Archive of Our Own

The first time Peg and Whiskey really talk is on the plane back to New York.

Peg collapses into an aisle seat near the back. One minute she’s debuting her new bucket hat on a private island and the next, the fucking Mona Lisa is on fire. To make matters worse, Miles Bron’s precautionary throat blaster was just for show like everything else with him. Everyone tested positive for Covid and had to quarantine before they could fly back. At least Peg’s symptoms were mild, she can finally go home and now she has eleven Birdie-free hours to herself.

“Hey, I’m in 42A.”

It’s like Smash Mouth said, the years start coming and they don’t stop coming and neither does happenstance. Whiskey is in the aisle, wearing a mask for once. Her blonde hair falls limply at either side of makeup-free eyes, puffy like she’s been crying again or hasn’t stopped. Peg gets up so Whiskey can get to the window seat. She smells like hard liquor and citrus.

They don’t talk all throughout takeoff. Whiskey has her rose gold headphones on while Peg keeps herself busy untangling the wired earphones she’s had for ages. What the fuck do you say to a girl after the death of her ancient misogynistic boyfriend who was probably grooming her?

When the flight attendant comes around, Whiskey perks up and extends a credit card. Peg can’t help but notice the way she holds it between two fingers and Cody printed on it. “I’ll take whatever whiskey you have.”

“On brand,” Peg says.

Whiskey cuts her a look as if just remembering she exists. “And whatever my friend wants.”

“Vodka tonic,” Peg tells the flight attendant. “Thank you very much.”

The alcohol comes in tiny bottles. They can’t provide ice or cups, but apparently charging for overpriced alcohol is still allowed or allowed again. None of this flawed logic fazes Whiskey who eagerly undoes the cap and drinks it straight. All at once. No chaser.

Whiskey wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and slaps the button to call the flight attendant. “We should get a fruit and cheese plate. And another round obviously.”

“This is a shot’s worth and it’s ten bucks,” Peg complains. “I can’t imagine what they think they can charge for faux-charcuterie.”

“Doesn’t matter. Duke would want me to drink till I’m stupid rather than…have wild, mindless sex with 40C in an airplane bathroom.”

Peg pops her head out into the aisle. “40C looks like Carmen Sandiego.”

“Mhmm.” Whiskey shakes the empty bottle into her mouth, clearly not caring what anyone thinks of her right now. It’s…refreshing. “Duke didn’t like me hanging out with ‘certain kinds of women’ especially...” Whiskey pushes into Peg’s space to also look at 40C. “Girlboss pantsuit flying in for New York Fashion Week. It might give me ideas.”

“Fashion Week isn’t until September and it’s going to be completely virtual. Birdie threw a fit when we heard. 40C can’t be that good of a girlboss if they’re sitting back here with us plebs.”

“Why are you not with Birdie?” Whiskey taps the call button again even though the light is already on.

“It’s a full flight,” Peg lies.

“She always makes you fly economy to remind you how bad life could be without her.” Whiskey sees through her so easily, Peg feels a chill run down her spine. “Can you imagine if she had children? She’d probably leave you back here with the little blonde biters.”

“You really don’t have to paint me a word picture of a nightmare I’ve definitely had.”

When the flight attendant answers their call light, she says they still aren’t serving food in-flight. She’s twitchy, has clearly been berated by an influencer for things out of her control in the past. Peg knows that body language and that feeling. They’re both surprised when Whiskey doesn’t blow up over a cheese and fruit plate, just orders another round of very small drinks.

“Probably should’ve gotten food at the airport instead of a drink,” Whiskey laments. She looks so lost and did get her free drinks so Peg agrees to share half of her airport-quality sandwich and her backpack full of snacks she bought from a periptero solely based on their cool packaging designs.

“So you didn’t quit after everything?” Whiskey asks, crunching on a honey sesame bar.

“I plan to.” Peg balls her hands up in her lap. “Andi—Helen did the thing I’ve dreamed about for years. Went above and beyond. Incredible. I was going to have my personal stand up and break glass moment, but then I realized I’d have to figure out how to get home and why should I when Birdie would pay for it if I waited it out a little longer…”

“Smart.” Whiskey nods. “Get what you can before you get out. We don’t have millions to fall back on like them.”

“Thank you! My thoughts exactly!”

“Don’t feel bad about doing what you do to survive. Duke’s mom paid for my flight and…and everything really.”

“So that’s why you’re sitting back here.”

“Mhmm.”

“If you have her credit card info, why didn’t you upgrade your seat when you changed your departure?”

“Could’ve. Should’ve.”

“But you didn’t,” Peg says.

There’s a flash of something in Whiskey’s eyes that she then tries to cover with a ditzy head bop. Maybe there’s more to Whiskey than her inarguable beauty, siren eyes and one-liners sticking it to feminists.

“Do you feel like, obligated to be a better person now?” Whiskey slurs, all of the syllables bumping into each other. “More like Helen and Blanc than, mmm, shithead.”

“Obligated is a strong word.”

“I know big words! Use ‘em sometimes too.”

“I said strong word, but yes, I’m learning.” Peg catches herself smiling and feels embarrassed, but the plane is mostly dark and it’s unlikely Whiskey will remember any of this by the time they touch down at JFK. “Ideally, yes, but that’s a lot easier said than done. Realistically…”

Whiskey tilts her head back and closes her eyes. “I should’ve went to law school instead’a TwitchCon. Fucking TwitchCon.”

“Law school?”

“You should’a shot your shot with Helen.” Whiskey has her mask back on, but Peg can tell she’s grinning. “Your face every time you looked at her. Beyond obvious.”

Peg spins the empty vodka bottle a little too hard and it goes flying off the tray table. “Uh, I absolutely should not have. That was the one time me not doing anything was the right move. I didn’t even know who she really was.”

“Sometimes that makes it better.”

It isn’t long before Whiskey fully passes out. Peg realizes when she feels a sudden pressure against her shoulder.

They have been acquainted for a little over two years now. They spent time around each other, but never really spent time together. Peg always wrote her off as careless, overindulgent and reckless—Birdie: The Next Generation.

Peg adjusts in her seat to give Whiskey a better angle. She’s going to have a mean hangover and doesn’t need a sore neck too. Whiskey moves in response to her movement, slinging an arm across Peg’s body and hugging her. Peg closes her eyes and tries not to think about how long it’s been since she’s been held, accident or not.

***

The next time they see each other is the day of Duke Cody’s burial at the end of June.

Peg sees Whiskey from a distance with a small, severe-looking woman presumably Duke’s mom. They arrive late because Birdie could not decide on an outfit for the show she puts on trying to throw herself across Duke’s casket and having to be restrained by Lionel and the other pallbearers. Making a burial about her—classic Birdie Jay. This is all without Birdie knowing about the call Peg answered three days prior.

“You’ve reached Birdie Jay’s phone. How can I help you?”

After a lengthy pause, Whiskey’s voice asked, “Peg?”

The you’re still working for this bitch was implied. Peg felt her face burn with shame.

“Yes. Speaking?”

