And then Bette Porter turned into a sobbing mess, collapsing into my arms and beating her fists against me, crying incoherently, “I can’t help it, Alice! All I’ve thought about is you! Ever since you moved out, you’ve consumed my every thought and need! We simply must be together! We must!”

I mean, that’s what could’ve happened.

What actually happened was:

Once Bette and I were alone, I did indeed shake my head at her, truly dismayed at her wiliness. And I even started to say, “I can’t believe you are using Max-”

But she cut me off quickly as though she knew exactly what I was going to say. “It may humble you to know this, Alice, but Max Bauer has the possibility of being one of the most important sculptors of our time.”

I stopped. “He does?”

She rolled her eyes at me. “And you’re supposed to be dating him,” she said, as if I were unworthy of the greatness that is Max Bauer and his stupid pieces of chiseled rocks.

“I’m not dating him,” I said. “We’re dating, but I’m not dating him.”

Somehow, Bette seemed to understand the distinction. “Well, either way, I would love to have a look at what he’s been working on.”

“You didn’t even know who he was when he first introduced himself.”

“There were thousands of people at that Brody conference. He could’ve been anyone.”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “You’re not using Max to try and put yourself into my life?” I think we’ve established that I have a bad habit of saying too much.

Bette laughed at the idea. “One might raise the argument that your dating a sculptor was a conscious decision that you hoped would inevitably lead to you running into me.”

“Oh.” She had a point there. “Except, I’m not dating him, we’re-”

“You’re just dating,” Bette finished. “Have lunch with me,” she said in an urgent, forceful tone.

I felt a little helpless. “Now?”

“No.” She moved closer to me. “Tomorrow.”

“I-I-uh…” I couldn’t think straight. The cuff of her sleeve brushed against my hand and I shivered. “I can’t.”

She cocked her head to the side. “Why?”

“Uh… I’m working,” I lied.

She smiled slowly, a dangerous smile that made me a little nervous to be in her proximity. “Tomorrow’s Sunday,” she said softly.

“Sometimes I work on Sunday, too,” I replied.

“Next Saturday.”

“Um…”

She put her hand on my arm and slid it down, leisurely, casually. “Say yes.”

“Okay.”

“Good.” She stepped away, smiling that ***** disarming smile. I tried to clear my brain, but it wasn’t functioning properly. “You’ll have to give me your new number.”

“Right,” I said robotically. I managed to find a pen in my purse and scrawled it on the back of a movie ticket stub. Just as Bette took it, she turned to Max as he came through the doors, holding his wallet and smiling widely.

“You found it!” she said cheerfully, leaving absolutely no evidence to the fact that she had just left me a numb, incoherent, idiot. Which I remained as Max and I left the gallery, got into his car, and he dropped me off at my apartment.

Bette and I had plans.