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the TV.
    â€œI have to get back,” she said. “I have plans tonight.”
    After they said their good-byes Molly turned around, headed to wait for the bus to Rittenhouse. She pulled her scarf tighter around her neck and watched the cracks in the sidewalk, careful to avoid the tree roots that had broken though the surface. Doubt filled her mind like water seeping into the compartments of a sinking ship. Molly knew what she was steering away from. What she didn’t know was what was ahead of her, and if she could stay afloat.

    â€œMolly . . . here! Let me get that for you!”
    Jenny rushed up the wide stairs that led to the front door of Molly’s rented brownstone just as Molly lost her grip on two of the full grocery bags she’d been trying to shift in her arms.
    â€œDamn it,” Molly breathed. Jenny stood beside her as they watched the bags hit the edge of the steps and burst open like romaine-filled piñatas over the concrete sidewalk. At least fifty dollars in wasted produce scattered around Molly’s parked car. With an angry swipe of her hand, Molly pushed back the long bangs that had fallen over her eyes.
    â€œYou know you’re too stubborn, right?” Jenny turned her gaze away from a pigeon pecking at a smashed banana to look at Molly. “You’re not at the gym, girl. No need to balance all that weight like you’re Jillian Michaels.”
    â€œBut she has such good arms,” Molly said. She was shivering. The sun peeking through the few clouds overhead did nothing to warm up the bitter air sitting over Rittenhouse Square this Sunday afternoon. Jenny skipped down the stairs to pick up a shattered wine bottle and deposited the pieces into a nearby trash can.
    â€œIt looks like someone murdered Veruca Salt on your doorstep,” she called.
    â€œThe grape girl from
Willy Wonka
? That was Violet Beauregard,” Molly said. “Never did like Veruca Salt—the character
or
the band.”
    â€œTrust me, I know,” Jenny said, and climbed back up the staircase. “I brought wine, anyway. We need to talk.”
    Molly sighed. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”
    She fished her key out of her pocket and opened the heavy, mahogany-stained door. Molly’s brownstone was a stylish, miniature version of the other row houses nestled in the Rittenhouse Square neighborhood. Her real estate agent had tried to regale her with all the benefits of getting a smaller home. She’d said there’d be less cleaning to do and a small dining room was a great excuse to bow out of hosting big family dinners, but Molly had just shrugged her shoulders. What had actually sold her on her home was the simple act of walking through the front door. The house was sweet, quiet, and bright, with a large white-framed picture window in the living room that illuminated the whole first floor all the way back to the kitchen. It fit her. There were rumors that the current owner would soon put the house on the market, and Molly wished more than anything in the world to be able to purchase it herself.
    Had wished,
she corrected herself. Back when she thought there would be another person to help with the mortgage.
    â€œSo, what’s going on with you, Mol?” Jenny tossed her vintage handbag onto the couch and took a bag from Molly. Her hair, pulled back by a red-and-gold scarf she’d folded into a headband, tumbled around her shoulders like ribbons curling on top of a gift. “I don’t hear from you for a couple of weeks, and I can’t find you at work anymore. It’s like you’ve gone underground. You have me worried.”
    â€œI’m sorry.” Molly followed her into the kitchen. “I just . . . I’m not dealing with this very well.”
    She set her bags on the counter and reached into one for the chocolate chips she’d opened on the way home.
    â€œAny of it,” she added.
    â€œThree