“Wow. Okay.”

Peg seriously considered faking a bad connection and hanging up.

“So I don’t know if Birdie was planning on sitting shiva—”

“Holy shit. Duke was Jewish? I mean—”

“His mom would rather Birdie not be there. It’s fine if she attends the public service, but shiva at their house is really more for the family. After the whole slur thing, you see where she’s coming from.”

“No, yeah, that’s totally understandable. I doubt Birdie even knows about it. I will try to make sure it stays that way.”

“Great. Thanks. I guess I’ll see you at the burial.”

“I will be there, try to wrangle Birdie the best anyone can.” Peg mentally kicked herself. “Okay. I’m sure you’re busy. I’ll let you go now. Bye, Whiskey.”

“Oh, so she does know who I am?”

Whiskey ended the call before Peg could continue spewing words. The way that interaction made her smile felt inappropriate given the situation, but she smiled nonetheless.

Birdie finds out about a secondary gathering she was not invited to after the ceremony and takes offense. She makes herself feel better by deciding to throw her own “celebration of life” party for Duke and proceeds to only invite her usual guest list.

“Peg! Peeeeg!” Birdie screeches across the crowded penthouse.

She snaps to attention, ready to grab the fire extinguisher. “What? What is it?”

Birdie pulls her through rooms of professional pretty people (of which Peg is the only one masked), pointing an accusing finger at a younger blonde wearing a knee-length black dress, elbow-length black gloves and a mourning veil that flows to the floor. Whiskey is holding court, martini glass in one hand, and has everyone in the “Twiggy Room” spellbound.

“You invited her?” Birdie hisses.

“We’re celebrating the life of her boyfriend—ex-boyfriend? So yeah. I figured it was a given she’d be on the guest list.” Peg motions to the walls covered in truly distasteful big head decals of Duke. “In my defense, I didn’t think she would actually show up.”

“Well, get rid of her!”

“Bird, her boyfriend, one of your oldest friends, died right in front of us. Who is she really hurting by being here?”

“My vibe,” Birdie says. “Bitch, don’t kill my vibe.”

“I will take care of her if you promise to never say that ever again.”

Birdie lights up in that way she does whenever she knows she’s about to get her way. “This is why I love you, Peg.”

CRASH!

The martini glass is gone from Whiskey’s hand. She’s pointing and laughing at the broken glass at her feet. Birdie gives Peg a shove that sends her stumbling into the room. Once Whiskey sees her, glazed brown eyes fill with recognition and she throws her arms out, shouting, “Peg!”

“Whiskey,” Peg says, with a more sober-level of enthusiasm. Whiskey staggers in her general direction, glass crunching beneath her thankfully close-toed heels. Peg lunges forward to help her safely navigate the mess.

“Pssst, assistant!” The dancer who’s apart of Birdie’s regular rotation waves. “Is your girl really named Whiskey?”

“Her birth name,” the model clarifies, idly running his hand up and down the dancer’s legs across his lap. “Is she legit named after an alcoholic beverage?”

“Yeah, that’s my fucking name!” When Whiskey sways, Peg keeps her upright. “My dad wanted me to be strong. And distilling was his only real love. He’d fuck off to trade shows and cheat on my mom.”

The model hands the dancer a crumpled wad of cash.

“Okay! I think you’ve had enough for tonight.” Peg starts leading her out of the room. “Why don’t you sleep this off in a guest room?” Birdie flails her arms and shakes her head no. “Or I can get you a Lyft.”

“Peg!” Birdie shouts. “That glass isn’t going to clean itself up. What if someone trips and falls face-first and gets like, horrifically disfigured?”

“S’a premises,” Whiskey mumbles, “liability claim.”

“What?” Peg looks from her boss to the younger blonde and back. “Birdie, I literally have my hands full here!”

Birdie gives her an expectant look before addressing the room, “Who’s ready for flaming lime drop shots?”

Once everyone clears out, following Birdie like the ring leader she strives to be, Peg sets Whiskey down on the couch and goes to grab a bottle of water along with the broom and dust pan.

“Why’re you still with her?” Whiskey can barely keep her eyes open. “She sucks.”

“And you are very drunk.” Peg sweeps up the glass as quickly as she can. Every time she sees Whiskey about to nod off, Peg shake the glass bottle in her grasp. “Hey. Don’t fall asleep.”

“M’not,” Whiskey says petulantly. “I was just—”

“Resting your eyes,” Peg finishes with amusement. “What are you? Sixty-two?”

“Shut up.” Whiskey’s eyes are closed again. “They buried my ex today. Then I had to go to this thing where everyone was fake-nice to my face then called me a blonde shiksa princess behind my back as if I haven’t seen Mrs. Maisel…”

“Hey! No sleeping!” Peg goes to nudge her again, but the way Whiskey’s dark makeup has smudged under her eyes is so reminiscent of the night at the Glass Onion, of everything that happened on that godforsaken island. Might as well let her rest just for a bit.

Once every shard of glass is properly disposed of, Peg goes over to where Birdie is sprawled across the grand piano performing a sloppy rendition of “You’re So Vain.” The irony goes right over her head.

“Birdie, Whiskey is super trashed. I’m going to put her in the Audrey Hepburn Room for the night. Cool? Cool.”

“Love the idea, really, I do,” Birdie says in a placating tone, “but just one tiny, itty bitty issue—I don’t want her here. What if she steals something? What if she posts videos of me online? It’s your job to protect me from those kinds of people, especially when we’re ‘disappearing’ until the trial is over and it hasn’t even started!”

Peg drops her arms at her sides, exasperated.

“Just take care of her. This is why I pay you. Okay! Good talk!”

She knows arguing won’t get her anywhere so Peg gives up and goes back to the sitting room where Whiskey is now using the unnecessarily long veil like an ineffective blanket.

“Hey.” Peg nudges her. “Time to go home. Where is that, by the way?” Whiskey blinks awake, but her eyes are red and unfocused. She blinks twice more before settling in to sleep again. “Whiskey. Whiskey!”

Peg thinks for a moment, makes a decision and helps Whiskey up. The girl is nearly dead weight in this state, but her feet do shuffle along with a bit of prompting. Peg pauses in the foyer and glances back at the scene of excess devolving into debauchery. She should quit. She should really quit. But not tonight.

“Sure you don’t wanna tell me where you live?” Peg juggles keeping Whiskey steady and ordering them a ride. Whiskey’s head finds that place where Peg’s neck meets her shoulder and stays just like it had on the plane.

“You smell like melon hand sanitizer,” Whiskey mumbles into her neck.

“My signature scent.” Peg taps the confirmation button. “If you’re going to throw up, I would love a heads-up.”

“I don’t throw up.” When Whiskey tries to nuzzle against that bit of skin above the crumpled collar of Peg’s sweater even through the black fabric mask that completes her Grim Reaper's Widow look, it feels intentional, meant to get a reaction. She sure is something else.

Peg huffs out an amused breath and looks up “premises liability claim.”

