I come back with my groceries and Whole Foods sushi for our lunches. But after that, I don't see Roz before the end of my shift. So, after work, I get off a stop early on the subway, because Roz was right about one thing: I need to make sure I'll continue to have a roof over my head, Gina or no. So, I take a detour to see the only two people I know who might be able to offer me that.

It's only a few blocks in the direction opposite home, but somehow, it feels like the trek of a lifetime. It's like everyone I pass on the street knows, can tell that I'm here to crawl in on my knees and beg for a place to stay.

Pretty much all of my New York friends are from after college, but I've actually known Kirby McCormick since sophomore year of high school, back before he even came out as Kirby. While I've been sitting not-so-pretty in starving artist-brand unemployment, he's been slaving away at a little coffee shop since he started at CUNY—and graduated, because it turns out psychiatry was not the move for him. Luckily, the health insurance here is great, so his T injections are covered at the very least.

It should be noted that it's also been great for me, because: occasionally discounted coffee.

The front of Deja Brew is painted a dark charcoal grey, the coffee shop's name drawn in a neat, minimalistic font above the entrance. Before my grant money was all spent, I'd come here all the time to write. There's a small cement step before the door that I somehow always manage to trip over. Today's stumble is extra special—somehow, the toe of my shoe manages to catch onto the minuscule ledge. Before I can even see it coming, I tip forward and feel the door's glass against my forehead.

I flinch back immediately and rub my face, squinting at the little oily mark left on the glass. Then I reach out quickly and try to swipe it away with the sleeve of my sweater. All it does is smudge it out, which I decide is acceptable enough. I don't have the energy to do anything better with it. Second time this week that my skull has made a harsh thunk noise, and I'm so over it.

There's a healthy crowd inside the Brew, but thankfully, I don't think anyone noticed my cute little face/glass meet-cute. That is, until I turn to the dark wood counter to my left and make eye contact with Kirby, who's already laughing.

I give him a tight smile. He laughs harder.

My forehead is still throbbing as I walk over to him, trying not to trip a second time. I clutch my tote bag strap with both hands and keep my fake smile plastered on my face, with the hope that my eyes are conveying a silent but deadly warning to a still-chortling Kirby.

"Hey," he says, his voice warm. There's a white dishcloth draped over his shoulder, and his shaggy auburn hair is an intentional mess. "Your forehead alright?"

"Shut up."

"That was amazing. Really. Truly."

"Yeah, well, I hate you. Really. Truly."

Kirby sighs and leans against the counter, the sleeves of his striped blue button-up rolled up to reveal a work-in-progress tattoo sleeve on each arm. "Did you just get off work? Wasn't that a thing?"

"How'd you hear about that?" Even though we don't live too far apart, I usually only see Kirby when he's working, and my savings have dwindled down so much that I couldn't exactly justify coming to visit, at least until I got a job.

Kirby shrugs. "I know everything."

"Gina?"

"Who else?" He at least has the sense to look apologetic—and that's how I know that he knows.

My throat tightens. So what, he knows? I figured he did—Kirby was my friend first, but Gina hit it off with him right away. Even in college, all of my friends kind of became Gina's best friends—which, at the time, was completely fine. It was like she took on the socializing for both of us, a skill I desperately lacked. It was like I still kept in touch with all my old friends, but through her. And for Gina, who knew no one as an out-of-state student, she ended up with access to a built-in community. It was perfect.

Key word was. Now, I'm not sure if Kirby and I are close enough for him to go out of his way in the way I'm asking him to.

I pull out one of the stools tucked beneath the counter and plop my face on my hands. "Sounds about right."

"So, what, did your new boss send you on a coffee run and you thought of my easy-going, charismatic smile? Did you need to see me for a late afternoon cup of murky shit-water? Or did you need a hot barista to vent to? Because, aw, babes, I missed you too."

"Well...." I don't know how to bring it up with him. "It's not really a work-thing."

"Oh, hey, what's up, Marcie. You get fired yet?" Daniel, Kirby's boyfriend, comes up behind him and grabs the dishcloth from off his shoulder. He's somehow managing to hold two oversized mugs in one hand, which, wow. Couldn't be me. I would drop and break one so fast. He dries out both mugs quickly, sets them on the eclectic shelf of mugs behind him, then turns back to me, mimicking Kirby's leaning-against-the-counter position.

I frown, even though it's a welcome diversion. I do not want to ask them for a place to stay. "I didn't get fired! Why would you think that?"

They each give me a pointed look.

Like, okay, they may or may not have a point. If "getting fired" was a job, I'd be employee of the friggin' year.

"I didn't get fired," I repeat. "I just may or may not have made things awkward by telling her that it's okay that she fell asleep on my boobs? Which sounds terrible out of context—"

"It does," Kirby says.

"You sexy scoundrel," Daniel adds.

