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It’s a Friday night,and I’m perched on the kitchen counter, eating last night’s deli salad straight from the container. I’m still dressed for a clinic shift—black pencil skirt, ivory silk blouse, hair in a low bun—but my glasses are pushed to the top of my head, and I’ve kicked off my heels, which means I’m officially clocked out.

Elle walks into the kitchen in a short red dress and gold heels, her long blonde hair styled into loose, lush curls. Sol follows in a black halter top and denim skirt, a leopard-print fur jacket bunched in her arms. She raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow at me and shares a determined glance with Elle, who nods.

“Right,” Sol says, throwing down her fur coat on the dinner table and coming to stand in front of me with her arms crossed. “I’ve had enough.”

I stop with a forkful of salad halfway to my mouth. “What have I done?”

Elle, already well-trained in the ways of a lawyer, leans in with a winning smile.

“Why don’t you come out with us?”

This isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation. I shake my head with practised ruefulness.

“I’d love to, but I’ve got some articles I need to read, and Mr Park recommended this—”

“Thought you said you’d sent your article off for review,” Sol interrupts.

“I have, but there’s this assignment due after Christmas, I wanted to—”

Sol shakes her head. “Do you have any deadlines left this term?”

“No, but—”

“But nothing. Go put a damn dress on. We’re going dancing.”

The thought makes me flinch. Not just at the effort of getting ready and going out into the brutal cold, but the thought of someone else’s hands on my waist, a stranger leaning in, a voice that isn’thisin my ear.

“Maybe next time,” I mutter into my salad.

Elle sighs and takes my food away like confiscated contraband.

“Soph, sweetheart. You’ve been saying this since you moved in. It’s beenmonths.”

“I go out all the time.”

“You know what I mean.”

I sigh. “But I’m not in the mood.”

“Look, you’re clearly not over your break-up,” Sol says. “And I’m sure throwing yourself heart and soul into Harvard Law Review is a great distraction, but eventually, you’re going to submit your article, get published, and then what? What’s next?” She doesn’t wait for me to tell her about all my plans for 3L. She continues. “You don’t need distractions, you need to move on. And you can’t do that alone in your bedroom.” I open my mouth and she raises her hand, silver nails gleaming like gunmetal. “And don’t even bother bringing up Mr Park. Unless you’refucking him on the side, then I don’t give a shit what he has to say.”

“Ew,” I breathe out.

“He’s not her type,” Elle says, tossing Sol a look. “I’ve heard of her ex, trust me—Park’s not her type. We need to get her a hockey boy, or a Final Club guy.”

I glare at her. “That’s not my type.”

“No?” Elle cocks an eyebrow. “Big and blond and stupid rich isn’t your type? What is, then?”

An image forms in my mind. An exact summer shade of blue. A lazy, confident smirk, the slight drawl in his voice. Strong hands that know exactly where to touch me, a laughing mouth that knows exactly how to wind me up. My body knows the answer before my brain does. I can tell from the way my stomach tightens, my knees weaken, and my fingers itch to touch something that isn’t there.

“I don’t have a type.”

“Then you’ll be open to different options.” Solana drags me off the counter by my waist. “Come on. Throw on a pretty dress while I order the taxi. You’re coming with us.”

The bar we startwith is glossy and dark and infested with rich Harvard boys who think that chatting up a girl is a game where you defeat the enemy by shooting personal statistics at them.

The drinks are overpriced, the music is jarring. Elle and Solana are in great spirits, laughing, dancing, tossing their hair under the dim lights. They force me to do several rounds of shots before we leave the bar.