"Yes, a big, fat, stupid crush, but we were also friends. Practically best friends like Claire and me." I recall early morning runs, lazy rainy afternoons, the way we'd find excuses to be together, to touch each other, to tease, to joke, and to run off on some important mission so we could be alone.

  "But then when Claire died—never mind." I sniff, turning away.

  Katya gives my leg a squeeze, staying there for a few more long minutes, but I don't budge.

  She gets up, presumably sensing that I've run out of words. "I'll leave it at never mind for now, but I want you to tell me what happened, Navy. I think you need to let it out." The joking and teasing Kat is gone, replaced by the kind, caring best friend. She sets the notebook down, and I listen to her pad out of the room as I struggle to keep the tears in.

  I lay in my new bedroom, as night settles in around me, my thoughts heavy with loss, with a broken heart I've tried to tape back together with a perfect outward appearance—a smile, the right clothes, career accomplishments, unflagging honesty, dedication, and a headstrong will not to date.

  Now with the unexpected resurrection of someone from the past I'd rather forget, I'm not sure how well this life of mine is truly holding together. As for my heart, I've learned to live with its fractured pieces. I roll over and pull a happily ever after romance with worn edges from my shelf and part the pages.

  It's the classic story of: girl falls in and out of love. Guy leaves. Another one appears. The original guy comes back, realizing his mistake. Meanwhile it turns out the other one that appeared was a cheater so there's no reason to like him. I'm getting to the juicy confrontation when Katya pokes her head in.

  "I'm ordering dinner. What are you in the mood for?"

  I push onto an elbow, blinking my eyes against the strain of reading under a dim light for so long. The glow of the digits on the clock on my bedside put us well past dinnertime.

  "We could go out if you'd rather," Kat tries. "Celebrate, party, have a good time."

  I know she'd rather. She's an extrovert, while, when left to my own devices I'm the opposite.

  Her stomach gurgles.

  "Pizza?" I say.

  She shakes her head. "Not in the mood."

  "Chinese?"

  She wrinkles her nose. "Had it yesterday."

  She leans against the doorframe.

  "Did you notice any new places in the neighborhood?" I ask.

  "There's a deli on the corner, but I think it's closed. We'll have to go scouting sometime."

  "Cuban? Thai? Curry?"

  She shrugs.

  "You realize we have this dilemma every time we eat together."

  "It's a good problem to have."

  "We're in New York City. Every single kind of food in the world is available. Surely we can find something you want to eat."

  "What do you want to eat?" she asks.

  "I don't know."

  "See!"

  "Well, we need dinner and it is our first night here…"

  Her shoulders curve in. Her eyes sparkle in the low dome of light from clipped to my book. "I'll be right back."

  I read several more chapters.

  She returns with a rap of knuckles on my door. "When I was a kid and we'd move to a new place, my mom would always make this crazy macaroni and cheese thing on our first night. I called it crazy-roni. It would literally be whatever we had added to a pot of macaroni and cheese."

  I brighten. "I'd eat that, but our cupboards are bare. Except I think there's some hot sauce, my emergency stash of chocolate chips, and—"

  "The liquor cabinet is stocked," Kat says brightly.

  "We cannot have a liquid dinner. Remember we tried that senior year? If I recall there was a fiasco at the school newspaper office, an unusual announcement related to your dating eligibility on the school listserv, and a high heel we never found the mate for."

  "Ah yes, the Cinderella incident. I'm sorry I almost got you fired from the paper."

  "Yeah well—"

  "It was fun, wasn't it?" She nudges my shoulder. "All those parties we used to go to…"

  "You dragged me to."

  "We had a good time."

  "You did."

  "Navy, admit it, you did too. At least ninety-percent of the time."

  "Seventy-five."

  "Well, those stats are better than whatever you were doing the other twenty-five percent of the time. We were party animals."

  "I was more like a party sloth."

  She laughs and says, "Come on, I'm starved. And I don't want anything to do with a hangry Navybean."

  I laugh this time, recalling her affectionate name for me, and pull on my boots, grab a scarf, and then breeze past her. My stomach rumbles. I'm surprised not to walk into the wall of boxes. Despite what Kat said about having a hard time unpacking, the kitchen items are organized and stowed and the living room looks like we've been here for several weeks, not hours.

