Chapter 2

And then what happened?" Daniel asked, swiping away a smudge of hot sauce from the corner of his mouth with the thinnest napkin in the world. His breath made clouds in the winter air.

Mel sighed and stabbed her plastic fork at the tacos in the paper boat she held. (Her taco-handling skills didn't pass muster, so she always opted for the coward's cutlery, as Daniel called it.) "I made them a French 75 with thyme. What else could I do?"

Neon lights from the dot matrix signage illuminated Daniel's disappointed face. They were standing on the sidewalk next to Julio's, their favorite late-night taco truck, one of their only options for getting a decent bite to eat after work. Even in the December cold, the sidewalk was jammed with other bar and restaurant workers grabbing food. Their own secret after-hours club in the middle of Alphabet City. Terror Virtue closed at 2 a.m. on Fridays, but once the last lingering customers cleared out and the staff wrapped up their cleaning tasks, it was closer to four. The subways were hit-and-miss by that time, so Mel and Daniel tended to make their way home on foot instead of waiting for a train.

"If I were in your shoes," Daniel said, "I would have said something." He tilted his head and took another huge bite of his taco.

"Like what? ‘Hey, what the hell, paying customer? I thought you were into me, but it turns out you're married?'?"

"You can get some clarification without being rude! Like—" Daniel adopted a high-pitched voice. "?‘So what's the vibe here? I'm getting a vibe.'?"

"I do not sound like that."

Daniel ignored her. "So was the rest of your shift, like, super awkward?" he asked before eating more.

Mel considered Daniel's question while she shoveled a bite of birria into her mouth. The sudden appearance of Kade had thrown her for a loop, no question. She'd nearly forgotten to put ice in her shaker for the French 75. Once she'd fallen back into the groove of tending bar on a busy Friday night, though, the awkwardness had taken a back seat. She remembered the snatches of conversation she'd overheard between Bebe and Kade while she worked: normal couple stuff about their schedules, things that needed doing that weekend, Bebe's plans for the brunch party. Kade seemed to be the more tight-lipped of the two, sipping their drink quietly while Bebe chattered away.

From an outsider's perspective, Bebe and Kade looked like total opposites. Loud and quiet; curvy and lean; friendly and introverted. It made you wonder how they'd gotten together.

Not that it was any of Mel's business.

They'd been pleasant, unrushed, and lovely. And they'd tipped well, around 25 percent. Really, Mel had no reason to complain.

The only moment that had even approached dicey was when Bebe and Kade had been preparing to leave. Kade was helping Bebe get into her soft-looking camel coat. Bebe had caught Mel's eye as she was rushing to finish off a large order. Mel had paused, lemon in one hand and a reamer in the other, ready for a pat farewell. Thank you for coming, so nice to meet you, that sort of thing.

Instead, Bebe blew a kiss in her direction and said, "Mimosas! Don't forget, I need professional help. You have my number."

Mel had shifted uneasily, glancing at Kade to gauge whether Bebe's spouse—wife—would be rubbed the wrong way by this show of familiarity, but their face remained as impassive as ever.

"Looking forward to it," Mel had managed to say before the couple swept out of the bar.

She shook her head, trying to dislodge the image burned into it: Kade guiding Bebe through the crowd with a hand on the small of her back, both of them glancing over their shoulders as if they wanted one last look at Mel.

"It was… strange," she finally told Daniel, "but not awkward. They were both perfectly nice." She ate the last bite of taco and tossed the container into a nearby can, wrapping her black coat around her more tightly. "It's my fault, I guess. Picking up signals that weren't really there."

Daniel made an unsure noise as he wolfed down the last of his al pastor. "I don't know. Must have been powerful signals if you noticed them. Most signals go right over your head," he said with his mouth full. "Remember that girl who tried to hit on you during Fleet Week?"

"That wasn't my fault," Mel protested. "Who tries to pick someone up on the subway? You make eye contact with me on public transportation, I'm gonna assume you want to fight."

"She was literally wearing her dress whites. There's no bigger billboard declaring ‘fuck me for my service' than that."

"From a distance, I thought she was a chef," Mel mumbled. She rubbed a hand over her face. "My eyes are going. I'm officially old."

