Chapter One

August 12

The Lower East Side of Manhattan is not the sort of place where bars are guaranteed to have signs. If you can’t find a bar

without a sign (or, occasionally, any obvious entrance), chances are you aren’t cool enough to be in that bar to begin with.

You should probably go back to Midtown with the rest of the tourists.

I’ve lived in New York City for twelve years, but I’m still not cool enough to find the incognito bars. Maybe part of the

problem is that the only time I go out is with my friends, and Olivia is always the one deciding where we go. I wouldn’t have

put it past Olivia to throw her birthday bash in a bar with no sign, which is why I’m relieved when I spot the neon letters

in a window slightly below street level, spelling out speak easy .

Olivia insists on finding a new-to-us establishment for her birthday party every year, solely because Ian made some offhand

remark, five years ago, about how eventually we’d all get old and settled, and start going to the same places over and over

and over again... and Olivia can’t back down from a challenge. Ever. Especially not on the night she turns thirty—which,

I’m pretty sure, is what Ian-from-five-years-ago would have defined as “old.”

Back when he made that remark, we all laughed. Why would you ever go to the same place over and over when you’ve got all of

New York City right outside your door?

But here I am, about to turn thirty myself, and honestly, I’d take old and settled . Part of me would really rather be sitting on my bed watching a baking show on my laptop right now.

Although maybe that’s because today was shit. Maybe if today hadn’t been shit, I could summon a little more enthusiasm for

Speak Easy.

I really need to stop dawdling on the sidewalk.

Deep breath. Run a hand through my short but stubbornly wavy hair, which is probably waving in all the wrong directions thanks

to the sauna that is Manhattan in August. Push my glasses up on my nose, because I’m sweaty and sticky and they’ve been sliding

down ever since I left the RoadNet office. For the last time.

I hoist my heavier-than-usual messenger bag up on my shoulder and head into the bar.

The air conditioner above the door is on full blast, and it sends a welcome shiver down my back... for all of five seconds

until I’m out of its range and into the crowd. It’s almost six thirty on a Friday, happy hour is in full swing, and everyone

in the city is desperate for AC. The whole bar is a cacophony of talking and laughing and slightly distorted but lively jazz

music filtering over the speakers. Speak Easy is clearly leaning hard into the Prohibition vibe. The fringed chandeliers are

dimmed, the walls are panels of deep mahogany wood and red velvet, and the bartenders are all wearing waistcoats.

The patrons, by and large, are not, but there are a lot of black jeans, tattoos, and piercings that perfectly toe the line

between cool and classy. Questionable but undeniably hip facial hair. More than one guy unironically wearing suspenders. It’s

peak Lower East Side. Half these people probably went to art school or at least want to dress like they did.

I am definitely not cool enough for this bar. I might have multiple degrees in Literature No One Cares About, but I don’t

have a single tattoo, the holes in my ears closed up about ten years ago, and I’m wearing a light-pink polo shirt.

“Darby!”

At the grand height of five-foot-four, I take a minute to spot Olivia through the crowd, waving from a booth set back in one

corner. She’s wearing a party-store tiara with the number 30 on it in plastic bling.

“Excuse me. Sorry...” I duck and weave through the crowd to the booth. “Hey, guys. Sorry I’m late.”

“Yeah, we were starting to wonder...” Olivia waves her hands at Joan, who scoots out of the booth so Olivia can get out

and wrap me in a hug.

From the other side of the table, Ian says, “Where have you been?”

Moping on a bench in Washington Square Park for twenty minutes, trying to get it out of my system. “Just... got held up.”

I manage a grin. “Happy birthday.”

“Thanks, babe.” Olivia scoots back into the booth while I hug Joan and then slide in next to Ian, stashing my messenger bag

under the table.

“Okay, we’ve got Darby, so”—Ian gives Olivia a very intense look—“can we please order food? I’m about five seconds away from

eating this.” He picks up one of the single-page menus from the table and waves it. Ian is a freelance video game designer,

only puts on pants when he leaves his apartment, and frequently gets so buried in whatever he’s doing that he forgets to eat

lunch. Practically every time we go out, he shows up hangry with no idea why.

Olivia rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, let’s order.” She grabs the menu away from Ian.

Now I feel a little guilty. I should have texted. Invented some excuse about train delays if I couldn’t fess up to moping.

I’m usually chronically early. I have absolutely no chill. “You guys didn’t have to wait for me.”

Olivia just waves a hand. “We needed everybody to vote.” She turns the menu around, face out. “Are we doing sexy fries or

sexier fries?”

Ian blinks at her, like this is not getting through his hangry fog. “What?”

