The Donovans live on the first floor. John is a firefighter. When he’s not on shift, he’s busy with the kids. His wife Erin is a pediatric nurse. They work opposite shifts to save on childcare, yet every time I see them together, they’re smiling.

  I pause outside their door, letting the happiness that spills out into the hallway soak into my bones. The television is on, but I can still make out the voices of both parents. If I had to guess, Erin is headed to work in an hour or so. She probably just woke up and is spending a little time with the kids before she leaves.

  “Come on, Pip,” John says. Piper recently turned four. “It’s time for bed.”

  “Can we fly there?” she asks, her high-pitched voice so sweet.

  I watch her and her siblings on occasion. Once in a while, when one parent is running late and the other has to leave for work, they call me and I’ll pop down to help out. That little girl in particular has a ton of energy and a lot to say.

  My kind of girl, obviously.

  “A jet or a bird tonight?” he replies.

  He never says no. God, what that must be like. When I was growing up, my house was either extremely loud or extremely quiet. Loud because my father was yelling or quiet because I was home alone.

  My father believed children should be seen, not heard. Maybe not even seen, honestly. He left when I was eleven.

  My mother? She fought. Fought with him. Fought to keep him. Berated me for being the reason she was stuck with him.

  “If only you hadn’t been his.” She said it often. As if it was my fault that she cheated on her boyfriend and got knocked up by the man she didn’t want.

  With a breath out, I step back from the Donovans’ door and trudge up the stairs. Thinking about my parents always puts a damper on my mood, so I try not to do it often. Twice in one night is well beyond my usual limit. I typically try not to think of them more than twice in a month.

  The smell of garlic and tomato sauce hits me as I round the steps onto the second floor. The nightly news blares from inside the apartment, but Rosalie is louder.

  “That boy was always bad news,” she says in that thick Italian Boston accent that always makes me smile.

  “Huh?” her husband Nick says.

  I try not to laugh as they bicker. It’s the same argument they always have. She tells him that he needs hearing aids. He tells her he can hear her just fine.

  “You can’t hear me at all.”

  “Exactly. Just like I like it.”

  She curses at him in Italian, and then the sound of the TV cuts out.

  Shit. Now that the building is silent, I have to tiptoe by their door. I’ve almost made it to the next set of stairs, the floorboards barely creaking, when the door swings open and I’m yanked inside their cozy apartment.

  “Have you eaten?” Rosalie asks. “You don’t look like you’ve eaten. Nick, doesn’t Savannah look hungry? Go get her a drink while I make her a plate.”

  Her hair is so blond it’s nearly white, but her eyebrows are thick and dark. As she surveys me, they rise in excitement. She’s always excited. Sometimes it’s from anger, sometimes because she’s been given the opportunity to feed another person. Either way, her energy is always high. I absolutely love it. Even the anger. This woman’s ire is rarely mean-spirited. Or maybe I just like the sound of her voice when she rants in Italian.

  Nick grumbles from the couch. Then he heaves himself forward. It takes him three tries to stand up, but when he does, he breaks into a face-splitting smile. His hair is black with streaks of silver. His mustache too. He wears suspenders, a button-down shirt, and pressed pants every day. He also reeks of cheap cologne and garlic. Always.

  “Chianti?” He shuffles to the bar where he’s always got a jug of red wine.

  “I’m really not hungry or thirsty,” I tell them. All I want is to climb into my bed and prepare for tomorrow’s meeting with Sienna.

  But turning them down is pointless. I’ve never made it out of their apartment without indulging. Not that it’s a hardship. No one makes a meatball like Rosalie. Or a zeppole. Zeppole are my ultimate indulgence. The powdered sugar. The fried dough. The ricotta custard filling.

  Just thinking about them makes my mouth water. I search her kitchen, looking for evidence of a fresh batch. I have to do it covertly, though, because if she catches me and she doesn’t have any on hand, she’ll insist on making a batch, and I’ll be here all night.