If you suffer a preventable injury due to an unsafe condition on someone else’s property, you may have grounds for a premises liability claim against the responsible party.

Shit. That’s a real thing. That’s a lawsuit thing.

Maybe she wasn’t just talking drunken nonsense when she mentioned law school on the plane. Maybe there are more layers to Whiskey than originally assumed…or she just watches a lot of daytime court TV.

***

Despite what most assume about her, Whiskey isn’t someone who gets blacked out drunk in strange places with strange people. She’s always careful beneath the careless facade. The night of Duke’s burial was a misstep. Birdie Jay’s stupid party was so fake, so frivolous, but the liquor was top shelf.

Whiskey opens her eyes to the sight of off-white popcorn ceiling. Turning onto her side, she sees a coffee table that looks like it barely survived a wild animal attack. On it is a bottle of water with a sticky note, a sealed pack of aspirin, her mourning veil and her phone connected to an extra long charger plugged into the wall. How…thoughtful.

The sticky note reads:

Had to run
Stay if you need to
But DO NOT steal my shit PLEASE

- Peg

That makes sense. There are worse places she could have ended up.

Whiskey swallows the aspirin and slowly drinks the water as she takes in her surroundings. It’s not much to look at and frankly, there’s even less she’d be tempted to steal. There are cracks in the gray walls, gray furniture and zero personal touches.

Eventually, Whiskey finds the bathroom and stares hard at her reflection in the mirror.

For the last month, she feels like she’s been treading water, jumping from one task to another. Get back to New York, get Duke’s body back to New York, keep up appearances as his grieving girlfriend, and getting drunk in between.

This has to stop. Something needs to change. She starts by washing her face.

When Whiskey returns to the couch to drink more water, a print copy of the New York Times catches her eye, more specifically the attempt to solve the crossword puzzle. All aggressive uppercase letters, scratched out and written over even more aggressively. All done in pen. This tells her more about Peg than anything else in the apartment.

Grabbing a cheap ballpoint pen with Birdie Jay across it in copyrighted font, Whiskey proceeds to fill in the blanks. It helps to concentrate on something. Another task to anchor her. Whiskey enjoys answers that fit in neat boxes. Life might not make sense, but crossword puzzles do. It’s a small comfort.

“Shit!” Peg grabs her chest dramatically. “You’re still here?”

“Your note said it was okay.” Whiskey’s voice is nearly a croak. “I can’t go outside. The sun is out there. Side note, your makeup remover is bad.”

“It’s cheap.”

“Exactly.” Whiskey holds up the messy crossword puzzle. “Also, you fucked this up and in pen, but I like the confidence.”

Peg snaps the newspaper away. “You finished it? Without Google?”

“I’m offended you would ask that, especially when the theme topic is Ruth Bader Ginsburg. I’m gonna Postmates the best bacon egg and cheese you will ever put in your mouth. You want? It’s the least I could do to repay you for last night.”

“Sure. Whatever.” Peg does not take her eyes off the crossword. “One down? Prosit…?”

“Ein Prosit der Gemütlichkeit.” Whiskey raises her empty water bottle in a sloppy imitation of a toast. “I did four years of college, which means four years of binge-drinking.”

“You have an undergrad degree? I’m not surprised in like an insulting way—”

“You absolutely are, but whatever.”

“What was your major? Pre-law?”

“Political science and government,” Whiskey says. “Columbia Law was the next stop, but then I was in this viral video and riding that insanity, I met Duke. My gap year turned into seeing where this would take me and here I am. I’m guessing you know how that goes.”

Peg scowls. “I did one year of college, landed a summer internship at She She Magazine under Birdie and I never went back so yeah, a little.”

“What was your major?”

“Journalism.”

Whiskey squints her eyes. “Yeah, I see that. You’d spend like three paragraphs of purple prose describing the cut and color of Helen’s hair and the barely restrained rage in her enigmatic eyes.”

Peg serves a mean deadpan. “Did you order your food yet?”

“I need an address.”

Peg grabs a random envelope off of a side table and tosses it to her. She stares and keeps staring as if seeing Whiskey for the first time. Normally, she puts so much effort into knowing what people expect her to be and being that. It became second nature, a form of self-preservation. If she’s honest, it was always a thrill, feeling like she was getting away with something. Then it all went up in flames. Duke died. It all unraveled so why not unravel?

“Food’s on its way.” Whiskey scans through her messages and fusses with her hair. “Would you mind if I took a shower?”

“No, yeah, sure. My old roommate moved back in with her parents and I didn’t find out until I got back from Greece. I seriously thought we were robbed at first. Anyways, she left a box of stuff. It’s in the closet across from the bathroom. Help yourself.”

Whiskey only caught about half of that, but nods. “Thanks. I’ll wear anything right now as long as it’s not Sweetie Pants.”

“She would not be caught dead in Sweetie Pants on principle alone.”

“Was she your roommate or your roommate?” Whiskey teases.

Peg ducks her head as if embarrassed. It’s cute. “Definitely the first one. Literally the straightest person to walk the earth. She should have some stuff you won’t mind wearing.”

“Hmm, you assume a lot.” Whiskey stands and has to wait a sec for the world to settle.

“I only meant that she also dresses like she’s going to Coachella every day!” Peg calls out when Whiskey is halfway to the hallway. “I wasn’t making an assumption about your sexuality!”

“Sure you weren’t!”

To think Whiskey once wrote Peg off as no fun. The thrill of leaving the personal assistant flustered in her own living room is almost worth the hangover. The BEC that arrives definitely is. The poppy seed bun is soft yet sturdy, perfect for an overstuffed sandwich. The bacon is crispy, cheese melted just enough, and the egg is perfectly over-easy despite the commute. It can only be magic.

Whiskey enjoys her sandwich with her eyes closed, hair dripping wet, wearing an Only Murders in the Building tie-dye hoodie and shorts with you’re not immune to propaganda across the ass.

“Was I right or was I right?” Whiskey licks a bit of hot sauce made in-house off her thumb.

“It’s the kaiser roll,” Peg says reverently, holding her own deliciously messy sandwich. “I’ve spent two summers around you and I don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat anything other than needlessly complicated salads, charcuterie and something in a blender bottle.”

“Protein shakes. Duke would make them for me…” Whiskey fiddles with the paper wrapper around her sandwich. “Not Apexocity, obviously. They only cater to men.”

“Obviously.”

“Not that I would promote it. Duke drank their shit religiously even though I’m pretty sure it was the reason he couldn’t get it up,” Whiskey says. Mid-sip of coffee, Peg tenses, fighting a spit take. “I probably held him as he cried more than we had sex in the last year.”

“Okay! Facts so far: Whiskey is your real, actual birth name, you have a poli sci degree, you love greasy hangover food, correcting other people’s crossword puzzles, and saying things solely to keep me off-balance. Sadistic.”

“You really are learning,” Whiskey says. “Mindless reality TV is apart of my hangover routine. Have you seen The Circle?” Peg shakes her head no. “It’s a social experiment game show where people can either play as themselves or try to catfish the others. You are going to hate it and think you’d play the game so much better.”