My face heats up. "No, no, I—Look, it's not even a big deal, I swear. She ... she and I were drinking, and like, she was sleepy, and it's nowhere near as bad as the great panties debacle, and—"

"The great panties what-now?" Daniel asks.

"Oh." Fuck. "I had to touch her underwear. But in a not-weird way, I swear. It was laundry day."

"You were touching her underwear?" Kirby hisses. "Laundry day? Marcie. Marcie. What the fuck is your job?"

"I'm a personal assistant?"

"Do personal assistants do laundry?" Daniel asks, brushing his dark bangs away from his eyes. "I thought they, like, scheduled meetings and bought presents for neglected wives and all that jazz."

"Well, my boss needs her laundry done. And I mean, I'm okay with that. I'm basically getting paid to bask in her presence—I'll gladly take the laundry." I tug nervously at the sleeves of my crewneck, frowning. "It was embarrassing, though. We whacked heads, too. And then the drinking stuff—"

"Ooooh, I'll whack your head," Kirby says. "Wait, no, that doesn't sound as dirty as I thought it would."

"Who are you working for?" Daniel says. "Kirby told me that Gina told him that it was some famous person you're obsessed with."

"Daniel," Kirby mutters. "Ixnay on the Gina-ay. But, oh my god wait, yes, who's the famous person?" He leans forward even more.

I decide to ignore the Gina bit, preparing myself instead to tell them just who my mysterious panties-having boss is. It feels almost scandalous to say it out loud. I can still hardly believe it myself. So, I tilt in more, and they follow suit, and I whisper it: "Rosalind. Lindbergh."

Daniel—normally stoic and sweet—jerks back and lets out a loud, strangled gasp. I glance behind us to see several heads turn toward the counter. "YOU'RE LYING. Kirby, Kirby, she–she's lying."

"Who's that?"

Daniel grabs Kirby by the shoulders, spins him around, and shakes him back and forth. Kirby's expression remains neutral. "Rosalind! Lindbergh! She's my favorite author ever, babe. Like, ever-ever. The book with the polyamorous ghosts? And the one where a cult of female comedians use laugh magic to battle a church-run state? Those are her."

"Oh, okay," Kirby says. His voice is monotone, his brow furled in confusion. He clearly does not understand the gravity of working alongside—or at least underneath—Rosalind Lindbergh.

"You don't understand, Kirbs," Daniel says. "If she asked me out, I think I would have to leave you. I'd die to be her trophy husband. She could step on me. And I'm gay."

"THANK YOU!" I point at him. God, this really is the world's best diversion. Much better than that other thing. "Thank you. My god, she could run me over, and I'd bake her a 'thank you' cake."

"I would willingly give her my vital organs to sell on the black market."

"She could sneeze on—"

"Okay, we get it," Kirby says. "She's hot."

I shake my head. "Understatement. The biggest understatement."

"What is she like?" Daniel's eyes are wide, desperate. I can't blame him. "Is she nice? Is she mean? How does she smell? Does she smell good? I feel like she smells good."

"She smells amazing." I feel wise sitting here, as if I'm giving some sort of sage wisdom. "Like musky coconut and cocoa."

"Stop, I'm dead." There are a few beats of silence, and then his eyes get all wide and panicky once more. "Wait, wait, wait—you tore her dress?"

"You touched her underwear?" Kirby adds, still visibly confused.

Daniel glances at him, then back at me. His eyes are wide. Maybe a little bit manic. "Hey, can we ... can we hold hands? Just for a moment?"

Wordlessly, I offer him my hands, palms up. He grabs them and inhales slowly, eyes closed. "Yes. I have ascended."

Kirby shakes his head, frowning. "You guys are both literally so creepy. And it's not like she hasn't washed her hands since the incident. Right, Marcie?"

"So, is she nice?" Daniel asks, pointedly ignoring his boyfriend's remark.

Said boyfriend frowns. "You've washed your hands. Right, Marcie?"

"Kirby. Of course. And yeah, she's really nice. Really, really nice." I try not to grimace. "But I think I keep fucking it up. I don't know."

"How so?"

"I feel like I just come across as really awkward to her. Like, it's bad. Every time she walks in a room, it's like I have to do the weirdest, most off-putting thing possible."

Kirby takes the dishcloth out of Daniel's hands and drapes it back over his shoulder. "What, like sniffing her panties?"

"I was simply doing my job."

"Panty huffer. And, Daniel, no, do not ask to stroke her nose or some other kind of weird shit."

Daniel rolls his eyes. "Darn." Then his expression lights up. "Wait, wait, you said that she fell asleep on your boobs. What if—"

"Oh my god, Daniel, what the fuck?"

"I am clearly joking. Jesus. Maybe you should read Rosalind's book with the magical comedians. You could use it."

"You could, Kirby. But, anyways, that's what's new with me." I rub my forehead. It's still a little sore from the door. "Besides ... y'know."

Kirby's expression shifts to something akin to outright pity. "Yeah. We know."

