“Are you going?” I ask her.

“Yes. But not with Mason. I had a perfectly good job interview lined up for him at my cousin’s restaurant, and he tells me he ‘has something else in the works.’ And I’m like, are you kidding me dude? It better not be anything illegal, because you told me you were done with all that shit, and now you’re suddenly too busy for a serving job that makes a hundred and fifty in tips a night? That doesn’t make sense . . .”

I’m listening to Patricia, but my ears perk up at the first part of her rant. Mason has something in the works? So does Nero, as far as I can tell. Something at the Alliance Bank. It doesn’t take a genius to guess what that might be.

“He wanted your number, by the way,” Patricia says.

“Mason?” I say in confusion.

“No. Nero. Mason asked me for it, and I know it was to give it to him.”

Nero asked for my phone number?

He didn’t call it. Didn’t send a text, either.

But maybe he wanted to . . .

“Did something happen after the race?” Patricia asks me.

“No!” I say, a little too quickly.

“Are you sure?” I can hear the disbelief in her voice, and the teasing tone that means she’s smirking on the other end of the line. “The way he dragged you out of there like a caveman . . . kinda hot, wasn’t it?”

“He was just keeping me from getting arrested,” I say, glad that Patricia can’t see me blushing.

“But why, though? He’s not exactly the chivalrous type . . .”

“I dunno. I guess we’re friends. In a way.”

“Friends that have each other’s babies . . .?”

“No!”

Patricia is laughing, enjoying having something to tease me about. Usually, she’s the only one with a dramatic romantic life. This might be her only chance to stick it to me.

“My god, girl,” she says, “if you end up fucking him, you have to tell me what it’s like.”

A little shiver runs down my spine.

“I’m not doing that,” I say quietly.

“Why not? It’s like climbing Everest, or skydiving. My friend Jess did it and she said—”

“I don’t want to hear about it!” I say sharply. I can’t stand hearing about Jessica or any other girl that Nero’s been with. I’m burning with jealousy, and he doesn’t even belong to me. Not even a little bit.

This is why I could never date him, even if I wanted to. It would eat me alive.

“Sorry,” Patricia says, chastened.

“No, I’m sorry,” I say. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m just wound up. You know my dad—”

“Yeah,” Patricia says gently. “I saw his file. I’m really sorry about that. You want me to bring over some dinner or something? I make this amazing soup with rotisserie chicken and carrots . . .”

“I think he went to bed already. Thank you, though. That’s really kind.”

“Oh. Well . . . come over here and we can get ready for the bonfire together,” Patricia says. “Have a glass of wine before we go and relax a little.”

“Sure,” I say. “That sounds really nice.”

“Okay. Ten o’clock, then.”

“Alright. Thanks, Patricia,” I say.

“Of course. See you soon.”

I drive over to Patricia’s apartment on the corner of Willow Street at 9:45 p.m. I’m early, because I wasn’t exactly sure how long it would take me to get here.

She lives on the twelfth floor of a pretty white brick building. I take the elevator up, then tap on her door. She opens it immediately, wearing a pink robe and fluffy slippers.

“Hey!” she says. “I’m not dressed yet.”

“That’s okay! I’m early.”

I follow her inside. I haven’t seen her place before—it’s clean and bright, and decorated in that way that some people seem to instinctively understand, where everything doesn’t match exactly, but it all coordinates to make the place look classy and comfortable, and like an actual home. She has a large bookshelf in the living room, with all the books arranged by the color of their covers, so they run down the shelves like a rainbow, from red to violet.

“Have a seat!” Patricia says cheerfully.

She gestures toward a spotless white couch with blue Aztec pillows. I don’t know if I’m supposed to move the pillows or sit on them. Also, I’m scared of smudging the couch or spilling the glass of wine Patricia hands me.

“Your apartment’s so nice,” I tell her. “How long have you been here?”

“About a year.”

“Jesus. I’ve lived in my place almost my whole life and I think we have like, maybe one picture up.”

Patricia laughs. “I always told myself I’d have my own place, no roommates. With a fireplace, a nice shoe collection, and a view.”

She pulls back the gauzy curtains so I can see out the window.

“Check that out,” she says proudly.

Sure enough, between the various buildings, she has a corridor view down to Lincoln Park.

“Absolutely perfect,” I say.

Patricia takes a sip of her wine, looking out at the green treetops with satisfaction.

“That’s why I always liked you,” she says to me. “You were a hard worker. So was I. We knew what we had to do. I don’t think Mason’s ever gonna grow up and be somebody I can count on.”

“He cares about you, though,” I say.

“I know,” Patricia says. “But I keep trying to change him. And you know that never works in the end.”

“You’d know better than me,” I say, taking a gulp of my wine. “I think my longest relationship lasted a month.”

“Why is that?” Patricia asks, setting down her wine on the coffee table. “You know you’re beautiful, Camille. Much as you try to hide it.”

“I dunno.” I shake my head, too embarrassed to meet her eyes. “Just busy with work and family stuff.”

“It’s okay to be selfish, sometimes,” Patricia says. “My whole family’s a fucking mess. That didn’t stop me going after what I want. I’m going to keep working. Keep saving money. Make something of myself. If they want to stay in the same cycle forever, that’s their problem.”

“That makes sense . . .” I say, twisting the slender stem of my wineglass between my fingers. “It’s complicated for me . . . Vic and my dad need my help. And they deserve it. My dad always worked super hard. He’s just unlucky.”

Patricia nods sympathetically.

“Well!” she says. “You can have some fun tonight, anyway. Did you bring clothes to change into?”

“No . . .” I say, looking down at my jeans and t-shirt. “I was gonna wear this.”

“To the beach?” She shakes her head at me, then grabs me by the hand and pulls me toward her bedroom. “Come on, you dummy. You can borrow something of mine.”

Patricia’s closet is as nicely organized as the rest of her apartment. She flips through the hangers, pulling out a few items to hold them up in front of me, then putting them back again. Eventually she takes out a printed romper that reminds me of the pillows on her couch.