  "Glad to have you on board," she says, slapping me on the back. "Crazy-roni here we come."

  We go to the market down the street and pick out a few boxes of macaroni and cheese. Kat likes elbows and I prefer shells so we get both. We spend the next ten minutes debating add-ins. Kat insists the weirder they are the better crazy-roni turns out.

  "I'm feeling a comfort food vibe," I say. "But when in doubt, ask Siri."

  Kat smiles and pulls out her phone.

  "There's nothing we can say to trick her into choosing our ingredients."

  She dismisses me. "Siri, did you eat your vegetables when you were a kid?"

  "Everything except peas," the smooth, computerized voice replies.

  "We got our ingredient," I say, grabbing a can of peas. "And as for the other two?" I ask, thinking if we added broccoli or tuna, we'd have something resembling a casserole like my grandmother used to make.

  Kat shakes her head and asks Siri, "Do you like chocolate chip cookies?"

  She replies, "Do you love your mother? Of course."

  I shake my head. "No way, we can't put chocolate chips into the macaroni and cheese."

  "Crazy-roni and those are the rules. We have to use what we have on hand. I'm just making sure Siri approves."

  "You're being a goof."

  "Siri, do you prefer sweet or spicy foods?"

  "I am one hot tamale."

  Kat grins. "Mmm. Bring on the hot sauce!"

  Back at our apartment, it takes a few minutes to locate a pot to cook the macaroni in, but once the noodles boil and I mix in the cheese packet, I say, "How about we eat it like this?"

  She dumps the chocolate chips in, along with the peas, and then pours a few glugs of hot sauce on for good measure.

  "I can't even…"

  "Oh, you must," she says, scooping the concoction into a bowl. Before she can force-feed me, the buzzer indicating someone is downstairs sounds.

  "Expecting anyone?" I ask, wondering if she has a hot date and made this wacky concoction so I'd pass out in a very confused food coma.

  Without asking who it is, she buzzes them in.

  "Are you nuts? You can't just let anyone in the building."

  She turns to reveal a sly smile. "Not just anyone."

  My stomach twists and not because I'm reluctant to eat the crazy-roni. Did she actually talk to Carrick earlier, telling him we were moving in together? As that thread of thought twists into knots in my stomach, she says, "This is our new home. It only seems fitting that—"

  There's a knock at the door. "I invited all of our friends for an impromptu housewarming party. And bonus, it's a potluck. Comfort food required at the door!"

  "Wait, you invited people over to have a party? Tonight?"

  "Remember, we're party animals, Navybean!" she says, pulling open the door to greet the guests.

  Chapter 5

  Double Dare

  "Welcome, welcome," I say, taking the coats of the unexpected arrivals whose hands are laden with bowls, pots, and boxes of food.

  "It's a cold night and this is a housewarming party—eat, drink, and be merry!" Kat hollers before digging into our cheesy, chocolatey, pea-filled mixture. I gulp when she douses it with more hot sauce.

  I take a small forkful of crazy-roni, but only because I don't want to insult Kat, but then fill my plate with regular macaroni and cheese, mashed potatoes, a slice of pizza, meatballs—which I later find out are vegan and I was none the wiser. I add some garlic bread to the heap and take a seat on the blankets spread out on the floor, picnic style.

  Friends from college, from various jobs in the city, yoga teachers and students, and other folks we met along the way, fill the new apartment with laughter and the delicious smells from the dishes they brought.

  Sudden fear sends tingles through my spine at the thought of Carrick at the door, but thankfully, he doesn't show up.

  "We'd make you guys help us unpack the rest of the way, but since you came bearing gifts on such short notice, I'm going to get you all drunk," Kat says.

  Laughter and a few hoots of agreement follow.

  She bounds to her feet and goes to the kitchen. "I'm taking orders," she calls over the clink of ice falling into the shaker.

  I explain to our college friend, Rylee's girlfriend, that Kat fancies herself a mixologist. "She loves coming up with strange brews."