"Early thirties is not old." Daniel wound his scarf around his neck now that the danger of taco drippings had passed. "My point is, if you were getting signals from this Bebe lady, they must have been powerful ones. Who knows what the deal is? Maybe it's a sham marriage. Maybe she's got a permanent hall pass."

"Fuck off," Mel said. "That doesn't happen in real life."

"It absolutely does."

"Only for your hookups," Mel shot back.

"Okay, Scarlet Letter." Daniel folded his hands in front of his chest as if in prayer. "Remember the commandment: thou shall not hate on thy friends' sluttiness. Saint Channing Tatum did not gyrate on all those laps in the Magic Mike franchise for you to come at me for sucking more than one dick a week."

Invoking Saint Tatum was sacred in their shared household, so Mel lifted her hands in the air, indicating the subject was dropped.

They began walking south along the avenue, breath misting in the frigid early-morning air. It was dark, save for the light spilling from the windows of the all-night diners and the Christmas lights blinking from the bodega awnings. Mel stuffed her cold hands deep into her coat pockets. TV didn't close for the holidays or do anything so pedestrian as offer Christmas specials, so it was easy to forget that people were celebrating something out in the real world.

Mel made it ten blocks before asking, "Do you think I have to go to this dinner party still? Brunch party? Whatever?"

"Not if you don't want to." Daniel stepped over a suspicious-looking puddle in the middle of the sidewalk. "You can always make up some excuse. No big deal."

A huff of breath left Mel's lips. "But if I flake now, it'll look like I only accepted the invitation because I thought it was—you know. A flirty invitation. And I'm declining because now I know she's not available."

"Isn't that exactly what's happening?"

"Yes, but I can't let them think that I thought it was a flirty invitation!"

"Who cares what they think? If you ditch this party, you'll probably never see them again, so what difference will it make?"

Mel chewed on that, and her lower lip.

"If I go, it could be awkward," she said. "If I don't go, I'll have to live in shame. There's no winning."

"Do you want my advice?" Daniel asked as they turned down their street.

Mel snorted. "Oh, so you're a relationship expert now? I can't recall, are things with Jackson on again or off again?"

"Excuse you! For your information, Jackson and I have a good thing going."

"So good you hook up with other dudes every other week," Mel said with a laugh. In an apartment as small as theirs, it was impossible not to notice the rotating cast of characters that Daniel brought home. Not that Mel was judging—really, she didn't care, and she was definitely not jealous. "I know when I have a good thing going, I go to great lengths to check my Grindr profile on the daily."

She expected Daniel to take a potshot right back at her, rhythm of the patter and all, but when she glanced over at him, his lips were pursed like he'd eaten a whole lemon. Daniel Quince was constructed almost entirely of witty retorts, thick skin, and show tune lyrics, so seeing him exhibit real hurt was an unpleasant shock.

"You know what?" she said, backpedaling. "That's none of my business. Sorry. Tell me your advice." She nudged her shoulder into his arm. "Bless me with your wisdom, Prophet Quince."

When Daniel cracked a smile, Mel knew all was forgiven. He never could hold a grudge, even when Mel ate the last of the Oreos he liked to hide on top of the refrigerator.

"I think you should go to the party," he said. "Several reasons. One: it's free food."

Mel gave a half shrug at that. Valid.

"Two," Daniel continued, "from the brief glimpse I got, I can tell you that woman's outfit was not off-the-rack. So if for no other reason than to see how the other half lives, you should show up. She might own, like, a jaguar or something."

"I don't really care what kind of car someone drives," Mel said.

"No, not the car. The jungle cat."

"How would that be a good thing? Do you want me to get mauled?"

"No, I just think it would be a cool story. I'd dine out on that anecdote for decades." He stuck his fore-, middle, and ring finger into the air in a fan. "Three: if you're worried that a couple of strangers will judge you for changing your mind, then go! Prove that you're totally normal and didn't think some fancy woman was hitting on you. If brunch sucks, you can leave." He made a pair of legs out of two fingers and mimed them prancing along an invisible floor.

"Maybe." Mel trudged up the stoop that led to their building's front door, Daniel right behind her. "I'll take it into consideration." Even though Daniel was essentially repeating back to her the arguments she'd already made to herself—albeit a tad more in-depth—she still wasn't sure. Ever since the divorce, she rarely felt sure about anything.