  “None of that.” She waves a hand and scurries to the stove, where a pot of red sauce is still simmering. She doesn’t microwave food. Hell, she doesn’t even own a microwave. While I live on frozen food.

  Within seconds of entering the apartment, I’ve been shooed into a kitchen chair that’s covered in plastic that scrunches as I settle, and a heaping plate of pasta, meatballs, and ricotta, along with a piece of bread is placed in front of me.

  Nick slides a glass of wine across the table and settles opposite me. Then the two of them watch me, eagerly waiting for me to take my first bite.

  I know the drill. I pick up my silverware and cut into a meatball, savoring the flavor. When I plaster on a smile, telling them how delicious it is—it really is, despite my lack of excitement—they launch into their usual line of questioning, talking over one another.

  “How was your day, amore?” Rosalie asks as Nick says, “Did you take that car service again?”

  That car service is Uber, and even though it’s been around for decades and every driver is vetted and tracked by their app, he still swears taxis are safer.

  “Yes, I took an Uber home⁠—”

  Nick tsks at that.

  “And my day was good. I spent it with the girls.”

  Rosalie nods, her nearly white curls held in place by a ridiculous amount of hairspray. “What about that boy you went out with last week?” She looks at Nick. “The mechanic you set her up with. What’s his name?”

  “Alfonso.” Nick angles forward, scrutinizing me. “He says you canceled.”

  “I’m not dating.” I shovel another bite of food into my mouth, cursing myself for hesitating at their door. I should have rushed up to my apartment before they figured out I was home.

  By “not dating,” what I mean is I’m not dating Rosalie’s cousin’s nephew or their godson’s grandson or Nick’s barber’s best friend’s son. The Donadios mean well, but none of those men are my type.

  I’m sure there are good men out there. Men like John Donovan on the first floor. Some might even be related to the Donadios or one of their acquaintances. But I’m not meant for that kind of relationship. I wouldn’t know what to do with it if I found it.

  I like my quiet life upstairs. My girls’ nights. My vibrators.

  I’m far less likely to be disappointed by others if I stick to relying only on myself.

  “She’s not dating,” Rosalie parrots, shaking her head.

  “She just hasn’t met him,” Nick says to her, like I’m not even here.

  “No, she hasn’t met her Nico.” With a warm smile, she brushes her hand against his cheek.

  They’ve been married for sixty-two years, and still, he looks at her with pure affection and she touches him like she can’t help it.

  That doesn’t seem like the worst thing in the world.

  With a shake of my head, I focus on my food. Unlike Sutton, I don’t believe that a love like that is bound to find me.

  THREE

  SAVANNAH

  Calliope’s Column

  Why sex doesn’t have to involve love…

  “Delete.” I jab the backspace over and over until the page is blank again. “Why I suck at writing sex columns.” I type the words into the headline with a roll of my eyes and delete that too. Stating the obvious won’t save this column.

  When I arrived this morning, I found a calendar invite from Cat, my boss, in my inbox. The subject of the meeting she scheduled for Monday? The Calliope column. The writing is on the wall. If I don’t come up with something brilliant before then, she’s gonna can it.

  Josie showed me the ad revenue from the last quarter, and my low numbers mean it’s more difficult to attract ads. If the numbers don’t change, there’s no softening the blow. I’ll be out of a job.

  “Fuck.” With a red painted nail between my teeth, I bite down. I can’t lose this job. Unlike my friends, I don’t have family around to help while I’m in flux. I left home at eighteen and never returned. My mother calls me for money after she spends all her earnings at the casino or the bar.

  One would think a woman who’s worked in a casino for twenty-five years would know that the house always wins. She swears the money she spends is an investment because eventually one of the big spenders at the tables will fall for her, and then she’ll be set for life.

  Maybe if she had even one redeemable quality outside her still slim figure and oversized breasts, someone would be interested in more than a weekend.

  I certainly couldn’t spend more than a couple of days in her presence. Fortunately, she doesn’t guilt me into coming home for the holidays or anything like that. Oh no. She’s always got plans, and in the four years I’ve been in Boston, she hasn’t made the trip to see me once.

