Page 78 of Bad Words

“We’re not,” I said. “This was an act of extreme charity.”

“This is actually just me trying to confirm that Selina has friends,” Parker said.

“We’re rare, but we exist,” said Jacob. I could tell he was already warming to Parker, that fucker. “She has high standards.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” said Parker.

Cassie laughed, then broke off with a guilty clearing of her throat.

“It’s fine,” I said. “Parker can be funny, once in a blue moon, when he puts his entire soul into the effort.”

“Exactly,” said Parker. “It’s the same way Selina scrapes up a single moment of kindness.”

Jacob chuckled. “Selina’s very kind. She gives us free books and babysits our kid and reads all the grant stuff I send her within the hour.”

“Jacob,” I said.

“What?”

“You don’t need to”—I made an irritable gesture with my sake glass—“defend my honor.”

“If you say so, killer.” Jacob ruffled my hair. “We’re going to go mingle, but don’t murder each other, please. I hate it when the ball drops and I have to deal with a body.”

“You got it,” said Parker.

Jacob and Cassie filtered back into the crowd as I fixed my hair.

“How do you know those two?” Parker asked.

“Jacob and I went to undergrad together.”

“Does he do that a lot? Mess up your hair?”

“Only when he wants to annoy me.” I narrowed my eyes at Parker. “Don’t get any ideas.”

“I’m not. I like my hands attached to my wrists.”

I suppressed a smile. Synthesizers bounced between us; among the voices, the glassy taps of toasts.

Parker said, “So, you haven’t told anyone that we’ve been talking.”

“No.” I lowered my glass. “What, have you?”

“No.”

The sake was beginning to set in. As Parker glanced over his shoulder toward the windows, I watched the light shift on his forehead, across the curves of his cheekbones. His hair had begun to stray from where he’d pushed it back, a lock scattered over his forehead.

I thought about introducing him to some of Jacob and Cassie’s friends. I was acquainted enough with most of these people to approach them without feeling entirely stiff. They would like Parker, obviously. He would bend over backward to become likable to them. He would ask them questions, smile easily at them. They would think his job was romantic, because it was romantic, being an author. Authors were the people wandering down imaginary roads, and we were the ones watching, drawing attention to the artifice. Critics could be astute, respected, but almost never were we loved.

Yes. I should do it. I should introduce Parker to people whom he would like more than he liked me.

For some reason the idea annoyed me, and I said, “They have a good view from that window,” and moved toward the corner, glancing back occasionally at him following me.

The window was tucked behind a record player and partially hidden by an eight-foot-tall fiddle-leaf fig tree. I rested one shoulder against the glass and looked out at the shining stripe of Manhattan rising above the roofs of the opposite block. Parker did the same.

“So,” he said, “rate this past year on a four-star scale.”

I considered. “Two and a half. It was a good reading year, and I cooked a lot of new recipes, but the past few months have skyrocketed my blood pressure. Thank you for that.”