I lower my head in mock shame. “Because I’m afraid I’ll crawl under the dining room table and take his dick into my mouth when Marlow isn’t looking!”
“Exactly, pumpkin.” She says.
She doesn’t have to be all smug about it.
I sigh, defeated. “Okay. So what do I do?”
She leans in with the seriousness of someone giving state secrets. “You’re gonna go to dinner. You’re gonna smile, say polite things, and focus on Marlow, yourfriend.”
I nod. “I can do that.”
“And when dinner’s over,” she levels me with a stare that could stop traffic, “youdo notstay for coffee. Or wine. Or a casual chat about your dreams. You hear me?”
“Why not? Wouldn’t that be rude?”
“Under normal circumstances? Yes. But you, sweetheart, have a full-blown inferno in your vagina, and you donotneed the social lubricant.”
I snort-laugh. “Got it. No social lubricant.”
“And then you go home. You light a candle, take a breath, and masturbateagain.Because you willdefinitelyneed it.”
“You’re right,” I sigh. “And damn, these scones are amazing.”
“You’re welcome,” she says smugly.
I take my drink to go, and head home. Off to scrub my walls and distract myself from the inevitable storm that is dinner with Grant Mills.
***
Grant’s place is just a few floors above mine, but it may as well be another world.
Where mine has a lived-in chic and warm feel, Grant’s penthouse is sleek and modern—like everything in it was chosen by someone who understands restraint as an art form. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the city like a painting. The furniture is all clean lines and rich textures, each piece probably worth more than my monthly rent in New York.
There’s a grand piano in the corner, untouched but impressive, and a glass bar cart stocked with liquor that looks too expensive to drink. It’s quiet up here in a way that feels intentional, like the world can’t touch him this high up.
I’ve imagined this place before. Pictured him here—walking out of the shower, towel slung low, wet hair curling against his neck, those impossible blue eyes catching the light just right. I’ve imagined him cooking dinner for his daughter, setting plates on that long, polished table with casual, capable hands.
And I’d be lying if I said I haven’t imagined nights exactly like this one. The three of us. Eating dinner. Talking about our days. A little crazy, a little tender. Almost like a family.
The kitchen smells like garlic and simmering tomato sauce—rich, heady, nostalgic. One of my foster mothers used to cook like this. She could’ve easily been a chef. I remember being little during the holidays, breathing in these same scents, letting them wrap around me like something close to safety. The herbs and seasonings cling to your clothes, announce themselves to the whole block like a proud secret.
I stir the pot carefully, making sure nothing sticks, while Marlow slices eggplant beside me.
“My dad always says I should’ve been an Italian chef,” she grins.
“You’re definitely halfway there,” I say, flicking a basil leaf at her.
She laughs, swats at me playfully, and goes back to slicing eggplant like she actually was trained for it.
It’s easy between me and Marlow now. Comfortable in a way that feels earned. She’s let her guard down more in the past fewweeks than I imagine she has with anyone in years. And somehow, I’ve done the same. Not on purpose. Definitely not by design. But that’s the thing about real friendship—it sneaks up on you when you’re not looking.
If her father didn’t live rent-free in every corner of my mind, I might even be able to enjoy it more.
But also, I hate how many secrets sit between us. Professionally, I know confidentiality is part of the job. I’m bound to it. I remind myself that every day. But it doesn’t make it feel any less heavy. Because I’m not just holding space for clients anymore—I’m holding actual secrets. About me. About her father. Even about her husband and the buried grief he’s only just started to unpack in therapy.
And some days, I wonder: if Marlow knew all of it—everything I’ve kept from her—would she still call me friend?
She’s in storytelling mode, and I’m letting her go off.