  "I heard that," Kat calls.

  "I meant creative drinks."

  Shortly after, she presents a photo worthy drink in a glass. "It's a blackberry, basil, and whisky smash," she explains.

  "And I thought the crazy-roni was weird," I mutter.

  "Try it," she urges. "You'll love it."

  And I do, so much that I have another. My laughter comes more easily as I tell Alicia, Tori, and Marc about my new entry-level job.

  "This is what I get after four years of college and unwavering dedication at my old office."

  They suggest alternatives, starting with working at a newspaper, magazine, or similar venue.

  "Tried. Failed."

  They devolve into ridiculous options like coupon collector, sweepstakes winner, and phone sex operator. The drinks Kat keeps sending from the kitchen don't help.

  "How about driving for Uber," Marc says.

  "I'd need a car."

  "My cousin had great luck becoming a life coach," Lydia offers.

  "First, I'd need a life," I mumble.

  "Are you crafty? You could make stuff and sell it on Etsy," Brigitte says, as she knits one of her fabulous creations.

  "My hobbies involve words: reading, writing, that kind of thing."

  "You could sell some of your books," Tori suggests.

  My mouth falls open, aghast. "Never. Plus, eBay is over and small bookstores that used to buy books are struggling."

  "She means the ones you wrote," Kat corrects.

  They all know that I've written a few books, having caught me on various chapters over the years when we'd meet up at coffee shops, when they'd pop by my apartment, or when they made me confess what I was doing at home on a Friday night. Writing and reading, of course.

  Despite the sip of the blue tinted beverage in my hand, my throat goes dry. I shake my head. My love stories don't have happy endings. No one would read them, never mind buy them. I pull myself together and answer smartly. "The publishing industry is incredibly hard to break into. Plus, it's not my dream to be an author. I just like writing. And plus, I'm not that good at it," I say, twisting a loose thread from the blanket on the floor around my finger.

  The truth is I'm stuck. I don't know what I want to do with my life—certainly not picking up coffee for publicists and authors at my new firm. I love being creative with words, but hated the ad agency. I can come up with a decent turn of phrase, but I'm not one for the limelight, spotlight, or any light for that matter. I feel dim, directionless, and would rather not think about it right now.

  Kat breaks in. "Navy probably doesn't want to talk work right now. This is a party, people." She raises her glass, containing a suspicious scarlet drink, which I imagine is cranberry juice and something stronger. She says, "To many years of happy cohabitating, friendship, and crazy-roni."

  We all clink glasses and the conversation shifts away from my lack of satisfying, gainful employment. I think about work all the time. What do I want to do? I'm at a crossroads and am seeking a sign. What should I do? What am I good at? What would make me happy? My old job certainly didn't. It nearly killed me—long hours last winter landed me in the hospital with bronchitis. The doctor prescribed antibiotics and rest. I only took one of his cures, significantly delaying my recovery.

  Writing doesn't feel like work to me and reading is an absolute joy. If I could read for a living, I would. That would be my dream job. Sadly, not even librarians get to do as much of it as they'd probably like.

  My attention blurs on the edge of being drunk and delusional. Nope, I'll probably just end up stuck in a cubicle like the rest of us hopeless transplants who come here with big dreams of success.

  Pulling me from my thoughts, Tori calls, "Navy, who's your favorite OTP?"

  "Han and Leia, Han and Leia," Marc chants.

  "Whatever you say, not Bella and Edward." Jenna makes a gagging face.

  "Oh, Bella and Edward for the win," Rylee counters.

  My blank expression must make an easy translation.

  "Wait, my fangirl, the resident book and movie nerd doesn't know what an OTP is?" Kat asks.

  Confused, I shake my head. "Over the Top People?" I try weakly, giving Kat a friendly side-eye.

  "But you're a reader," she says.

  "Shipping?" Tori tries as if that might ring a bell.

  I shrug.

  Kat puts a drink in my hand. "It's like this, an OTP means One True Pairing. Like two people who absolutely belong together."

  "Oh, well, that's easy. Chuck and Blaire. Gossip Girl. The books and show." I quote one of my favorite lines, "Three words, eight letters, say it and I'm yours."