Mel climbed the stairs to their apartment with a weight in her chest. This could be any night of any week of the last two-plus years: coming home before dawn with Daniel, knees and back aching from a long shift, a long taco-induced nap that stood in for a real sleep schedule, and then up around noon to do it all over again. It wasn't how she'd pictured her life at thirty-three; she was supposed to be more stable, more of an adult. There had been a vague shape in her imagination that included a wife, a house with a yard, maybe a dog. A modest goal, if not a dream.

She unlocked the door and let herself and Daniel into the cluttered living room. Daniel had inherited the apartment from his grandmother, and it was still decorated with Granny Quince's memorabilia, draped gossamer scarves and trailing pothos in macramé hangers, photographs of a young Granny with a beehive hairdo, sharing cigarettes with Warhol and Baldwin. Mel usually didn't mind the decor, but tonight it felt like she was living in someone else's museum. Guilt followed hot on the heels of the thought; Daniel had invited her to live with him out of the kindness of his heart after her divorce. He didn't actually need a roommate, what with the place being rent-controlled, and the second bedroom that Mel was using could have easily been his home gym or something equally luxurious.

Daniel unwound his scarf with a big yawn, hanging it on the antique coat stand that Granny had won from Truman Capote in a poker game, according to family legend. "I think I'm going to turn in. Unless you want to watch a movie?" On nights when they arrived home still keyed up from a busy shift, they often watched something—the Marx Brothers or Singin' in the Rain for the millionth time. Once in a while, that new queer mockumentary with the hot older lesbian.

Mel shook her head as she shrugged out of her coat. "Nah, go get some sleep. I'll see you later."

Daniel kissed his fingers and tossed the sentiment in her direction. He headed down the hall to his bedroom, shedding pieces of his TV uniform as he went. Mel resisted the urge to pick up after him. It was his place, after all.

She collapsed on the ratty burnt-orange-and-umber striped corduroy sofa and rubbed her palm over her shorn head. The buzzed hair was getting long enough to be annoying; she would have to clean it up if she was going to make an appearance at the brunch party.

Was she really going, though? She let her arm flop to her side with a sigh. Maybe Daniel was right. A free meal in fancy digs was a good enough reason to wake up early (for her) on a Sunday.

Plus, Bebe and Kade were a cool couple. Working at Terror Virtue meant Mel saw all sorts of couples. Most seemed to barely tolerate each other, let alone enjoy each other's presence. Mel had noticed the way this couple leaned into each other, the way Bebe lit up when Kade murmured something into her ear. It would make for a nice change of pace, to befriend a pair of interesting people.

Besides, how many other chances to make new friends was Mel going to get? It was almost impossible with her work schedule. And since her ex had kept most of their mutual friends in the divorce, Mel's circle had dwindled to Daniel and—actually, that was about it. Everyone she knew from work was a casual acquaintance at best. They were the kind of people she might share a drink with, but nothing more.

She owed it to herself to try, didn't she?

"I should go," she said aloud. On the wall, the sun-faded photo of Granny Quince seemed to stare into Mel's soul in love bead–tinged judgement. "I will go," Mel amended. "I'm going."

She lifted her hips and dug her phone and Bebe's business card from her back pocket. Better to get this over with now before she changed her mind.

I make an excellent mandarin cordial if you're really interested in upping your mimosa game

There. She'd done the thing.

Did the text sound too flirty? No, she wouldn't obsess over it. It was friendly. Just a reference to their previous conversation.

Mel put her phone on the battered coffee table. It wasn't even 5 a.m., so she didn't expect a response. Normal people were in bed.

Her phone buzzed loudly, making her jump. She grabbed it and saw that Bebe had already double-texted. Full sentences and everything. Interesting.

I am more interested than I could possibly say. Can you share the recipe or will you bring a batch? I assume it's a trade secret, so I lean toward the latter, but your choice.

Followed immediately by:

Here's the address. Can't wait to see you!

A map pin was attached, indicating some corner in—ugh—Tribeca. Mel clicked on the tab showing photos of the location. Sure enough, it was a high-rise condo, the kind with floor-to-ceiling windows and views all the way to the Delaware fucking Water Gap.

Well, now she had to bring the cordial. Otherwise the doorman might not let her past the lobby. She tapped out a reply.

Consider it brought