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My followers reveled in our disaster. We might have to make this a regular thing.

Bennett responded immediately. Maybe without burning down my kitchen?

I’ll consider it, I wrote back, grinning. Next time we can try flooding it. I’m open to various sorts of disasters.

Well, obviously. You need some variety in your disasters, or disaster just gets boring. Do you still want to try West again next week? I miraculously got another reservation but also managed to book a backup at Lima, which is supposed to be excellent.

A warm glow swept through me. Gross. Sure. As long as you don’t light their kitchen on fire.

I never light a kitchen on fire before my second visit.

Bennett and I bantered for most of the morning. But I couldn’t focus entirely on our back-and-forth, because Jada and I had finally connected on a date and a time and a plan. Honestly, I didn’t care what we did; I would’ve traveled out to Far Rockaway if that’s what she wanted or reviewed all of the city’s different salad chains. But what she’d ultimately emailed me as her suggestion actually sounded really fun. I haven’t done a crawl of my own neighborhood in a while. Why don’t you come along for a day of filming? I’ll show you my favorite places and we can take turns recording. I’ll probably do live videos all day and then an edited compilation video that I’ll actually post.

I unscheduled the post on that Thai restaurant that had been languishing in purgatory. Which was unfortunate, because its fried whole fish—cut into cubes beforehand, all then battered in rice flour, fried, and reassembled onto the crispy brown carcass before being drenched in a bright, tangy lime-and-chile dressing strewn with fresh green herbs and sharp, crunchy slices of red onion—was probably one of the best things I’d eaten in a long time. Count me in. I’d be meeting her this weekend in Morningside Heights.

And then came the email. When my phone lit up, I figured it was Jada confirming, but it was actually a message from a self-described “boutique feminist small-batch wine company.” A bit of a mouthful. The gist of their message was shorter than their self-description: they wanted me to promote their wine.

My first instinct was delight. Sponsorship money was always a delight. The more people I could get to pay me to post, the more of a chance I had of someday getting to quit my day job.

But the second was doubt. I flashed back to last night, how good it had felt to hold Bennett’s—no, how good it had felt to tell him the truth about my wine-related feelings. How good it had felt to be honest with him and then with my followers.

If I shilled this product I knew I didn’t like without even tasting it, that would set me back. Even if it made me good money.

I could respond to them later. I set my phone aside, and not a second too soon, because just then the door flew open and Mr. Decker rushed in, trench coat flapping, hat nearly slipping off his impressive head of silver hair.

I jammed my shoes back onto my feet and leaped up. “Good afternoon, Mr. Decker!” I could count on one hand the number of times he’d shown up at the office without me knowing it first. Today he was supposed to be attending a director’s board meeting for one of his investments downtown, then heading back up to Connecticut to have dinner with his wife. “Is everything okay?”

“Everything is not okay.” His eyes were wild. “It’s my fortieth wedding anniversary this weekend.”

Maybe I was misunderstanding his mood. Maybe he wasn’t panicking but was just that excited about being in love with his wife. Which I could get behind. I didn’t have much contact with Mrs. Decker, but she’d always been kind to me and was unfailingly fashionable in a glamorous Jackie O sort of way. “Congratulations!” I’d always thought old people in love was more romantic than young people in love, because that love had stood the test of time. “That’s great. What are you doing for it?”

“I don’t know. That’s the problem.” He turned those wild eyes on me, and for a moment, I felt like a rider who was about to be bucked from her horse. “Why didn’t you remind me?”

Aaaaand I went flying. I had the power in the next split second to determine if I landed with a thud that only bruised my tailbone or if I’d break my neck. “I wasn’t told of the date, but I’ll make sure to put it on my calendar for next year. In the meantime, it’s not too late to plan something,” I said soothingly. His shoulders relaxed a little. “What do you think? I can get you into dinner at a place like Daniel or the Four Seasons, have them send out a special dessert for her. Maybe a show or a concert first? The New York Philharmonic is always reliable, or is there a show she’s been wanting to see on Broadway?”

His shoulders popped right back up around his ears. “No,” he said miserably. “I may have panicked and hinted that I would be throwing her a surprise party.”

I blinked. “Oh.”

“But I assume you can help with that.” He straightened, and just like that, he was self-assured again. “Nothing too big or flashy. Send invitations only to our closest friends and family, maybe rent out a fun restaurant for Sunday brunch. Order something parrot-related for her parrot collection. Maybe a Swarovski crystal parrot? Do they make those?” He stared down at me. “Are you going to write this down?”

I grabbed for a pen and a scrap of paper and did my best to scribble along with his train of thought, which was plowing right ahead. “And maybe a Peloton? She’s been talking about wanting one, but would that be an insulting gift?”

He went on for what felt like the rest of the workday—but was really only about fifteen more minutes—before the door opened again behind him. He nearly jumped out of his suit, and actually did jump out of his fedora, which finally went sliding off. Emerson Leigh caught it neatly as she entered, hoisting it high above her head like a trophy.

“Emmy!” I only ever heard Mr. Decker’s voice go that gooey when talking to one of his daughters. “How are you? Are you having fun with your animal yoga?”

Emerson Leigh plopped her dad’s fedora on her own head, then grinned at him. He smiled indulgently back. “It’s not fun. It’s a business.”

“Of course it is,” he said. His tone was both loving and patronizing at once. “Julie, did you hear that Emmy here has already booked her first client?”

“Daaaaaad,” Emerson Leigh drawled in that way that on its surface meant stooooop but that in reality meant go onnnnnnn.

“Maisie’s chihuahua is going to be so calm after his session,” he said. “I have to run now, dear.” He reached for his hat but stayed his hand. “You can hang on to that. It looks much better on you anyway.”

They both laughed as he rushed out, then Emerson Leigh turned to me. Mr. Decker’s old man fedora did legitimately look much better on her than it had on possibly anyone else, ever. “Did you hear that, Julie?” she chirped. “Maisie booked me to do a yoga class for her dog!”

“I heard! That’s great!” I left off the fact that Maisie was her sister and that she’d probably been threatened into it by her father, who was funding Maisie’s boutique. (There just weren’t that many people to buy her artisan perfumes and handwoven tapestries, even on the Upper East Side.) “Do you need anything, Emerson Leigh? I have a ton on my plate.”