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unused gym) before hopping onto the elevator. Instead—again, stupidly—she had walked out of Russ Waterston in the largest possible way: just before ten p.m., when most associates leave, while juggling a purse, briefcase, two plastic bags, and a potted philodendron.
    By then, everyone had heard the news of her departure, and so everyone watched. People used the term walk of shame to describe the seven-a.m. subway ride in last night’s seductress outfit, but the ten-p.m. walk of shame at Russ Waterston was far, far worse.
    Carrie could see it in their faces as they watched her: HER? Really? She is quitting? Seriously? So it was with great relief that her walk of shame had been interrupted by a call from Bill. He was in the city. It was short notice, and it was late, and he totally understood if she didn’t have time, but he’d love to meet for a drink.
    To Carrie in that moment, it felt like she’d been saved.
    T he heel of Carrie’s pump got stuck in the cobblestone as she exited the taxi at Ninth Avenue and Gansevoort. Normally she would’ve changed into more practical shoes to meet a friend this late, but she tried to look her best where Bill was concerned.
    At thirty-five years old, Carrie still had never been to Europe, but as she navigated a route between the postage-stamp-sized bistro tables at crowded Pastis, she pretended she was in Paris, just off the Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Bill waved to her from a table in the back corner. He rose and greeted her with double kisses. “ Bonsoir ,” she said cheerfully.
    “One of these days, we’re going to make it there,” he said.
    “You remember.” She could feel herself smiling for the first time all day.
    “Of course.”
    She and Bill had always had a special bond. He played big brother to Melanie, too, but he and Carrie used to sneak away by themselves. They would stay up late on the merry-go-round, well after the park was closed, and spin each other slowly as they talked all about the wonderful things life held for them in the future.
    They had never been a couple—at least, not since a one-week period of “going steady” in the fifth grade. Over the years, they had flirted on and off, and had even stumbled into bed together more than a few times, but they always agreed that trying to build a romance wasn’t worth risking their friendship. She would call him her closest friend, and liked to think he’d say the same. Now, perhaps for the first time in their entire lives, they were both—at the same time—on the verge of changes that could be exactly what they had been waiting for.
    Bill was drinking water, as usual. Ignoring the intimidating French wine list, she asked the waiter for a margarita on the rocks, with salt. Tonight she wanted the hard stuff.
    She was dying to tell Bill about her new venture, but didn’t want to squelch their first in-person celebration of his good news. She couldn’t believe it had been more than three months since they’d seen each other. When had they both become so busy?
    “But the question is,” she posed, “when is the state of New York’s lieutenant governor going to have time for a European tour with a lowly little attorney from his childhood?”
    “Stop it. The work’s far more mundane than you’d want to know.” But as he described his passion projects—a training program on community policing, statewide prekindergarten for all, job preparation for parents on welfare—she could tell he was loving every moment of his new position.
    Sitting here with Bill, while he was having such a special moment in his career, made her feel better about her own decision to work for Linda Moreland. Things were working out for both of them. When they were kids, their shared fascination with law and politics had bonded them. Melanie had always been smarter than Carrie, and probably Bill, but she never found a focus for her innate academic ability. Bill and Carrie, on the other hand, were the only high school students they