(Editor’s note: For the previous installment of this novel see here. This installment continues from the conclusion Chapter One of Part One: Before The Lines)

I awoke the next morning in my own bed with less of a hangover than usual, since after Cara left the rest of us were too demoralized to continue partying and went instead to our separate apartments: Kennedy to the Park Avenue-at-75^th pad that she paid a nominal fee to rent a room in, since technically it was the pied-a-terre of friends of her parents who visited, at most, twice a year (their other apartments were in Paris, London and Rome, along with their Richmond plantation); Abby to her one-bedroom in the East Village, and I to my alcove studio in Murray Hill. As my eyes adjusted to the light streaming through my window, the events of the night before flooded my brain and I checked my phone. No voice mail, no texts. The phone immediately buzzed in my hand with a text from Kennedy that read: ?!

I typed back, “Nothing.”

A few minutes later, Abby texted, “Sent her a text an hour ago and haven’t heard anything. Brunch?”

We agreed on Penelope’s, a spot in my neighborhood known for comfort food and long lines on the weekends. I showered and dressed slowly, then took my time walking over to 30^th and Lexington. Living between two of my best friends had its advantages, the prime one being that my neighborhood was middle ground and often where we ended up brunching. Staying above-ground, away from the subway, with a hangover, though not as necessary today, was always preferable, as was avoiding the packed bus or a jerky cab ride. I arrived at Penelope’s first and put my name in, then headed back outside to wait with the masses. We were lucky today, having gotten an earlier start than usual, and the wait was only twenty minutes. Within five, Abby had walked over from her bus stop on Third Avenue, shortly followed by Kennedy pouring out of a cab.

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(Editor’s note: For the previous installment of this novel see here. This installment continues from Chapter One of Part One: Before The Lines)

“What’s up, TORP?” she yelled, and I felt some saliva hit my face, positioned as it was between her and the interloper.

He narrowed his eyes in momentary confusion. “It’s actually Reynolds,” he said, jerking his thumb backward. “You know Thorpe?” It took me a second to realize that this was the actual name of one of his friends, who was now taking a shot with his group.

Cara didn’t catch on as quickly, naturally, and just began to laugh. “It’s a joke, dude,” she said, weaving toward me as she extended her hand to the newly identified and pretentiously named Reynolds. “I’m Cara, and these are my friends…” she trailed off, and I waited to hear our names, but she seemed incapable of finishing her sentence and just smiled. Which was no problem for Reynolds, who had yet to look at the rest of us.

“My friends and I were wondering if we could buy you ladies a round of drinks,” he said, still not taking his eyes off Cara. My inclination to refuse what would probably turn out to be a roofie-laced beer was rendered moot as Cara climbed over me and stood unsteadily, pointing at the table from where he had just come. “I want one of those shots,” she drawled, and with that she stumbled into the fold of lookalike men.

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