Still, don’t mess with Texas.

  It’s just after eleven when I walk into my building. While the elevator climbs to the fourth floor, I check my GPS to see if Imani’s home. She is, which means her date must’ve ended at a decent hour. Ten bucks says she’s curled up in bed listening to some ASMR podcast. There’s something nice about coming home when the building’s quiet and everyone’s retired to bed for the night. I approach our unit, punch in the pin code, and the lock clicks loose.

  The door creeps open to a dark apartment. That’s strange. Imani always leaves a light on for me. Gripping my pepper spray can a little tighter, I steady my glasses and step inside. A stark light spills out from the open refrigerator, and a chill sweeps over me. Huh? How could she have forgotten to—

  I catch a foreboding glimpse and gasp. A broad-chested man in a black-and-white-striped shirt glares back at me with his big gray eyes. What the . . .

  A burglar?

  Are we being burgled?

  Still armed, I aim my loaded can at the intruder. He gulps, face morphing to a panic-stricken gape. Good. I’m glad he’s scared because I haven’t exactly tested my weapon before (a terrible decision in hindsight). Dammit! Why isn’t there a spray range with Ted Bundy cardboard targets, pepper-proof masks, and badass songs like “Heads Will Roll” blasting overhead?

  My mind races as fast as my heart, and it’s painfully obvious that I’m not at all prepared for this. I press on anyway. “Stay back or I’ll spray the shit out of you!”

  Yeah, Olivia. I’m sure he’s shakin’ in his boots now.

  He steps away from the fridge, yelling back in some kind of guttural gibberish I can’t understand.

  “Now get out! Shoo!” I gesture with my free hand, getting the sense that I’ve been atrociously misinformed of how to deter a cat burglar.

  He backs into the hall with no intention of escaping. “Oh. No. You. Don’t!” I hit the trigger and a pitiful foamy spew sound emerges. Not the heart-stopping hiss I had expected.

  Mother fu . . .

  I shake the can and shoot again only to hear another measly squirt. My nose crinkles, stinging something fierce from the peppery stench. The intruder shouts incomprehensibly, shielding his face with the crook of his elbow.

  “What in the hell?” Imani’s voice cuts through the scene as she flips the light switch. With her fists balled at her hips, she stands firmly in her black nightgown and matching satin robe.

  I screw up my eyes and rub my nose. “Imani, run! This guy’s robbing us!”

  He stomps her way, uttering that gobbledygook once again. This time with overly animated hand gestures. In the illuminated apartment, the man appears more human and less creature of the night. Wait a second . . . He’s not speaking gibberish. It’s German.

  She raises a commanding hand. “Calm down. He’s with me.”

  “Huh?” I guess the horny heels strike again. Still, I didn’t expect her to bring anyone home. She prefers to love ’em and leave ’em at their place, keeping her bedding clean. So yeah, a robbery seemed more plausible.

  “Yes, Olivia. Stand down.” Her stare shifts to my still-aimed pepper spray. I lower my poor excuse for protection while Imani turns to her fine foreigner and speaks to him in his native tongue. What are they saying? After a moment, he shoots me a look and stomps back into her bedroom in a huff.

  “You okay?” she asks.

  With a hand on my heart, I could melt into a puddle of relief right about now. “Yeah.” Gotta love a girl who’s concerned for her friend even when said friend attempts to assault her date. But that’s what we do. She’s my penguin—a term of endearment we started using way before everyone started calling their besties my person. Why penguin? Well, they mate for life, and while we don’t mate, we are forever mates.

  We met in our junior year at Highland High. She was an army brat who spent half her life on a U.S. military base in Germany and the other half in the States. Her newly retired father took an oil job in Midland of all places. Since she knew no one, and I was desperate for any insight as to what life was like outside of Texas, we became fast friends. To avoid babysitting one of her younger siblings, she’d escape to my house, where we were free to scarf down stovetop quesadillas and watch as many Chappelle’s Show reruns on DVR as we wanted. We followed each other to UT in Austin for undergrad. When it came time for law school, I stayed in the Berlin of Texas and Imani left for New York, which made my decision to move here that much easier.