They eat breakfast and watch episode after episode, making little comments about the contestants and gameplay. It’s surprisingly comfortable. Peg never makes her feel like she’s overstayed her welcome even though Whiskey is certain she has.

It’s mid-afternoon by the time Whiskey orders a car, but she doesn’t want to go. She doesn’t want to go back to a large house where the only other occupant is basically a grieving stranger.

Whiskey pokes her lips to one side in thought, then asks, “Do you have someone moving in?”

“Nope. I’ve been preoccupied, but I should get on that.”

“What about me?”

“You?”

“You need a roommate and I can’t live at Duke’s mom’s house forever.”

Peg’s expression, like she’s computing advanced algebraic equations, could easily be a meme. “You would want to? We barely know each other.”

“You just listed all the things you like about me.”

“That wasn’t—”

“I know you could have left me literally anywhere last night, but you brought me to your apartment and charged my phone, which was sweet,” Whiskey says. “You know I was here all day and didn’t steal any of your shit. I’m expecting a witness subpoena as soon as the courts open back up and new roommates would have questions about why I’m being called to testify in a murder trial, but you already know that. I’m sure it’s not fun explaining that you work for one of the most vile people on the planet. No need. I already know.”

“Wow. Law school makes more sense now.”

“Thank you,” Whiskey says, all sugar-coated pride. “Look, I…need a change. All I know is I can’t keep living like this. You don’t have to answer right now.” Whiskey grabs the crossword puzzle and scribbles her phone number in the margin. “Call me when you decide. Thanks again for everything.”

Whiskey can see herself here. She can work with this. Moving in with Birdie Jay’s personal assistant wasn’t the change she envisioned when washing her face earlier, but something tells her it can be a lot better than what she chose in the past.

***

Whiskey moving in saves Peg a lot of time, effort and energy.

Peg texts Whiskey the day after their hangover party and by the end of the week, they’re discussing safety requirements. Both prefer vaping over smoking cigarettes; bong rips and edibles only on occasion. They both want a drama-free shared space. Maybe she should know better than to take Whiskey at face value, but Peg believes her when she agrees to her terms.

After Birdie’s annual Fourth of July bash, Peg comes home covered in red, white and blue glitter to find a two person kayak, two snowboards and one of those hovering surfboard things taking up the foyer.

“What’s with the barricade?” Peg calls out.

“I’ll move it in a minute!”

Peg goes to what is now Whiskey’s room and finds it jam-packed with ski equipment, a dozen skateboards of varying sizes, gym equipment, outdoorsy things and gaming and streaming shit. No mattress, no actual furniture unless you count the fairly expensive gaming chair. There are three mountain bikes against one wall and a barbecue grill still in the box being used as a perch for a camping lantern and an array of skin and hair products. Everything smells like disinfectant, which means she actually listened to Peg's request.

Whiskey goes up onto the tips of her bare toes to stack boxes of solar lanterns one on top of the other to the ceiling. She’s wearing this twisty, backless cropped tank top thing. Peg’s eyes immediately catch the movement of toned muscle, trail down the smooth arch of her spine to skin-tight raspberry red leggings that accentuate—

She averts her eyes. “What is all of this stuff? Are you a fence?”

Whiskey turns to meet her gaze. “Why are you whispering? We’re the only people here.”

“Are you?”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“The person in the heist movie who knowingly buys stolen goods in order to resell them for profit. Sarah Paulson in Ocean’s 8.”

“I haven’t seen it.”

“Oh, my God. If you’re going to live here, we need to fix that immediately.”

“None of this is stolen as far as I know, but I am planning to sell it. It’s…” Whiskey glances around at the labyrinth of stuff. “It was Duke’s. His mom didn’t want to deal with it. She said I could take it or it’d just sit in her garage. Then she made a prenup joke. At least I think it was a joke. She has a very dry sense of humor.”

Peg leans against the door frame. “How are you doing with all of that…?”

“I’m alright,” Whiskey replies, and it sounds practiced. “The move has kept me occupied at least.”

“You don’t even have a bed.”

“I have like three tents, five sleeping bags, an air mattress and a hammock…somewhere.”

“You can always crash on the couch for now. It’s the nicest thing I have ever owned.” Peg turns to leave and calls out over her shoulder, “I brought cake if you’re into that.”

Peg used to decompress after a long day with a cup of tea and only her self-loathing for company. These days she comes home to Whiskey who smells really good and wears very little clothing and begrudgingly asks for assistance with the daily crossword. So far, it works.

“I listened to your Spotify playlist.”

Peg turns to face Whiskey so fast that she hurts something in her neck. “You did?”

“I told you I would.”

“Yeah, but you could have been lying to be polite.”

“I let it play while I was moving stuff,” Whiskey says offhandedly. “Not what I usually listen to. I didn’t recognize a single song, but I didn’t skip any either. Those were all local artists?”

“Mostly. I’m always on the lookout for new, fresh music for Birdie’s shows and parties. She refuses to use the same artist twice, but I like to keep track of the ones I become obsessed with. I can’t believe you actually listened. Who does that?”

Whiskey’s phone buzzes for the umpteenth time since they settled in to watch Ocean’s 8. She takes half a look at the screen and slides Do Not Disturb on.

“You didn’t have any outdoor, appropriately social distanced Fourth of July plans?” Peg asks.

“Peg, we’re in a pandemic.” Whiskey echoes the words Peg tells her every time she leaves the apartment. “All of the friends I made since I moved here were Duke’s friends. They only ever call or text me to ask about what really happened and to pedal conspiracy theories about the libs assassinating Duke and framing Miles. I’m so over it. What about you? No after work plans?”

Peg picks a blueberry off of the 4th of July cake and pops it in her mouth. “It’s not easy to maintain relationships when you’re constantly canceling plans because Birdie randomly decided to take off to Paris on a whim. Mentioning I work for Birdie Jay is usually a dealbreaker alone.”

She steels herself for judgement, for Whiskey to repeat her question from before. You’re still with her? Peg already has an argument prepared, one she spent years scripting in her head.

“Well, maybe we can be friends,” Whiskey says. “I don’t have a lot of those.”

“Your socials would suggest otherwise.”

A slow, pleased smile splits Whiskey’s distractingly plump lips. “You social media stalked me? And no follow? So rude.”

“One, it was apart of my job to suss you out the summer of my yacht nightmare. Two, I would be remiss if I didn’t look into you before agreeing to live with you. Three, you haven’t followed me either.”

Peg feels her phone vibrate where it’s tucked into the bend of her knee.

“Done.” Whiskey puts her phone down.

Peg follows her back out of common courtesy. “I mean, just because we live together doesn’t mean we have to be friends.”

“Why is it so unbelievable that I'd want to be friends?”

“I cannot stress how uncool and unpopular I was growing up.”

“I can’t see that at all.” Whiskey can’t get through the sentence with a straight face either. “I bet you were valedictorian, in…marching band, and editor of the school newspaper. You’d want to get a head start on your journalism career.”