“It’s the whole reason she picked this bar,” Joan says, looking at her phone. I have a strong suspicion she’s checking her

email. Joan Chu joined our friend group when she started dating Olivia three years ago, and she has the most adult job of

any of us—she’s a lawyer. She works in housing law, on the good side, which means she doesn’t get paid fancy money, but she

does still go to court, in slacks and an actual blazer. She also checks her email constantly, even when she’s solidly Queer

Punk Joan, with her hair up in a bun to show off her shaved sides and wearing a genuine motorcycle jacket—because Joan genuinely

rides a motorcycle.

She fits right in at this bar.

“No, I thought this sounded like a cool place,” Olivia says defensively. She pauses. “But also, I looked up the menu online

and was like, I have to find out what sexy fries are.”

Ian squints at the menu. “Okay, well, sexier fries are the gay version of sexy fries, right? I mean, that’s the only logical explanation...”

“I think the actual difference is cheese,” Joan says, without looking up from her phone.

“So it’s basically poutine.” (Ian grew up in Toronto.) “Let’s get both. Now. Food .”

“Okay, okay.” Olivia sweeps her long braids over her shoulder. “Sexy fries, sexier fries, and a pitcher for the table?”

“We have cocktails,” Ian says, pointing at his half-empty glass.

“And beer and fries are classic,” Olivia says. “Anyway, if we let Darby have a cocktail, he’ll get shit-faced. Remember Joan’s

birthday last year?”

Well, that’s slightly unfair. “That was a cocktail and a half,” I say. “And I didn’t get that drunk.”

“Fine,” Ian says. “Beer and fries. Whatever. Just get me calories.”

“On it.” Joan scoots out of the booth, sticking her phone in her pocket and disappearing into the crowd, headed for the bar

counter.

Olivia leans on her elbows, looking at me. “So did you get stuck at work again?”

Crap. I knew this was going to happen. Train delays . Why didn’t I just say train delays?

But now it’s too late, because if it had really been train delays, I would’ve shrugged and said it easily. Now I’ve waited

too long, and Ian’s eyebrows are disappearing into his strawberry blond hair because he knows something’s up.

I rub my hands on my jeans. My palms are sweating. “I... kind of got fired.”

Olivia stares at me. So does Ian. If this was a movie, there’d be dead silence right now. But it’s a Manhattan bar IRL, so

Louis Armstrong’s gravelly voice keeps right on crooning, and someone lets out a loud peal of laughter nearby.

Which feels about right in its own way.

“You got fired? ” Olivia’s the first one to recover.

“Shit,” Ian says. “What happened?”

“All right, order’s placed.” Joan reappears at the table. “Who got fired?”

“That was fast,” I say. A desperate attempt at a subject change.

Joan doesn’t fall for it. “Yeah, I get noticed. Did you get fired?”

I’m really starting to regret using the word fired . “Well, it was more like... I got laid off.”

“Did they lay off anyone else?” Joan looks deadly serious. “I mean, if there’s any chance it’s because you’re trans...

I know I’m in housing but I got this friend who handles discrimination cases—”

“No, no, it had nothing to do with that.” I’m handling this all wrong. “I don’t think anybody at RoadNet even knows I’m trans.

And it’s not just me. The whole company’s folding.” I’ve got that feeling in my stomach again—the same one I had when Greg

Lester, the CEO of RoadNet (although he preferred the title Lead Thinker), told me the news this afternoon. Like I’m suddenly

plunging down a roller coaster. “So everybody’s laid off. It’s done.”

Now they’re all staring at me.

“They didn’t give you a heads-up?” Olivia looks ready to hunt Greg Lester down and pop his head off like a Ken doll. “I mean,

how does a whole company fold and nobody knows it’s coming?”

I shrug. It’s one of about a hundred depressing thoughts that crossed my mind while I tried to pull myself together in Washington

Square Park before trekking over here.

Some other highlights:

Why did I think taking a job writing grant proposals for a company that’s literally remapping streets for other companies

designing self-driving cars was a stable employment option?

Why did anyone think RoadNet deserved start-up money when Google Maps... exists?

Why didn’t I at least swipe some of the free granola bars on my way out?

“This is why start-ups are terrible,” Ian says, rubbing his scruffy chin. Ian only remembers to shave about once a week. “I

was reading this article that was all about how they don’t know how to run themselves like real companies. They’re just a

bunch of straight bros who think they’re geniuses and have a lot of money. Total grifters.”

“But tell us, Ian,” Joan says mildly, “how do you really feel?”

He glowers at her. “Yeah, yeah, but this is why I turned down that job at Rizzl, remember?”

