“Okay,” I managed to say weakly.

“Good,” she said, pleased. The light turned green and she accelerated. “I’m ten minutes away.”

Which is exactly how, not more than a few hours after meeting her, I, Alice Pieszecki, ended up spending the night with Bette Porter.

“Here.” Bette handed me a stack of clothes and a towel. “You can use the shower if you want, and, uh…” She trailed off, either out of politeness or out of necessity. I shot her a grateful smile.

“Thanks a lot for all this,” I said.

She chuckled slightly. “I feel really ***** about… well, I just feel really ***** and want to make it up to you.”

I grinned. I could think of a whole handful of ways she could make things up to me if she really wanted, but the moment was a bit too rife with awkwardness and tension for me to voice this idea. I cleared my throat, taking the clothes and the towel from her.

“So,” she said after a short moment, “I guess you can have my bed, and I can sleep on the couch, but I’ll just need to take my alarm clock with me and I think-”

I interrupted: “I’ll take the couch.” This was one of those suitably staged moments for me, when I knew the whole thing was like a bad soap opera where the proposed couple squabbled over who would sleep where and eventually ended up in one another’s arms, sharing one bed and all. And I am not ashamed to point out that the staging of this itself had much to do with my desire to have the exact same outcome. So, really, I’m only clichd for the best of reasons, you know.

But Bette had not been given a copy of the script, apparently, because she forgot to squabble with me and take me to bed. What she said, actually, was, “Okay. Thanks.”

If I was as bright then as I am now, I would’ve figured out right then that Bette was just the tiniest bit selfish, but I was drunk, covered in vodka, worried about my job, and so smitten with Bette Porter on an aesthetic level that petty things like her “personality” or “character” did not register with me.