  My apartment might be small, but rent is high in this city. Without this job, I’d be lucky to hold on to it for three months.

  Unease swirls in my stomach.

  Nope. We’re not going there. I cannot return to Vegas.

  “What am I going to write about?” I say aloud.

  “What a great question.” Josie pops up on the other side of the half wall of my cubicle, a bright smile on her face. “And I happen to have an answer.”

  One thing I love about Josie is that even though she grew up around immense wealth, her style doesn’t scream traditional Jolie like every other girl in this office. Most of the women here are the definition of a pick-me girl. They wear the most expensive designers and go broke doing it. Josie, on the other hand, loves thrifting. She couldn’t care less who made a piece, as long as she likes it. Right now she’s wearing tight purple leather pants few people could pull off with a cream fringe vest over a black leotard. Her strawberry-blond hair is pulled to the side in a loose French braid, and the pretty freckles dotting her cheeks and the bridge of her nose act as a better blush than any I’ve seen on the market.

  I wave her into my cubicle. “Don’t just stand there, talk.”

  Every bit of wall space around my desk is covered. One wall has an oversized calendar where I keep track of every plan Addie makes for us. And her games. Since it’s her last season in the PWHL, we’re even more dedicated to going to as many as we can.

  The opposite wall is adorned with Post-its in a variety of colors, each with a random idea written on it.

  I glared at them when I sat down this morning, frustrated that not a single one sparked any kind of motivation to write. The other wall is plastered with pictures of me with the girls over the last few years.

  The newest addition is a photo of the four of us jumping off the pier in Monhegan, Maine. It’s from this summer, when we stayed at Sutton’s parents’ cottage for a long weekend.

  It’s taken from behind, and my ass is ginormous in comparison to the other girls, but still, I love the image. The water is ice cold even in August, but Sutton acted like it was warm.

  Josie hops up on the edge of my desk, tugging her oversized turquoise bag onto her lap, and pulls out a photo album. “Last night after you girls left, I was searching for a book in my dad’s library, and I came across this.” She holds up the green leather album and wiggles it.

  I roll back a couple of inches. “Listen, I know they aren’t biologically your parents, but if that is like a couple’s boudoir photo shoot or something, then I’m gonna side-eye the shit out of you.”

  She scowls. “Ew. That’s—” She shakes her head, closes her eyes, and blows out a breath. “You know what? I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer, pervert.”

  I shrug. “Listen, I don’t believe in yucking anyone’s yum, but that would be⁠—”

  “Gross.”

  I snort. I love riling her up. “Plenty of women our age would kill for a shot with Daddy War.”

  Seriously, the man is a Bolts legend. Not only was he the best captain the team’s ever had, he’s got his wife’s name and their wedding date inked onto his hand. I’ve heard rumors he has ink in honor of her elsewhere too, but I would never tease Josie about that. Besides, I’m sure it’s just urban legend. Who in god’s name would tattoo their damn balls?

  Josie pushes the album back into her bag and stands. “You know what? You don’t deserve my help.”

  I lurch from my chair and clutch her arm before she can leave. “No, I’m sorry. You know I have diarrhea of the mouth. I can’t help it. It’s a disease.”

  With a roll of her eyes, she plops back down. “If you weren’t so pretty, I’d ditch you.”

  I bat my lashes. “So my boobs and pretty eyes make me good eye candy? Is that why you put up with me?”

  She barks out a laugh. “Something like that.” Setting the now open album on my desk between us, she points to the first picture. “This is my parents’ wedding album, creeper.”

  As I take in the image, my heart lifts. “Aw, they look so young.” I spin the album and study the picture of Ava in a white winter jacket in front of city hall. Daddy War is in a simple black suit. The sleeves of his Oxford are rolled, exposing his tatted arms as he cups her face and kisses her in front of a burgundy Rolls-Royce SUV with a license plate that reads Mrs. War.