Peg feels a strange warmth bloom in her chest. She remembered. Someone cared enough to retain information about her. It isn’t that common.

“I was salutatorian and it still stings,” Peg says. “I was not in marching band. I was very gangly. I could not support the weight of a brass instrument, but I play piano. Teaching piano lessons was my side hustle pre-pandemic. I was not editor of the school newspaper, but I was an annoyingly dedicated reporter.”

“Still impressive.” Whiskey turns to face her fully. “Okay, do me.”

From what she’s seen, Whiskey is not the girl who would mindlessly agree with and parrot anything Duke Cody said. She clearly got caught up climbing a golden ladder that turned into quicksand.

“You did competitive dance as a kid,” Peg says. That’s why you could probably crush skulls with your thighs. “You were the girl who threw parties that looked like something out of a teen movie in high school. And you were valedictorian.”

“I did do dance as a kid. I wanted to be a ballerina or a model until my dad left and he was the one paying for my lessons. In high school, I would never invite my friends over. We were poor and I was…embarrassed so I learned to hide it well.” A glimmer of vulnerability shows in Whiskey’s eyes, but disappears a split second later, replaced by fire. “And hell yeah I was valedictorian.”

“I would have hated you in high school.”

“Hundred-percent,” Whiskey agrees. “I would have respected you, but I never would have said it out loud.”

“Story of my life.”

Peg must be wearing the lonely, painful memories on her face because Whiskey reaches out and touches her shoulder. The girl just opened up about growing up poor and she’s the one doing the comforting? Peg feels her face heat with the embarrassment of being seen and feeling useless. That combination doesn’t happen much either.

“Well, I had an exhausting day sooo goodnight!” Peg stands and does not let herself see Whiskey’s reaction. “Tell me what you think about the movie tomorrow.”

They don’t need to be friends, Peg decides as she brushes her teeth. She doesn’t need friends. At the end of the day, all that matters is their agreement to deliver on rent each month.

While running errands for Birdie the next day, Peg’s phone buzzes with a text:

WHISKEY
The scene where Cate Blanchett tries to top Sandra Bullock 🤌

Peg laughs out in public and startles a flock of pigeons, which in turn startles her.

Unfortunately (fortunately?) for Peg, she has never been good at keeping a blonde menace from completely taking over her life.

***

Whiskey meets the Old Biddy Brigade when they shout introductions from the front facing windows of the red brick apartment building. In an effort to socially distance, the OBB gossip from their windows, loud enough for the whole block to hear.

Betty and her husband, Bill, have been married for over fifty years and do not care that half the building knows every detail of their loud arguments. Janice was a hypochondriac before the pandemic, always bugging Old Pete, the super, about the pipes and the things she insists she hears skittering in the walls.

It becomes routine for Whiskey to get some sun and vape on the stoop, listening to them reminisce about a time where they had a communal bingo night (with serious cash payouts) once a month in the basement. When she asks if Peg ever joined, the old ladies grumble that she never brought a dish, but they occasionally bullied her into playing the piano for them.

The majority of the residents skew elderly, but there’s a good number of millennials and zoomers. One afternoon Whiskey meets one of the few children in the building. She climbs up the stairs to see a young girl sticking something on their front door. She has long, wavy dark hair down to her waist and what looks like a crossbow made of popsicle sticks on her back.

“Are we being evicted?” Whiskey calls out. “Not according to the Tenant Safe Harbor Act.”

The girl freezes, eyes wide above a Barbie fabric mask. “I don’t know what that means! I’m eight.”

“You’re never too young to know your rights. I’m Whiskey.”

“I’m Minnow. Isn’t whiskey a grownup drink?”

“Isn’t minnow a small fish?”

“My dad says grownup drinks taste like donkey piss and adults are dumb for drinking ‘em.”

“He has a point, but dads in general shouldn’t be allowed to name anything.”

“You’re telling me, lady,” the girl says with so much attitude it’s charming. “I was leaving a note for Miss Peg. My mom’s asking if she has any piano books or vid recs I can use to practice alone. She doesn’t think arts and crafts weapons are a ‘productive use of time.’”

“That’s no fun,” Whiskey says. “You should do both or you can always craft in secret.”

“Good idea.” Minnow nods with respect. “So you live here now?”

“Uh-huh. Do you have any advice for me, how to get along with Miss Peg?”

“Don’t let her have any plants! She’s a plant killer. She likes pizza a lot. I always get the pizza boxes from her recycles for my crafts. I heard Rocko and Dana from 3B say Miss Peg never has a boyfriend ‘cause she’s a raging lesbian.”

“Heard or overheard?”

Minnow twists from side to side, trying to look innocent.

“As long as you don’t get caught or learn to cry on command.” Whiskey winks and goes to unlock the front door. “I’ll make sure Peg gets your note.”

“Thanks, Miss Whiskey! You have the best ideas!”

By the end of July, Whiskey knows most in the building by face if not by name. Dana and Rocko are an adrenaline junkie couple. When they buy a mountain bike and camping gear from her, Whiskey makes sure to overcharge them. Skateboards and solar lanterns are her top sellers. Peg shoots down her idea to give Minnow the hunting crossbow for her upcoming birthday (“Not before she turns eighteen so we aren’t liable.”).

“What smells so good?” Peg asks when she gets home one night.

“Betty made her famous spaghetti for everyone except the Mets Hat Dirtbag whose girlfriend got drunk, cried loudly and threw up in the hallway last week. Betty warned us nice girls about their crowd.”

“There goes my plans for tonight,” Peg says sarcastically. “Betty has never offered me food before.”

“Maybe she would if you’d just play carols at the Christmas party like she asks you to every year. I know you’re a pro social dodger. She told me.”

“I’m busy and one song leads to another and another and then I’m trapped.” Peg passes behind Whiskey who’s focused on her phone, biting the tip of her tongue. “What’s that face? What are you working on?”

“The Aussie guy on the fifth floor wants to buy the hydrofoil surfboard, but he thinks I’m low-balling him. Shit is like over 6k brand new online. Duke maybe used it once for a video, but failed so spectacularly, he was too embarrassed to post it.”

Just thinking about Duke leaves her with a bittersweet feeling, but Whiskey doesn’t expect that to ever go away.

“But you’re just a hot blonde who doesn’t know anything about money or outdoorsy stuff and you just want to get rid of the reminder of your recently deceased ex,” Peg argues. “When will a big, strong, outdoorsy man save you?”

“You understand me,” Whiskey says. “Go eat. She gave us like a week’s worth.”

“You don’t bring people in here to look at your hoard, do you?”

“Of course not. I’ve only ever spoken to the other tenants outside or masked and six feet apart by the mailboxes. All transactions happen downstairs.”

“It really does warm my heart that you listen to me.” Peg plops onto the couch with a big bowl of spaghetti. She folds her legs beneath her all weird because she can never just sit.

“I could use your brain for one other thing,” Whiskey says. “What gift says ‘long time no see. Sorry I was unhinged the last time we saw each other. I regret shooting at you with a speargun while begging for my life. You were right about everything. I’m following your advice. Thanks’?”

