I strongly believe millennial women have been brainwashed into this weird ‘hot mess’ version of supposed empowerment that, as fucking always, benefits men.” She pointed at me. “Woke bros just lurve feminism if it comes from a sexually available, skinny, pretty, white mouthpiece, who they think might let them do anal given half the chance.”

Katie laughed and waved her arms. “Honey, thanks for all your sweeping statements. They’ve cleaned all the cake crumbs off the floor.”

“Oh you, who never cares about anything,” Heather countered.

“I just want to watch television without it having to mean something all the time. I’m sorry.”