  I snort. “Fancy.”

  Josie smiles softly at the picture, eyes glassy, and brushes her fingers against the page. “That was the day we became a family,” she says, voice filled with emotion.

  I have to look away from her. I love her story. The miracle of how her parents chose her. But sometimes it’s hard to think about. Because no one in my life has ever chosen me.

  With a forced smile, I lift my chin. I don’t need anyone to choose me. I’m choosing myself. “So why are we taking a trip down memory lane?”

  Sniffing, she turns the page. “Because of this.” She taps a piece of paper that’s been glued into the album. It’s yellowed a little with age and is crinkled like it was balled up at some point but then smoothed back out.

  “The Good Wife’s Guide,” I read aloud. I skim the article quickly, noting the illustration of a woman wearing a dress and apron, circa 1955, according to the date at the top. She’s holding a plate of pancakes and wearing a blinding smile.

  The “guide” makes me twitch. It’s absurd. “Prepare yourself. Take fifteen minutes to rest so you’ll be refreshed when he arrives.”

  My eyes practically bulge out of my head.

  “Put a ribbon in your hair.”

  Josie’s lips are twitching.

  “Wait.” I stab the page with one finger. “Why is your mother’s signature at the bottom of this?”

  Ava Warren. The words almost bleed into the page, the strokes wild.

  Josie giggles. “I have no fucking clue, and honestly, I almost don’t want to know—” She shakes her head. “Listen, things were volatile between the two of them back then. They did a good job of hiding it from us, but we all knew how much my mom couldn’t stand my dad.”

  “But she’s so kind.” I shake my head and flip through more pictures.

  There are years of memories documented here. It’s clear in every image that Tyler Warren has always been head over heels in love with his wife.

  I glance back up at my friend. “What does this have to do with my column?”

  She bites her lip, her eyes flashing with excitement. “I was waiting for you to ask. I think you should write an article like this—about dating.”

  “I do write about dating.” Confusion washes over me. I love Josie, but I don’t have time for riddles or brainstorming ideas that already aren’t working.

  “No, you write about sex. You don’t date.”

  I tilt my head back and forth. “Okay, I’ll give you that.”

  “But you’d be good at it.”

  My stomach flips, but I ignore the reaction. “Oh, would I? And why is that?”

  She scoffs. “Because you don’t care.”

  It’s a bit harsh, but I guess the truth can be sometimes. And once again, she isn’t wrong, so I go with it. “You want me to write a column about how I don’t care about the dates I go on or the outcome?” I frown. “I don’t see how that’s going to bring in ad revenue.”

  “People our age are bucking traditional marriage and dating. They’re choosing to have kids with friends and live in mom communes instead of putting themselves out there.”

  “Smart.” Smiling, I lean back and cross my arms.

  “Not for someone like Sutton.” She flips back to the article and taps it. “There are no longer columns out there that focus on falling in love. No tips for how to spot the jackasses and how to make relationships work.”

  With a sigh, I throw out my hands. “Okay, but I don’t know how to do any of those things.”

  She sits up like I’ve made her point.

  I’m so confused.

  “Right,” she says. “But because of Sutton, you know what not to do.”

  Slowly, I straighten, my mind whirling.

  Josie points at me, her smile painfully bright. “See? It’s brilliant. We’ve watched our best friend try and fail at finding a relationship over and over. But what if you showed her that she isn’t the problem? It’s what she’s doing.”

  “A column on how not to date,” I say slowly, my wheels already turning.

  She purses her lips. “Or a how-to in reverse.” She hums, trying that idea on for size. “You do everything wrong, and in turn help your readers avoid common mistakes.”

  “And Sutton,” I say, letting the idea really percolate.

  Josie snaps the album closed. “And Sutton.”

  “So I date a bunch of guys, do what she does, and get dumped, repeatedly.” I shrug. “Works for me.”

  “Yes. An ‘it’s not him, it’s you.’” She tilts her head and scrunches her nose. “Kind of.”