One

Sometimes when you're having the shittiest of days, you need to take one more tequila shot and splash some water on your face. Then, as absurd as it seems, you've got to go to a restaurant opening.

On one such shit day-the day that would end up setting everything in motion-I stood in front of a storefront lit with lanterns. In the window, my reflection wobbled, a disheveled figure in a corduroy miniskirt, dark curly hair all mussed from the windy September evening. That afternoon, I'd lost my job. The idea of hobnobbing in a crowd of loud, sparkling people made my stomach turn.

But I had to go inside. This was Raf's opening. He was fancy now, profiled in Vanity Fair as the hot new celebrity chef on the scene, but he was also still the stringy boy down the block. After my parents divorced, when my mom needed a place for me to stay with free supervision until she got home from work, I'd spent multiple afternoons a week in Raf's living room. Raf had always shared his Doritos and listened to me declaim the terrible poetry I'd written when I should've been paying attention in math class.

In and out, that was the plan. I threw my shoulders back and walked into the chatter, the sweet garlicky smells. Raf's parents had grown up in Cuba before immigrating to the States together, and the press loved talking about how this fast-rising chef was reinventing the food of his roots with distinctly American twists. The breads were baked in-house. The meat came from a farm upstate where the animals were treated like family, until they were slaughtered.

I gave my name to a young woman at the door, and she scanned the clipboard in her hand, then waved me into the throng. There were two contingents in attendance-the older investor types, and then a smattering of New York's privileged millennial crowd, who dropped by restaurant openings as casually as I dropped by my neighborhood bodega. Waiters carried trays of mojitos, or plantains speared with toothpicks. One of them offered me a miniature deconstructed Cubano, tiny and glistening with oil, like a sandwich for a doll. I popped it in my mouth, then paused to marvel at the taste of it. It was just so full of flavor, life bursting in my throat. I grabbed a mojito and took a long sip, scanning the room for Raf.

There he was, in a corner, wiry, tall, and tan, with a tattoo snaking up one arm, wearing a freaking baseball cap and T-shirt to his own opening. God, a woman could never get away with that, but if anything, it increased his appeal, judging by the gaggle of model-types jockeying for his attention. Raf was cute enough, but he wasn't the kind of guy you'd stop to look at twice on the street. Now, though, he had status, so he could go home with any woman he chose. We all wanted to feel that we were special, and if a special guy wanted to sleep with us, that seemed close enough. I rolled my eyes at the machinations of the women around him (although I'd been that way too in my early to mid twenties, hadn't I, jumping into bed with a visiting professor at my nonfiction graduate writing program and thinking that it made me unique). Then I walked toward him.

"Jillian!" he said, his eyes crinkling with relief to see a familiar face. He stepped away from the others and wrapped me in a bear hug. He was a little sweaty, uneasy at being the center of attention. "Oh, thank God, someone I know how to talk to."

"Hey, Raffie," I said into his chest, then held him at arm's length. "Look at you, you're such a big deal!" I leaned in and narrowed my eyes, all conspiratorial. "Tell me the truth, how much of...