Olivia leans her head back and groans. Ian reminds us about his offer from Rizzl more often than he remembers to shave. Rizzl was a video game start-up in Silicon Valley that tried to get Ian to come work for them several months back. He took great pleasure in turning them down and even greater pleasure when the whole company went belly-up a month later, after it turned out they’d poached a lot of ideas from independent game designers and then never paid them.

“What are you gonna do?” Joan asks.

“I could probably get you a job at my Starbucks,” Olivia says. “We’re pretty much always hiring.”

It’s a nice offer, but somehow it just makes me feel even lousier. “Um, thanks, but I have no idea how to make a latte.”

She shrugs. “I could teach you. Or maybe you could be a dishwasher or something at one of the comedy clubs. I mean, I know

it’s not glamorous, but it would be something.”

Olivia has been living the broke artist life in NYC since we finished grad school. She’s a barista by day and a stand-up comedian

by night. We’ve all been to a bunch of her shows, week after week, just to try to put a few more bodies in the audience. It’s

usually the same ten comics on rotation at every different venue—nine white guys and Olivia, the single Black woman.

She’s good, though. She’s actually really funny.

And I also have no idea how she isn’t drowning in debt.

“I don’t know.” It feels cowardly as soon as it’s out of my mouth. “With the new rent and everything, I should probably try

to find something...”

But I can’t bring myself to say something better paid. It’s not like I was raking it in at RoadNet, either. Turns out even start-ups don’t want to pay the people writing their

grant proposals very well.

But I still took that job. Because it paid a little better than entry-level jobs in publishing, even though that’s where I

dreamed of going when I was in grad school. And it seemed less tenuous than putting my literature degrees to good use and

trying to get an adjunct job.

I told myself that was enough. I told myself this job was here, and I got hired, so that meant I should do it.

Joan chews her lip. “And you’re absolutely sure the management company gave you thirty days’ notice, right?”

She’s already asked me this at least three times since the management company for my building informed me they were raising the rent on my tiny studio two weeks ago. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

“Damn.” She glowers. “It’s so annoying when they actually follow the rules.”

“We got some sexy fries?” One of the bartenders—a burly guy with chambray shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing a

patchwork of tattoos on both forearms—approaches our table with a tray. He sets down two big baskets of fries, a pitcher of

beer, four plates, and four glasses. “Enjoy.”

Ian dives in, grabbing a plate and pulling out a handful of what I think must be the sexy fries, based on the lack of cheese.

“Holy shit,” he says, stuffing fries in his mouth. “These are amazing.”

And that’s all the permission any of us need, because we’re suddenly diving into fries and pouring glasses of beer and ignoring

everything I just said. The next few minutes are all of us eating and drinking and comparing the sexy fries to the sexier

fries (“These are literally just poutine,” Ian says again).

When we get to the end of the last basket, Joan holds out a final fry to Olivia like she’s presenting her with a gift. “It’s

time. We don’t have candles but make a wish.”

Olivia giggles, taking the fry. “Do I say it out loud?”

“Not if it’s about getting laid later,” Ian says.

Joan snorts. “She doesn’t have to make a wish about that.”

Olivia elbows her. “Okay, okay. I wish that we all find exactly what we’re looking for before I turn thirty-one.” She stuffs

the fry in her mouth.

Ian raises his glass with a grin. “Vague and New Agey, ten out of ten.”

Olivia just shoots him a look.

But I feel like my stomach is tying itself in knots around the fries. Not because I just lost my job or because my rent is

about to go through the roof. Not even because the idea of trying to find a new job or a new apartment makes me want to hide

under the table.

It’s more that I can’t picture Olivia’s next birthday party. I have no idea how I’m supposed to get through the next year.

I don’t know how Ian and Joan are raising their glasses like none of this freaks them out—like they got some instruction manual

that I missed.

I know I could probably get another grant-writing job, at least eventually. I know I could probably find some new living situation.

But I must be the most shallow, selfish human alive, because honestly... I don’t want that. I don’t want to sit at another

job that feels like nothing, doing something I’ve convinced people I can do, going through motions that don’t feel like mine.

“Maybe I should just move back to Oak Falls.” It slips out of my mouth before my brain catches up.

For a second, there’s silence.

Ian stares at me over his beer. “You’re joking.”

“Wait, Oak Falls Oak Falls?” Olivia says. “Illinois? Are you serious?”

Joan frowns. “You said you hated it there.”

I open my mouth, ready to say, That’s not true .

But maybe it is. Did I tell her I hated Oak Falls? That I hated the town where I grew up? That I hated Illinois?

I guess I probably did. I wanted out when I graduated from high school. I was ready to go anywhere else. I’d gotten a taste

of life outside of Oak Falls when I went to a boarding school in upstate New York for the first semester of senior year of

high school. I didn’t apply to any colleges in Illinois, even though my mom told me I should. A state school as a safety net.