“That’s…a lot to pack in there. After the whole Ellen controversy—”

Whiskey laughs. “That was so inappropriate. Top ten Birdie Jay Birdie Jay-ing.”

“She had me send Ellen an eight foot tall, ten foot long rainbow display of gourmet cupcakes in the color of, you guessed it, the rainbow to apologize.”

“That’s ridiculous. And I’m not exactly apologizing on a Birdie Jay budget.”

“Who did you almost shoot with a speargun?”

“Helen.”

“You almost shot Helen Brand with a speargun?!”

“In the dark with my eyes closed,” Whiskey says guiltily. “It was a misunderstanding! She didn’t know Duke was dead and she was going through our room and everyone was panicking. I followed the wrong context clues. We cleared this all up on the ferry, but I feel like I should do more, you know?”

“I don’t know Helen well, but she seems like the type who’d think honoring her advice is the best gift you could give her.”

After a thoughtful pause, Whiskey says, “So like a heartfelt note and an edible arrangement? Oh! An edibles arrangement?”

“Hard kombucha had her fucked up and you want to give her a bouquet of weed gummies?” Peg thinks on it as she chews. “Sending someone packaged edibles made to look like a flower arrangement might actually be safer than unpackaged fruit in a pandemic. Is that a thing yet?”

“I’ll add it to our board of potential career paths,” Whiskey jokes. “Also, what do you think about painting the apartment?”

“Why?”

“I love it here, but it could use some color and personality. I’ve never really lived in a place I could paint and make my own before. It sounds fun. Minnow has a lot of opinions on color pallets and Old Pete will trade paint for tools. But not if you aren’t into it.”

“Sure. Whatever you want.”

“Not whatever.” Whiskey rolls her eyes. “You live here too. I don’t want you to hate where you live. I’ll text before I do anything drastic. You have to tell me if you hate something before I put the work in, okay? YES!” Whiskey nearly jumps out of her seat with excitement. “Got him! He’s buying the board! I can sell anything.”

“Okay, narcissist,” Peg snorts.

“Okay you’ll be honest about my decor ideas or okay you’re super impressed with my sales skills?”

“First one,” Peg says through a mouthful of spaghetti. “Just stop looking so pleased with yourself.”

Whiskey couldn’t even if she tried and she admittedly doesn’t try very hard.

***

At the start of August, right when Peg thinks she has a grasp on this new living situation and knows what to expect from Whiskey, that changes again. It starts with a truly dramatic slow clap.

“Masterful.” Whiskey is at the little two person table with a camera and ring light setup. Her face is done up in full makeup, lashes, the works. “The judge rejecting the defense motion to move the trial out of the country stole any attention Birdie’s statement on Bangladesh might have gotten. Perfect timing. Birdie barely cracks the trending topics in most places. I bow to the Master of Spin.”

Peg rubs a hand down the front of her face. “I don’t see how that’s slow clap worthy. I’m just…doing my horrible job.”

“Have you considered a career as a crisis consultant at like a legit strategic communications firm?”

“Fixing other people’s problems pays the bills, but I don’t know if it’s what I want to do for the rest of my life.”

When Whiskey motions to the bottle of wine waiting, Peg is more than happy to oblige. “What are you doing?”

“Influencing,” Whiskey replies. “I was supposed to use all of this shit for a travel vlog in Greece. They’re understanding of my situation, but still want their promo.”

“Were you wearing this when you went full raccoon?”

“Yup. How do I say this finishing makeup will make you look greasy as fuck?”

Peg pours herself a generous glass of wine, gives it a swirl as she thinks and takes a sip. “Matte is out. Iridescent, dewy glow is in. Shine bright, bestie.”

Whiskey laughs. “Okay, we can add advertisement to the list of potential next careers for you.”

“I wear many hats.” Peg adjusts the ring light just a bit. “There. Perfect.”

“Are you talking about me or the lighting?”

“As if you need me to feed you compliments. That’s what comment sections are for.”

“It’s still nice to hear sometimes.” Whiskey checks her reflection, smoothing down flyaway hairs. “This is easy and I’ll do it while it’s lucrative, but I know better than to rely on my looks long-term. It never lasts. There’s always someone younger and prettier coming up. Trying to make it work past your prime is so tired.”

“You mean like Birdie?”

She shoots Peg a look. “Ooh, defensive.”

“No.” Peg finishes her wine in one gulp. “I don’t need to defend or justify what Birdie does or who she is. It is what it is with her, but I’d be lying if I said there aren’t times I wish I could un-know.”

“Liar.”

Peg flinches mid-refill and the wine bottle hits the glass with an ugly clink. Whiskey leans over and grabs Peg’s hand to stop her from overfilling her glass and making a mess, all without breaking this intense eye contact they’ve got going on.

“Peg, be real. You spend all of your time with her by choice. There has to be a part of you that gets off on knowing what she’s like beyond the bullshit even though with her it’s more bullshit. It still gives you something the rest of the world doesn’t have access to.”

“The whole world knows exactly how awful Birdie can be. It sounds to me like you’re projecting.”

“And you’re deflecting.” Whiskey laughs, so untouchably cool it’s unfair. “You’re the one who brought up Birdie. And no, absolutely fucking not. I get off on being underestimated. I don’t need to be known or understood. I can admit that about myself.”

“But you wouldn’t admit that to just anyone, would you?”

The corner of Whiskey’s merlot red lips tick up in just the hint of a smirk. Whatever this conversation has devolved into, wherever it’s leading, it feels…dangerous.

Whiskey backs down first. She breaks eye contact and sits back behind her camera setup. “As someone who knowingly endorsed the patriarchy for personal gain, I’m the last person who should be judging Birdie, you, anyone.”

“Is that why we never talk about my day?”

“Do you want to talk about her when you’re home and supposed to be chilling?”

“Sometimes. No. I don’t know.” Peg remembers her near overflowing wineglass and leans down to sip from the surface. “Do you think it’s too late for Birdie to be anything else?”

“That depends. Do you think she wants to be anything else? You’d know better than anyone.”

“Wow.” Peg rubs her forehead as if it would help ease the way her head is spinning. “I can’t believe I used to think you were just Birdie: the Next Generation.”

“That’s exactly what I wanted everyone to think. That’s a better compliment than being called beautiful.”

“Yeah, well, you’re that too.” Peg grabs her glass and the whole bottle. “I’m going to bed. I’ll try to be quiet while you’re influencing.”

Peg crawls into bed that night, heart racing and not from the wine. She knows Whiskey at this point, knows how she plays it cool and passive until she needs to make a calculated strike. Whiskey likes to keep Peg off-kilter for her own amusement, but tonight feels different.

Whiskey is terrifying.

Peg doesn’t know what it means, but she can admit, at least to herself, she likes it.

***

It was only a matter of time before one of the OBB mentions a grandson who’s single. Whiskey plays the dead ex-boyfriend sympathy card and Betty gives her a condolences casserole and peanut butter cookies. A card well-played.