  Imani moseys over to the scene of the crime and grabs a glass from the cabinet. “I meant to text you that I had company but, um, I was a little busy.”

  “More like gettin’ busy.”

  She does her best to hide a bashful smile but no dice.

  I set my bag down, adjust my glasses, and toss the pepper spray can into the garbage. “So where did you pick up the Hamburglar?”

  “Be nice, Liv.”

  “I’m just sayin’. With that shirt? It’s like he just walked off the set of Jailhouse Rock.”

  She indulges me in a little laugh. I’ll take it. “His name is Lukas. He’s from the Frankfurt office.”

  “Makes sense.” I lean on the cool stone breakfast bar between us, eager to get the rest of the details.

  “We had a few drinks. One thing led to another . . .” Isn’t that how it always happens? You’re having a friendly drink and before you know it your bra’s dangling from some guy’s lampshade and you’re screaming, Ja, ja, JA! (For those of you who don’t know, that’s yes in German—I picked up that much.)

  “Ooh, you did the nasty with him,” I tease, gyrating my body like we’re back in eleventh grade.

  “Girl, you don’t even know.” She widens her eyes as if she’s about to spill the tea. “Boy can make my body talk!”

  “In what language?” I ask, and she shoots me a sassy pursed-mouth stare. “Does he speak any English?”

  “Only a few words, but they’re all the right ones.”

  I roll my eyes, finally feeling the adrenaline rush of the evening simmer down. “Should I get a hotel?” I’d prefer not to hear my BFF enjoy her German boy toy all night.

  She waves a carefree hand. “No, Liv, you’re good. There’s no way he can go again.”

  “How many times has it been?” I say out of the side of my mouth even though I know he’s not listening to our conversation from the other room enough to understand it.

  She lifts a finger for a count of one, then two, then three.

  “Damn! For you or for him?”

  She nods in the direction of the bedroom. “Him, for me it’s been . . .” She holds up a full five-fingered hand. My jaw drops. “Try not to hate me.”

  “I never could.” Though, I am envious of her orgasmextravaganza. I haven’t had one since I came to New York. I’m not talking about a multiple-orgasm sexfest. I mean any orgasm. It’s true. Whether I’m alone or with someone, it never shows up. But I’m busy. By the time I get home from my twelve-hour days, how can I expect my body to give any more? I’m sure things will bounce back when I have only one career to manage instead of two. At least I hope so.

  “So how was the show?” she asks, and I immediately think of Nick’s smile.

  “So good. The crowd was awesome. Imani, I’m telling you. This is what I should be doing.” I breathe out a sigh as my gaze wanders to the ceiling, imagining a scene I’ve thought of a million times—just me and a mic, onstage, thousands of people in the audience laughing as I land joke after joke after joke. I fantasize about seeing my name on a marquee and making friends with my comedic heroes. The ones who are still alive at least. Maybe I’d have time for an actual relationship with someone who gets it. Someone who gets me. Maybe someone with a face, and sense of humor, like Nick.

  Imani’s eyes soften. “Liv, that’s great. You’re like . . . glowing.”

  “Well, I sorta met a guy too,” I say playfully.

  “Really? Who?”

  “He’s another stand-up.”

  “Are you going to see him again?”

  “I’m not sure. He’s on the road all the time anyway.” Unfortunately. “Well, you better get back to the Hamburglar.”

  “I just hope he doesn’t snore.”

  “Yeah, all the good ones have sleep apnea.”

  She lets out one of those too-tired-to-laugh laughs. “G’night.”

  “Night. Sorry about the pepper spray.”

  “Don’t be. You’re my penguin.” She lays her hand gently on mine and gives it a little squeeze, forgiving me for pepper-spraying her German sex-god guest.

  Five

  After a long hot shower, I emerge from our tiny white-tiled bathroom, steam spilling out into the hallway. My dark, damp hair is crimped from the towel-dry because it’s too late to run the dryer. I never sleep well with the smell of comedy club lingering in the strands of my hair.

