Margie smiles at his grumble. “Next time try and get here when I say we’re meeting.”
“You gave me a twenty-minute heads-up, and luckily I happened to be a few blocks away, grabbing a bite. If I’d been home—”
“You’d have been even later, I know. Tsk.”
“I live on the East Side! You’re lucky you see meever!” He shakes his head and gratefully accepts the stupid-expensive gin concoction I’ve ordered him.
“You guys celebrating something?” a husky voice observes from behind us. “Or fighting? I can’t tell.”
Lara Smith—La Smith’s namesake—has paused her four-star-general patrol of the perimeter of her restaurant, eyes narrowing in amused assessment. She’s a woman of few words, but a single quirk of her eyebrow is as effective as an hour-long interrogation.
“Margie’s going to be a regular onGlass and Carter!” I crow.
La grins and enfolds Margie in a tight embrace. She is pale and petite, barely reaching Margie’s shoulders, but she pulls her in with the force of someone twice her size before turning to the busboy at a nearby high-top table. “Hey, Greg, tell Joe to stop flirting with the new waitress and get back behind the bar. I need a round of drinks for these guys. On the house.” To Margie, she says, “I’m not surprised, you know. You’re incredible on that show.”
Margie stills. “You watch the show?”
La winks and passes a hand over her thick brown hair, clubbed back by a colorful bandana. “Only for you.”
“Well, now you’ve gone and complimented me, which means you have to join us for the toast.” Margie laughs.
La complies, and that one glass of wine becomes a bottle of champagne, which in turn becomes many, many rounds of complimentary drinks, since La sticks with our little party all night.
I’m lifting my wine to my lips, pondering the fact that tomorrow is going to bring a monstrous hangover, when La is called to the kitchen. Avery orders a water from the bartender and hands it to me, plucking the wineglass from my hand.
“You look wiped. Everything okay?” he asks, peering down at me.
He still looks shockingly sober, his green eyes bright with concern behind his black-framed glasses. Kind, sturdy Avery. Like a redwood tree. I shuffle, a little unsteady on my feet already, and reach up to tap him gently on the nose. “Boop.”
He laughs and swats at me. “Seriously.”
I sigh and fill him in on my neighbor drama between sips of water. Margie leans back against the counter, still laughing at La’s parting remark, and catches part of my tale. It’s a familiar complaint of mine that now has her rolling her eyes.
“Just move in with me already. I’m sick of hearing about this guy. I’ve got the second bedroom.”
“It’s a closet, not a bedroom, but I appreciate it. You know how hard I worked for that apartment—Ilovemy place. Love the way I’ve made it mine. The crown molding. The fireplace!” I proclaim my apartment’s virtues with the drunken gusto of a founding father declaring his love of country.
“Fireplace is fake,” Margie points out.
“I light my coconut candles in there. Technically a fire. And the windows! So tall!” Margie opens her mouth to shit on my sundae, so I rush to add, “Yes! I know, sometimes during the winter the heat is out of control, and I need to throw those windows open to prevent myself from roasting like a chicken. But whatever itsallegedflaws, that building—that apartment—is my sanctuary. It’s a goddamn warm hug of a place. Nearly perfect. Or was, until that jackass moved in next door and kicked off this whole war of attrition,” I finish glumly.
“That soliloquy was practically Shakespearean,” Margie says.
“There’s always Jersey. Your mom still pressing for you to move back?” Avery asks.
The pulse in my jaw jumps. “I mean, I’m her best friend. Of course she wants me closer.”
Margie changes the subject, sick unto death of my apartment woes, and fills us in on her discussion with the showrunner. She pulls a stapled stack of paper from her purse and hands it to me. “The script that’ll intro my storyline for the season. Run lines with me?”
“Why don’t you ever ask me?” Avery asks, furrowing his brow.
I brighten and grin. “She doesn’t ask you because you’re not theactorI am.” I toss an imaginary scarf over my shoulder.
“Drunk Penny is my favorite Penny,” Margie says.
“Not mine.” Avery looks at the ceiling like a dad whose kid missed curfew.
Margie points out the character bits I’m to read and frowns when I bust out an overly deep, cartoonish voice. Whenever she asks me to run lines, this sort of behavior is par for the course, but alcohol has given my idiocy muscles. Consummate professional that she is, she rolls with it.