But even Chicago felt too close. I didn’t want to be able to drive home for a weekend.

So maybe I did hate it when I left.

But some little piece of me feels annoyed. Defensive. I don’t know if I was joking or not, but it gets under my skin that

Ian assumed I was. I don’t know why the thought suddenly crossed my mind— what if I just left New York and moved back to Oak Falls?

Maybe it’s because you could probably rent a whole house in Oak Falls for what I’m paying for my tiny studio apartment. The

tiny studio apartment I wouldn’t have been able to afford in a month even before I lost the job I can’t even convince myself I’m sorry I lost.

“Darby.” Olivia sets her beer down, looking at me intensely. “We’ll figure this out. I’ll hit Craigslist for apartment listings.

I mean, it worked for Ian.”

Ian lives in a studio in Williamsburg, which Olivia did, in fact, find for him on Craigslist. I’m pretty sure he can only afford it because one of his games actually sold kind of big last year.

“Or I can ask around at Legal Aid,” Joan says. “See if anybody needs a roommate.”

Now I really want to hide under the table. It’s not like my friends haven’t helped me out before. I mean, Olivia and Ian helped

me move into my current apartment. Joan brought me a whole bag of cold meds when I got really sick last year, literally delivering

them on her motorcycle like the badass lesbian goddess of sinus relief. We’re all one another’s emergency contacts. But somehow...

this feels different.

“No, it’s okay. I don’t really want to live with strangers.” I feel like I’m making excuses. “Anyway, you don’t have to fix

my problems.”

“Living with strangers is like a rite of passage, though.” Joan leans back against the leather upholstery of the booth. “Honestly,

it’s amazing you haven’t gone through it yet.”

Heat creeps up my neck. “I like having my space.” But it feels petty as soon as it leaves my mouth. Like I’m expecting too

much out of New York. Joan lived with three strangers until she moved in with Olivia. And the two of them still live with

one of Ian’s ex-boyfriends. Which should be weird, given that Olivia and Ian used to date, but honestly, our whole friend group is a walking queer stereotype. Of

course Olivia and Joan live with Ian’s ex. Of course Joan and Ian are friends.

“Nobody in New York has space,” Olivia says. “That’s why Central Park exists.” She grins, but when I don’t grin back, she

sighs. “Okay, sorry. We’ll figure this out. Brainstorming study hall this weekend? We could crash the Think Coffee by NYU

like old times.”

She waggles her eyebrows at me, but this doesn’t make me feel any better. I don’t want to think about old times —Olivia and Ian and I holed up in a corner of Think, surrounded by hordes of other students, looking up internships and job

openings and master’s programs and feeling like anything was possible.

“Yeah,” I say, but it comes out flat. “Sure.”

“Darb, come on.” Ian gives me a look that clearly says, I love you, but dude. “You can’t leave New York unless it’s for someplace that really slaps... like London.”

“Ooh, or Paris,” Olivia adds. (She’s been dreaming about going to Paris for as long as I’ve known her.)

“What would you even be doing if you were in Oak Falls right now?” Joan asks.

Watching Frasier with my mom, Mr. Grumpy flopped across both our laps.

Reading fanfic on my laptop at night with the windows open while fireflies wink in the yard.

Riding up and down the streets balanced on the back of Michael’s bike because we’re bored out of our skulls and there’s nothing

else to do.

No. Those are all things I did in high school. When I was desperate to leave because it was Oak Falls.

I shake my head. “You’re right.” Take another gulp from my glass. “I’m just being ridiculous. Ignore me. We should be talking

about Olivia’s birthday anyway.”

Joan lets out a whoop, and Olivia beams and fiddles with her tiara. “I’m ready to be sung to anytime.”

Ian shakes his head. “We are not singing to you in public.”

“You are totally singing to me in public.”

“Why are you bent on embarrassing us?”

“You are such a dick!”

And Joan starts belting out, “Happy birthday to you...”

So I start singing too, and eventually Ian joins in with a very obvious eye roll.

We sing Olivia “Happy Birthday,” just like we have every year ever since I met Olivia and Ian in college, ever since Joan

rounded out our group when she showed up at one of Olivia’s stand-up shows.

Just like they’ll all do for me in almost three weeks. Because some things are old and settled, even if Olivia insists on

the location constantly changing.

But still, I can’t grin without it feeling tight and forced.

I can’t shake the feeling that I’m about to turn thirty, and all I’ll have to show for it is an unemployment check, an overdrawn

bank account, two useless degrees, and a city that’s never quite managed to feel like home.

And at the end of the day, the only person to blame for any of that is me.