Ledi had talked to Portia both as a friend and as a soon-to-be health care professional. During each discussion, a chastened Portia promised to take it easy with the partying and a frustrated Ledi explained that she wouldn’t keep dealing with drunken hijinks; both of them swallowed the lies easily because what was the alternative?

“Ledi?” There was the slightest twinge of panic in her friend’s voice.

Ledi sighed.

“It’s the middle of the night, so, yes, you’re bothering me. But since you came to make sure I didn’t get serial killed, it’s okay I guess,” Ledi said, stepping aside to let her in.

It’s not okay.

Portia stumbled into the apartment, making a sharp right to maneuver herself into the bathroom that had seemingly been built for a contortionist.

Ledi walked over to her tiny kitchen. She filled a bottle with water and dropped in an effervescent multivitamin that would help stave off a hangover. She stood for a moment, watching the bubbles through the clear plastic and listening as her toiletries were knocked off of their shelves in the bathroom. The weight of a question she tried not to ask herself too often settled over her.

Wouldn’t it be nice if someone took care of me, instead? In her experience, unless they were getting a paycheck, no one was interested in that particular task.

The toilet flushed and there was the crash of something hitting the tile floor. Ledi cringed.

“I also wanted to make sure you were okay, after the whole Clarence thing,” Portia continued their conversation seamlessly as she stepped out, rubbing her hands on her pants. She pulled out her sleek phone, which was at least three generations ahead of Ledi’s and double the size. “I have to replace your candle. I’ll order one now and it’ll arrive tomorrow. And you really need to get some new hand towels. I’ll add those to the order.”

Ledi blinked.

Candle? Okay, that’s what the breaking glass had been. Towels? The ones she had were fine. Clarence? She’d already put that short-lived relationship out of her mind; an ill-timed pop-up text from his side piece had revealed his true nature. A few weeks of freedom from his boring finance industry stories had proven what a blessing Melissa “I’m naked and waiting” S. had been.

“Um, thanks? But Clarence is history. He’s been filed away in the Annals of the Journal of New York City Fuckboys.” She handed Portia the bottle. “Along with ninety-five percent of your hookups.”

“Good.” Portia ignored the poke about her own dating life and instead flopped onto the futon and began scrolling on her phone while sipping from the bottle. “Should we kill him? I’d help you hide the body. You know my family owns land all over the northeast. Oh, look at these hand towels with little microscopes on them!”

She held up her phone toward Ledi.

“No need to kill Clarence—having to live with himself is punishment enough,” Ledi said, and then leaned down to examine the phone. “And the towels are cute but I can buy my own.”

“Why? I said I would pay for them. And we should still shank him,” Portia said around a yawn.

Ledi shook her head. Portia might kill for her, but she would do it with some kind of fancy steak knife from Tiffany’s or wherever rich people shopped for cutlery, not a crude shank. Or if she did use a shank, it would be some artisanal weapon she’d crafted at one of her workshops, made with salvaged beach glass or something.

Portia was a perpetual student, trying anything that interested her, then moving on when the next thing caught her fancy. She could afford to coast, choosing where and how seriously to pursue her studies on a whim. Ledi tried not to resent that, and mostly succeeded. Portia hadn’t asked to be Richie Rich any more than Ledi had asked to be a Little Orphan Annie.

Ledi climbed into the bed beside Portia, jerking a portion of her blanket from under her friend. She could sleep for a little while longer. She’d be having biostats for breakfast with her study group, and then a long shift at the Institute awaited her, with more studying capping off her night—and more grinding her teeth about her internship if Kreillig didn’t get back to her.

“Ledi?” Portia tugged the blanket out from beneath her and pushed it toward Ledi.

“What’s up?”

“I didn’t really bother you, did I?”

Ledi was still annoyed, and she didn’t want to encourage bad habits, but part of her was glad Portia had stopped by. She’d been consumed with school and work, and she’d forgotten how good it was to interact with someone who had nothing to do with either.

“No. You didn’t.”

Portia responded with light snores; she was already asleep.

Ledi sighed and stared up into the darkness; she was wide-awake. She hadn’t given much thought to her most recent break up, but now she wondered why Portia had worried Clarence would return—Ledi had never expected him to hang around to begin with. She was like a faulty piece of Velcro; people tried to stick to her, but there was something intrinsically wrong in her design. Twenty plus years of data, starting from that first foster family, supported that hypothesis. Hell, Portia’s late-night drunk visits were worrisome, but Ledi was still shocked each time that her friend cared enough to stop by.

Is that why you put up with it?

Ledi shifted on the futon, rolling away from the uncomfortable thought but not quickly enough to evade another one: it’d been a relief when she’d found out about Clarence’s cheating—he’d proven her Velcro hypothesis correct. And when he’d shrugged and said, “It’s not like you love me,” he hadn’t been mistaken. Her social cell membrane had kept her heart intact.