  The conversation continues with impassioned arguments for Mulder and Scully, Carson and Mrs. Hughes from Downton Abbey, and the characters from Dirty Dancing whose names we can't remember. Of course, we ask Siri.

  We go around, asking each other who we'd ship if we could be with anyone famous, alive or dead.

  "I'd do anything to ship Chris Hemsworth," Marc says.

  "Either Hemsworth," Tori adds, sighing. "They're masters at dropping the look."

  "What look?" I ask.

  "The sexy beast look," Kat calls from the kitchen.

  "The smolder."

  "The one that makes you swoon." Lydia mimics Tori's sigh.

  "The one that makes your panties wet," she adds. "The one John Trottman gave me two years ago. I've never looked back."

  "No one will ever live up to it."

  They go on, talking about this phenomenon.

  "I've never been given the look," I squeak.

  "Lies!" Kat says, pouring another round of drinks. "The sexy beast so gave you the look."

  I shake my head because I refuse to put sexy in the same sentence as Carrick even though my heart beat a little faster when she mentioned him.

  Several of the others in the room gather in, intrigued by the conversation. Jake says, "I vote for Rachel and Ross. Best OTP of all time."

  Ina says, "No, no, Lucy and Ricky."

  "Guys, we've moved on. We're talking about who you'd ship."

  "Oh, in that case, Ginny," Harry says, always up for joking about how he shares an admittedly common name with a fictional wizard. However, in his defense, he's British, has dark hair, green eyes, and wears glasses, so it's not entirely a stretch.

  "I'm happy," Rylee says, giving her girlfriend a squeeze.

  "Aw, you guys are adorable," Lydia says. "Hmm. Who would I ship?" She thinks a minute. "There's this guy at work."

  "Fictional!" Kat says.

  "Okay, then the Rock."

  "Duane Johnson?" Marc asks, surprised.

  "He's a big ole hunk of man," Lydia says softly.

  Kat smirks. "I never expected you to pick someone so, um, burly."

  "Yeah, more like the shy, studious type," I say. "Glasses, a cardigan..."

  "Or even someone like our Man-bun-barista," Kat says.

  "Who?" Lydia asks.

  "This guy at the coffee shop we go to," Kat explains. "Or the bookstore guy."

  "He's mine," I say around a hiccup.

  "Is he?" Kat asks, lifting her eyebrow.

  "Yeah, Navy, why have we never met anyone you date?"

  My cheeks are already pink from the copious amounts of alcohol, but I still blush.

  "She doesn't date," Kat answers for me.

  "Neither do you."

  "Nope, she just screws," Tori says.

  Everyone laughs, knowing Katya isn't a committer.

  "I'm not a dater," I say, navigating my way around the words and the secrets they hold.

  "Why?" Don't you want to fall in love?" Ina asks in accented English.

  "Our Navybean doesn't play the field. We have to get her out there and then we'll see some magic happen." Kat speaks with affection in her voice, but I take another sip of my drink, deflecting the possibility.

  "So who's this guy at the bookstore?" Tori asks.

  "I think she called dibs," Marc says.

  "Wait, wait, are we trying to hook Navy up?" Leo asks with sudden interest. "Because I know this guy I think would be perfect for her…" His lips quirk and his cheeks turn pink.

  "This circle of friends is closed," Kat says. "We'd never want to lose one of you if you broke up or endure the awkwardness afterward. We need an outside pool."

  "She needs to find someone herself," Rylee says.

  "Guys, I'm here, in the room. Hello. And I'm not interested in dating."

  "Why not?" Lydia asks in her sweet, innocent way.

  "Because."

  "Was your heart broken?" she asks.

  For a moment, it's as though it's just the two of us and I want to blurt, Yes! My heart is still broken and I don't know how to fix it, but I keep the words tucked away. Instead, I slur something like, "I want someone who doesn't mind that I like my waffles with cheese. That I’ll read until I fall asleep. And who tolerates me waking up with crazy bedhead—"

  "Yeah, it gets bad. I remember from freshman year." Tori holds her hands away from her head demonstrating my lumpy, puffy morning mess of hair.