"Know what?" Daniel asks, turning to him, his brow twisted in confusion.

Kirby groans.

"Me and Gina broke up," I tell him. "Well. She dumped me."

"In a pretty brutal way, too," Kirby says. "If the story is accurate."

"Oh god. I'm not sure I want to know what her story is."

They glance at each other, then back at me.

I bite the inside of my lip. That doesn't seem good. "What? What is it?"

"It's nothing," Kirby says immediately. Footsteps approach behind me, and he's ripped away to go take the new customer's order.

What has she been telling people? It's been, like, a day. Am I so terrible that she needs to tell everyone some tale where she "brutally" dumped me, and I deserved it? "Hey, Daniel.... Do you think I'm an asshole?" I ask.

Daniel's mouth flattens itself into a tight little line. "I guess, sometimes? Well. A lot of the time, really. But like, not in a bad way. You're not trying to be. It's more like a lack of social awareness or something."

Damn. At least he's honest. It kind of hurts in a small way, I guess. Especially seeing as the both of them are now more Gina's friends than mine. They don't know the asshole stuff she does—did—but I'm sure they hear all about me. I hate how uncomfy that idea is, but I also absolutely despise drama. Even with my ex-girlfriend.

"Just don't overthink it. Relationships end sometimes. It's not the end of the world," Daniel promises, peeking over at the order screen and reaching down to grab an espresso cup from beneath the counter. "You'll both be fine."

I end up not ordering anything to drink. The thought of wasting money I don't have right now suddenly makes me feel sick to my stomach, and I can't bring myself to take any more conversational tag teaming with Kirby and Daniel. Even though I know I have to. Instead, I linger by the counter, waiting for either of them to be available to talk while inwardly steeling myself for any kind of rejection.

Man, they're really gonna hate me for this one.

"Hey, Kirby?" I ask when he finally has a moment. There was a sudden mini-rush that arrived immediately after I did, and so I've spent the better part of fifteen minutes watching Kirby and Daniel soundlessly loop around each other like it's second nature, zipping around the cramped counter space to complete the sudden influx of orders.

He wipes his forehead with the back of his arm, pouring freshly steamed milk into a mug of matcha. "Yeah?"

"So ... did Gina tell you about her little housing ultimatum?"

His expression doesn't change, which speaks volumes. "Maybe. Why?"

I can tell he's dreading the response. It makes me nervous to even tell him, but fuck it. I have to. "Do you think that maybe I could crash on you and Daniel's couch for a bit? Eventually. Once Gina decides she's done staying out at someone else's place and wants the apartment back."

"Oh. Well. Um." He squats down and resurfaces with a can of whipped cream.

Fuck. I'm asking for too much. I know I am. And I feel terrible about it, I really do. But somehow, all I can hear is Roz's voice, insistent in the back of my head. I just want to make sure you have a roof over your head.

If my boss is willing to help me out with this, then maybe my oldest friend in New York would be, too.

"It would only be while I save up," I promise. "You wouldn't—"

"We have a couple roommates," Kirby says after a few moments, focusing on his whipped cream and hot matcha combo. "I'd have to ask them."

"Of course, of course." It's not a yes, but it's not a no, either. "I figured as much."

He nods slowly. "Yeah. Okay. Sure. Let me talk to them and Daniel, but ... as far as I'm concerned, Marcie, you've got a place to stay when the time comes."

A wave of relief washes over me, so strong, so overpowering, that I think I might actually cry. "Thank you," I tell him, my voice cracking in all its earnesty. "Really, Kirby."

He rolls his eyes, reaching behind him to grab matcha powder to sprinkle atop the drink. "Yeah, okay, whatever, don't make a big deal out of it, numbnuts."

I'm smiling now. "Alright, then, I won't, asshole."

"Fuckwad."

"Dipshit."

He finally smiles, shakes his head, and then slides the matcha across the counter. "Here," he says. "On us."

"What?" I usually order this, sure, but ... damn. "Oh, Kirby, you don't have to—"

"Your favorite table just opened up," he says as he crouches back down to put the whipped cream away. I glance behind me to my favorite spot—the one at the circular table next to the window, with the comfy set of vintage armchairs. It's the perfect mix of secluded and people-watchy. "Go write a damn book or something."

"If you weren't utterly and devastatingly homosexual, I would kiss you on the mouth."

"If I weren't utterly and devastatingly homosexual, I still wouldn't let you. You gross me the fuck out."

"With tongue," I add, grabbing the full-to-the-brim matcha. The whipped cream wobbles. "I'd kiss you with tongue, and I'd practically lick your face off."

"I'll rescind my offer of the couch," he warns. "I mean it."

"No, you don't!" I'm already walking off to my favorite spot, my tote bag thumping lightly against my side, the mug of matcha hot in my hands. As soon as I'm sitting down, I take out my laptop and open up my document, scrolling all the way back to the beginning.

I think I want to change a few plot-points for Short-Haired Girl.