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station, but my oddball stories were getting more and more popular, and Channel 8 was floating rumors they might be interested in turning my occasional quirky spots into a permanent fixture. I had print media, radio, and a degree from the U of Penn’s Annenberg School in my book, but if I ever wanted to become Jeanne Moos’ heir-apparent, I absolutely needed to cultivate my signature.
    “So you think I should hook up with him?” I asked Brent.
    “Hook up?” He cocked a brow. “If you’re speaking in the popular parlance—God no . The man will disappoint you as sure as clockwork. But as your talent agent? Run and get your pen, darling. He could sell water to whales.”
    So we hooked up, in more ways than one. Richard got me exactly what I wanted from Channel 8, and I got Richard. Or so I thought. I left for the bathroom and gave my face a good washing, the cold water dousing me with logic: If I were the boost that had launched his rocket, then once he was in orbit, like all boosters, Richard had to cut me loose.
    My God, why hadn’t I listened to Brent in the first place?
    I pulled the combs from my head and, dropping them in the sink, brushed my hair until my scalp burned. It’s amazing the delusions I accepted as truths. That our similarities made us soul mates. That whatever he did for me he did for me . That he meant it when he said he loved me. That he would marry me.
    I reapplied my lipstick, mascara, a bit of powder to hide the shine. I wondered if he ever even liked me. I thought of all the things we did together, the restaurants, the group trips to Turks and Caicos, the shows, the bars, the parties too innumerable to tally. I tried to think of the times we sat on the floor in front of the fireplace and just read the Sunday Inquirer together; I couldn’t picture it past our third month. Did we always have to have an audience?
    I gathered up my hair and twisted it into a chignon, fastening it with the combs. The last one slipped from my fingertips to the sink.
    Do you like me, Miss Knott?
    I started, snatching up the fallen comb. Do you? Andy Devine’s voice rumbled through my head. Do you, Miss Knott? Do you?
    I shoved the comb into my hair. He was totally missing the point.
    My point exactly .
    This was nuts. I grabbed my purse and fled.
    H OURS LATER, I was floating out of Amada and up Chestnut Street on four Dark Habits, a brilliant concoction of lime, strawberry and gin. True, we had a few tapas chasers, but they hardly diluted the elation I felt from my complete denial. I spun around to a bemused Brent and Denny, squeezing between them.
    “You guys are terrific,” I said, flinging my arms up around their shoulders. “Now lemme buy you a drink.”
    “And what’ll that be, sweet piece,” Denny said, squeezing me. “A Dr. Pepper? An Ovaltine? How about a Shamrock Shake?”
    “How about a sock in the kisser?” I said, tweaking him under the arm. His answer was a nip on the ear.
    “Don’t tempt me, Jules,” he said. “You’re in need of a good one.”
    “Oh, do play nice, children,” Brent said. “Let’s not waste all that good gin.”
    I shot Denny a smirk, pulling away. “You just blew your free drink, buster.” I caught sight of a bank at the corner. “I need some cash. Hold tight, I’ll be right back.”
    I trotted up to the ATM, the debit card already in my hand. I pressed the arrow for one hundred dollars, the machine whirred, and a receipt sputtered out. I held it into the light. All it said was SEE TELLER FOR MORE INFORMATION.
    “Problem?” Denny said from behind me.
    “Oh no . . .” I murmured, instantly sobering. “He wouldn’t.”
    Brent plucked the receipt from me, eyeing it. “This is a joint account, isn’t it?”
    My gaze shot to Denny. “Where’s my phone?”
    He looked nearly as panicked as I felt. “At the house. Come on.”
    Five minutes later I dialed Richard; the call went directly to voice mail. “You son of a bitch!” I spat into my BlackBerry.