  The sound of Imani’s giggle seems to slip beneath the crack of her closed bedroom door as I pass it on the way to my bedroom. It echoes out into the apartment and I freeze. Muffled voices grow steady. There’s movement too. So much for keeping it quiet.

  Screeeeech.

  Are they dragging the chair across the floor? Oh, Lord. There’s only one reason to rearrange furniture at this hour. Good. For. Them. Welcome to New York roommate life, where everyone’s listening to everyone’s everything all the time. I roll my eyes, hurry to my room, and close the door. Imani might be my penguin but I can’t listen to whatever sexual acrobatics she and the German Hamburglar are experimenting with now.

  I yank my phone from the charger and dig in my nightstand for a pair of headphones. If I were smart, I’d pull up a meditation podcast and allow five minutes of deep breathing to lull me unconscious. But instead I’ll indulge in my favorite pastime—stand-up comedy.

  Curled up on one side, I prop up my phone on the nightstand next to my glasses, careful not to yank the headphone cable. A few feel-good jokes should release the right neurochemical cocktail for rest and relaxation. My new favorite stand-up special begins. No matter how many times I’ve seen it, it never gets old. There’s something comforting about watching a comedy special in the dark when everyone else is asleep, or busy, in Imani’s case.

  On my summer breaks as a teen, I’d stay up late in bed sipping on sweet tea, the fan blowing on my feet kicked out of the covers, and watching specials on The Comedy Channel or HBO. All while trying not to wake my dad with my laughter. My favorites were Margaret Cho, Wanda Sykes, Judy Gold, and Chris Rock. Little did I know it was the caffeine in the tea that was keeping me up. It was so much fun discovering comedians for myself and developing my own taste in stand-up.

  I carried that tradition into my college years but by then the stand-ups weren’t enough to keep me company. I longed for someone—a man to lie next to. Someone to laugh at all the same jokes with. It’s a rare thing, you know, a shared sense of humor. Trust me, I’ve looked. For some reason I always ended up dating guys who liked stand-ups that just don’t do it for me. But since I know the comedy grind, you won’t catch me trashing anyone.

  Now this special streaming on my phone totally does it for me. Not to mention how inspiring it is to see a woman who’s not much older than me produce her own hour-long special that no one can stop talking about. Hello, goals!

  I try to fight my heavy lids with a laugh while Ali Wong cracks jokes about trapping her husband and mistaking hot homeless men for hipsters. Soon Ali’s voice is in my head but my mind drifts beyond consciousness.

  * * *

  —

  Sirens blare down the street, alerting me awake to a sun-filled room. I suck in a deep inhale, rub the crust out of my eyes, and attempt to wet my desert-dry mouth with my tongue.

  Shit. What time is it?

  With a plastic headphone stuck to the side of my face, I blink my eyes wide and pull the cable, reeling my phone over. Uh-oh. I was supposed to be at the office ten minutes ago. I sit straight up like I’ve just been administered a double shot of espresso intravenously. Patting around the nightstand for my glasses, I shoot off a panicked text to Imani and scramble out of bed.

  OLIVIA: I overslept. Why didn’t you wake me up?

  Sometimes we act as each other’s backup alarms. Her more than me since I’m the one always running on fewer hours of sleep.

  IMANI: I left early. You want me to cover for you?

  Since she’s in a different department, there’s not much she can do. Scrubbing my molars with a toothbrush in one hand, I tap out a response with my other.

  OLIVIA: Thanks but I got it.

  It’s a good thing I started that food poisoning rumor. It’ll make the perfect alibi for my tardiness. Besides, why is arriving at nine a.m. considered late? At the law firm of Whitley, Bauer, Carey, and Klein, come in past eight and the partners look at you like you’re rolling in past noon with sneakers on. Maybe it’s because I’m from take your time Texas but I don’t understand what’s so glamorous about the seventy-hour workweek grind. I don’t care how many vitamin B–infused green juices you chug a day, we’re not machines. I do it now only as a necessary evil.

