"Done!" Dree leaps off the elevator and rushes toward me. She holds a copy of Freedom in her hand. She wears a long, beige dress. It is linen and opaque. Her breasts, soft and doughy half spheres capped by erect nipples – their contours evident – compete for attention against her sun-bitten glossed lips.

"This is not fair," I say. The store's abundant AC freezes my sweat glands instantly. My face too feels frozen at an expression between displeasure and mild happiness. "Coming in early and reading the book by yourself, is cheating."

"Did you know that Jason was engaged?" Dree is still on my sofa, feet and legs in the air, toes flicking against an invisible target. Her empty wineglass sits on the window ledge, the glass dirty with finger and lip prints.

"Fancy seeing you here." Jason drapes his arm around my shoulder, his chest already in position for a fake friendly half-hug.

Devon and I are sitting at the bar, waiting for our table and first round of drinks. He always orders the turkey leg sandwich, but he is still reading the menu. He doesn't even look up when Jason stands right next to him.

I am awake but all is still sleep.

Last night. I don't remember much about last night. I know that Dree fell asleep on the couch. I know I had left Nan's house in a bad mood. There was a lot of wine. I must have looked a fool, sulking at the dinner table, pouring myself fuller and fuller glasses of wine, until there was none left in the bottle. No one said anything. Devon ate quickly and left. Nan ate as she always did, slowly and deliberately, cutting her food into neat, small pieces. I didn't eat much.

The bar is over. Law school is over. Everyone else is off on their post-bar vacations: Bali, Greece, Miami, Kentucky. I click through some photo albums on Facebook: happy faces and landmarks. Ryan Murphy didn't do much better with Eat Pray Love. The destination matters less than being some place else before the unemployment depression kicks in. I am hanging out at Andrew's. Midtown Manhattan is exotic enough.

"I haven't seen Jason all week. He always says he is busy with bar stuff." Dree pours herself another glass of wine, all the way to the top. "More?"

"No, I'm okay." I stay in my seat and let her play hostess. She sets down in front of me a plate holding equal-sized portions of pasta and sauce. The pasta and the sauce don't touch each other.

"It's just annoying, you know, to have him so busy after finals and all that. I miss him. But of course I can't tell him. It's only been a week." Dree is back from the kitchen. "I found [...]

"You smell like peaches."

Nan wraps her arms around my waist. Her head rests comfortably on my shoulder. Her breath is warm. I lean back into her embrace, feeling the shape of her breasts against my back.

"You have sex with my mother."

His tone is flat. He could have said, "I have a dog." Or, "I ate burritos for lunch."

I can feel my cheeks burning. It is idiotic, but I sincerely believed, all these weeks that Nan and I had spent together, pretending to go to the movies but instead ending up in my apartment, fucking each other madly like teenagers, that Devon didn't know, didn't even have a clue. But he knew all along.

"I don't believe you," I say.

"Stop being so tortured. There is nothing not to believe," Nan sighs and says.

I am at the airport in San Francisco, waiting to board my red-eye back to Brooklyn. Everything in California has felt newer, cleaner; the airport waiting area is no exception. The bathrooms here don't have the distinct, Port-Authority-property smell of citrus and human waste. It is possible to linger in front of the mirrors and straighten my collar and sleeves without feeling like I am about to lose my dinner. Or, to stay in the handicapped stall and have a phone conversation.

Exams. Graduation. Coffee.

Life is simple now. Preparing for the Bar Exam returns me to a younger state of existence, back to Regents and SAT prep, when scores mattered more than knowledge. The mornings I spend in a classroom-corralled in with people I have not spoken to since 1L year- learning law from a video screen. Lunch is freedom. Then there are afternoon review sessions and practice exams. Not passing is not an option.

"Coffee or tea?" Dree is standing in my kitchen. Her yellow sundress is wrinkled. The ruffle at the hemline form an unruly wave, making the dress look even shorter than it is. Her hair is loosely braided into two pigtails. The heavy makeup she wore last night has been washed off. Her skin-a shade darker than cream-looks fresh.