What about your roommate? Janice asks. Whiskey laughs on the inside and tells them Peg is married to her job, which isn’t untrue. It does make her wonder.

Peg is attractive. She has warm, trusting eyes and dexterous, pianist hands. She’s quirky like how she wears her watch on her dominant hand and has a tattoo of her own name (“I was drunk, okay, and I don’t know, I don’t ever want to forget who I am…”). Peg says what she means, often in a frantic fashion, which some can find endearing. She refers to herself and Birdie as a “we” which is easily the worst thing about her.

Peg’s Instagram is exactly what you’d expect—mean-mugging the camera in selfies that rarely capture all of her face, exotic locales at sunset, display windows of Asian bakeries and butterfly knife tricks. Birdie is never shown or tagged even though anyone with even limited knowledge of Peg’s life knows her boss is ever-present.

Whiskey wonders if Amy who comments on all of Peg’s posts knows about her codependency on her boss. She clicks over to Amy’s profile and the twenty-something-year-old is holding up Claire Debella campaign signs. Oh, so they have that long-suffering assistants connection. Amy went to Yale and her poli sci degree made her Claire’s bitch, but didn’t get her invited to disruptor summer trips.

When the front door slams, Whiskey swipes out of Instagram and opens today’s crossword puzzle. Fuck Birdie Jay the person, but thank you, Birdie Jay the brand for the New York Times All Access subscription. It’s a deductible business expense, not that Birdie even realizes she’s paying for it.

“Why is the front door so quiet?” Peg asks.

“Olive oil. You were bitching about it so I lubricated the hinges. TikTok told me to. We won’t get a heads-up if a home invader breaks in, but anything for my roomie.”

Peg stops short, tote bag slipping off her shoulder, keys still in hand. The expression on her face is so Peg, so surprised someone would listen to her and care enough to do something. Whiskey hates how often she sees this expression, the idea that she had been ignored and treated so poorly that the smallest kindness means so much.

“Thanks,” Peg says quietly. “Why are you still up?”

“Couldn’t sleep so I’m spiraling on Porn Hub. Using My Lesbian Best Friend’s Hand. Kinda amateurish, but sometimes that makes it better.”

Peg drops her chin to the back of the couch to get a better look at the crossword puzzle on Whiskey’s iPad.

“What’s the theme?” Peg asks.

“49-A. It may require letters, a number and a special character—strong password,” Whiskey replies. “Except you need to spell out all of the numbers and symbols so is it really on-theme?”

“Debatable,” Peg says. “Four down is miso.”

“Thank you.” Whiskey’s fingertips dance across the screen.

Peg narrows her eyes suspiciously. “Why aren’t you arguing with me about it? You knew the answer, but left it blank for me, didn’t you?”

“Seeing you get all excited about being right is the best part of my day,” Whiskey says. “I made pomegranate margaritas if you want.”

“Fancy.” Peg heads down the hallway to her room. “By the way, thirty-four down is schlepped, which means your sixty-one across is fucked!”

Frowning, Whiskey rereads the clues, listening to the familiar sounds of Peg’s heavy, dragging footsteps. She walks like a reanimated corpse in a horror movie and yet, Whiskey finds the sound of it soothing. The apartment just feels better when Peg is home.

Peg reappears not long later, wearing an old Rutgers t-shirt and ninja star patterned shorts. She pours the vibrant red concoction into the awaiting glass with a sugar lime rim. Whiskey already knows Peg will think it’s too sweet.

“I know your job consumes all of your energy, but does that mean you don’t want to date?” Whiskey asks. “No one interesting or special?”

Peg blinks at her. “What?”

“I asked for the last four digits of your social security number.” Whiskey knows she should probably feel awkward about reaching beyond the boundary of just roommates and yet— “Are you blushing?”

“No. No one interesting or special.” Peg takes a noisy sip. “This is too sweet.”

“Because I know how you feel about me bringing people over, but I don’t mind you having overnight guests.”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t have anyone over. It’s your place too. But I might punch someone in the face if I have to hear any of that MRM shit in my own living room.”

“I’m pivoting! I might not have a plan, but I know that much. So no one? Not even Amy who also loves Tevas and comments on literally all of your posts?” Whiskey pulls Instagram back up. “Heart eyes emoji. Caterpillar with glasses. Orgasm emoji.”

“Which do you think is the orgasm emoji?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“That is rich coming from you.” Peg takes another sip and licks the sweetness and tang from her lips. It’s only natural that Whiskey clocks it. “I don’t know. Amy’s nice. Like, really nice. Maybe too nice? Is that awful? I’m awful.”

“We like what we like and you like ‘em a little toxic.”

“So you’re saying this is a me problem?”

“I’m not saying it’s a problem at all. There’s nothing wrong with liking a little spice as long as you don’t let it destroy your taste buds.”

“What about you?”

“It’s way too soon. I can’t even think about dating.”

Peg sinks into the couch, much more comfortable now that the spotlight is off of her. “Okay, but what do you like?”

“Mmm, before everything, I would have said someone with ambition and opportunity. Money may not buy happiness, but financial security goes a long way.”

“That’s what you’d go for, but what do you like? As in a person.”

“Divorced men in their forties who think taking care of a hot, young blonde will give them purpose.”

“Easy target is not a personality trait.”

“That is debatable.”

“Have you ever dated anyone you actually liked?” Peg asks.

“Hard to say, but I do know I’ve never been in love before.”

“Ugh, I’m jealous. I fall in love too fast, too easy, and it never goes anywhere because I’m me.”

“What do you mean?” Whiskey asks.

Peg opens her mouth, closes it, chugs her margarita, takes a big breath. “Because I’m me.”

“Dramatic, yes, noted. What’s wrong with being you?”

“Is that a serious question? I think you’ve seen enough to know.”

“I know you’re one of the smartest people I’ve ever met,” Whiskey begins to list off on her fingers, just to match the dramatics. “You’re loyal to a fault and good at improvising on the spot. You’re so comfortable being you all the time. And you’re hot, Peg.”

“Okay, thanks, but you don’t need to hype me up.”

“Why not? I don’t even have to lie to do it.”

“Margaritas and girl talk,” Peg lists back. “What’s next? Makeover?”

“No.” Whiskey brushes a stray eyelash off of Peg’s cheek. “You might be a mess and dress like a dork, but it’s always for you, not anyone else, and that’s cool. Someone smart will see that and you deserve to be with someone smart.”

“And you deserve someone who sees the real you.” Peg sounds so earnest, it stirs something in her that Whiskey can’t quite put a name to. “I mean, the extent of what you’re capable of is terrifying, but it beats out empty-headed Twitch stream girl.”

“Thank you for the compliment, they’re nice sometimes,” Whiskey says, “but I’m in my independent era. Janice has a single grandson if you’re interested. She tried to throw him at me, but she said you’re cute enough too.”

Peg flings a pillow at her and steals her iPad. She swipes out of Instagram and returns to the crossword puzzle. When Whiskey rests her head on Peg’s shoulder so she can get a better look at the screen obviously, Peg doesn’t tense up or try to move away. Whiskey counts tonight as a win.