  I fly into work just after nine, carrying my nearly empty twenty-ounce travel mug. No time to stop for coffee, so I had to make it the old-fashioned way—at home. Passing through the halls to get to my office, I expect the usual nice of you to finally join us glares. Instead, no one makes eye contact with me. It’s like they’re giving me the silent treatment. Nah, it’s probably in my head. I am the teensiest bit self-conscious since this is the fourth time I’ve been late in the past two weeks. But who’s counting?

  At my desk, files are stacked haphazardly in one corner, the slate-colored phone cord is tangled up in itself, and my company-issued laptop waits to be opened. Everything is exactly as I left it except for one small detail—a blinding, Day-Glo yellow Post-it stuck to my coffee-stained ceramic mug.

  See me ASAP—W.

  W. for Whitley, my boss. Uh-oh. His handwriting does not look happy.

  Six

  Shit,” I mutter. Hope I’m not in trouble. Eh, it’s not like I’ve monumentally screwed something up. Well, not to my knowledge. And there wasn’t anything alarming when I read through my emails on the subway earlier. I snatch the note off my computer and crush it in my hands as I head for his office. The door’s open, so I knock on the frame. Whatever this is about I’ll smooth it over with a smile the way I always do. Plus everyone knows girls who wear glasses aren’t troublemakers. At least not according to mainstream television.

  “Good morning, Mr. Whitley. You wanted to see me?” Good, Olivia. Keep it cheery. Easy breezy does it.

  Boss man looks up from his desk, straining to smile. Part of me wants to cheer him on like he’s a baby pulling himself up for the first time—Come on, Mr. Whitley, you can do it. Almost there! “Yes, Olivia. Please come in. Take a seat.”

  I do as I’m asked, smoothing out my skirt before I plop down on one of the russet-colored leather chairs. He sets his silver fountain pen on his desk and leans forward, resting on his elbows like something bad happened. Maybe someone died and that’s why it’s so weird around here. Oh, no. Was it Fawn? Did she choke on a shrimp when she lied for me? No, that can’t be it. I got a message from her this morning.

  “You missed the Fenwick dinner last night,” he says.

  I smile, keeping my tone gentle. “Yes. I’m sure Fawn mentioned I had a terrible bout of food poisoning yesterday evening. But according to her, the meeting went perfectly well without me.”

  “Yes, I heard as much too.”

  “Great, then I’ll follow up with Fenwick this morning.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” he says, like he’s gladly removing something from my plate and encouraging me to relax, go on vacation. Not that I’ve had a chance to travel past the tristate area since I started working at this firm.

  “Why is that?”

  Mr. Whitley stares at me for a few seconds, but it feels like an eternity. What? What is it? Finally, he opens his mouth. “It’s come to my attention that in the past several months you’ve been showing up late, leaving early, and, more concerning, missing deadlines.”

  C’mon, man. Like three deadlines. Surely, that’s not so bad.

  “With all due respect, Mr. Whitley, I primarily oversee commercial real estate contracts. It’s not like we’re litigating murder trials.”

  “See!” He points a firm finger at me. “That attitude right there. You’re not taking this job seriously. You’re not taking yourself seriously.”

  Sheez. What’s with the hostility? All this over nothing.

  “I’m not taking myself seriously?” I say.

  “That’s right. Now I understand that you’re young and you have other . . . interests.” Whitley has to be referring to stand-up. It’s no secret around here that I’m a comedian. Hell, three p.m. at the coffee machine is basically my own personal open mic night. Not to mention, I got them to hire me as the entertainment for the holiday party last year. I wrote some killer jokes about the firm. Now, those were some big laughs. A pretty big paycheck too. My boss continues, “And it’s hindering your work.”

  “Can you be more specific?” This is a little trick I learned in law school. It throws the ball right back at them and lets you listen out for any holes in their claim.

  “Yes.” He pauses as if quickly collecting his thoughts. “I don’t think you’re a good fit for Whitley, Bauer, Carey, and Klein.” Can’t argue with that. “I’m sorry, Olivia, but we have to let you go.”