***

As if the pandemic hasn’t slowed the world to a crawl on its own, New York gets hit with a sweltering late summer heatwave. The humidity is omnipresent and most restrictions are still in place. It feels almost biblical, like this can only be long overdue, highly prophesied punishment. At least the summer of ’77 had bursting fire hydrants in the streets and helado de coco carts serving up sweet relief.

“Peg!” Karl, who lives on the second floor and wants to go by the stage name, Morpheu$, which Peg has shot down multiple times, follows her up the stairs two at a time. Damn his long, could’ve gone pro athlete legs.

“Six feet, Karl!”

“Peg, there’s gotta be something you can throw my way! I don’t just sing and rap and write music. I also act, dance, DJ. I’m a certified acrobat! I can twirl some sticks on fire. I know Birdie Jay likes that shit! I’ve seen the stories!”

“And do you know who has to put out those fires?” Peg points an emphatic finger at herself. Just walking up the stairs has her sweating. This heat is cruel. “Look, K, you’re talented, a born entertainer, but you don’t want Birdie Jay to be your in. Don’t lower your standards.”

“I’m not doing shit except playing fucking Striking Vipers all day! I don’t got standards!”

“If I hear about something legit, I’ll let you know.” Peg unlocks her front door, pushes it open and catches just a flash of Whiskey passing by, wearing this sideless razorback tank top that barely falls to mid-thigh and little else.

That’s another thing about this weather. Whiskey wears even less clothes than usual and always seems to have ice cubes on hand. Since when do they own ice trays? She’ll be scrolling on her phone with one hand and idly rubbing an ice cube along her throat and the back of her neck. Peg knows she should not be objectifying her roommate and only friend, but she has eyes and it’s so hot in every sense of the word.

Peg yanks the door shut. Karl is positively beaming.

“So that’s the new roomie I’ve been hearing so much high praise about? Peg. Peg. Are you in lockdown with a model? Are you making her a model?”

“Okay, I think there’s some confusion about what I do for a living.”

“Aren’t you gonna introduce us?”

“Absolutely not.”

Karl puts his hands up and backpedals with the brightest, toothy smile. He really should be landing toothpaste commercials at the very least. “Fine. Be that way. Keep your hot roommate all to yourself. Just remember we—” He motions between them with the kind of dramatics only a thespian could possess. “—have been neighbors way longer. Your boss threw up in my ride on New Year’s Eve. I didn’t even have to pick you up…”

“I still owe you. I know.”

“Music, acting, dancing, DJing—”

“And acrobatics. You’ll be the first I call the moment The Greatest Showman is being made into a Broadway show.”

“You’re the best, Peg!” Karl shouts on his way back to the stairs.

“It’d be nice to hear when you’re not asking me for things!”

“Once you cave and be my manager for real, I’ll tell you whatever you want to hear!”

Peg shakes her head and goes inside to take a cold shower even though she knows it’s useless. She’ll just end up irritable and frustrated after the momentary relief fades.

“Hey, I have a question.” Whiskey teeters in the doorway of Peg’s room, all legs and a particularly intense look in her eyes that betrays her casual tone.

“What’s up?” Peg asks.

“Do you wanna have sex?”

Peg just stares for what feels like forever. “…with you?”

Whiskey crosses her arms beneath her breasts and Peg is not looking. “No, with the hot British artist from the fifth floor. She wanted me to give you this little note with check yes or no on it. It’s either really sweet or apart of a new art piece.”

“Okay, everyone in the building would say yes to the hot British artist from the fifth floor regardless of preference, morals…religious affiliation.”

Whiskey looks amused, then remembers why she’s in here. “Yes, with me.”

She makes it sound so blasé, like she just asked Peg if she wants to add anything to her Postmates order.

“Counter question,” Peg says. “Why?”

“Because I want to get off and no offense, but you could really use it.”

“Offense taken, but it’s fine. What makes you say that?”

Whiskey tries to suppress a laugh and fails. She presses a knee into the corner of the bed and the way the mattress dips makes Peg’s stomach twist. “Come on. I listen to your Spotify playlists. It’s your turn to do something for me.”

Peg snorts a laugh. “You’re awful.”

“You like it,” she shoots back. “Peg, I wanna use my lesbian best friend’s hand.”

“I hate you.”

Smiling like she knows Peg feels the exact opposite, Whiskey invites herself just a little closer. “You know you are, right? My best friend. And it’s not like I can just find someone on an app. Like you keep reminding me, we’re in a pandemic.”

“What happened to Whiskey’s independent era?”

“Oh, it’s still on. I’m not asking you to move in with me.”

“It’s a little late for that.”

Whiskey runs her tongue along her bottom teeth and deflates a little. She gets that look like she’s trying to gauge what strategy would work best. Peg likes the feeling she gets whenever Whiskey chooses to be honest with her. It’s addicting.

“So, I saw an article earlier,” Whiskey says. “Everything you need to know about the case against Miles Bron and it made me realized…he’s the last person I was with.”

“Oh, ew. I mean—”

“No, fully ew.” Whiskey nods. “So you can see why I’d be eager to replace those memories with better ones, but no pressure. There’s a million reasons we shouldn’t, but, I don’t know…” Whiskey tilts her head from side to side. “It could be a fun bonding thing.”

“Wow. That’s so—only you—”

“And,” Whiskey goes on, “I know you find me attractive. I see you looking.” All of the exasperated amusement drains from Peg’s face. “I don’t mind if it’s you. I like it.”

The low, huskiness of her voice drowns out the millions of reasons they shouldn’t cross this particular line. Peg opens her mouth to say something, unsure what until she hears herself—

“Whisk, I need this to work because it’s the best, most stable thing in my life, which is wild. I mean, most stable? You?”

“Speak for yourself, but same,” Whiskey says. “I’m happy with the way things are, but…I want to feel good and I want to make you feel good. It’s up to you.”

Whiskey traces along the neckline of Peg’s shirt and over the curve of her clavicle. Her expression brightens when goosebumps prickle all across Peg’s skin.

“Did you cut your nails for this?” Peg asks. “What if I said no?”

“Fuck, Peg! I swear, this is like the most talking I’ve ever had to do to get someone to have sex—”

Peg kisses her. She gives in to impulse and the heat and the delight that comes with making Whiskey lose her cool. All of the reasons one should not have sex with their roommate and only friend become less important than the sound of surprise that rises from Whiskey’s throat, followed by one of relief and pleasure. Whiskey brings her hand up to Peg’s cheek and kisses her back, kisses her deeper. Peg shudders against the feeling.

Sweet, almost chaste kisses quickly become longer, dirtier, all-consuming. It takes nothing at all for Peg to plant her hand on Whiskey’s bare hip and slide her fingers up, up, up warm, smooth skin because she’s still wearing that razorback that has no sides. Whiskey gasps Peg’s name, gripping her shoulders and her hair, pushing her back into the pillows.

“Why are you wearing like, actual clothes?” Whiskey tugs at Peg’s shirt. “Off. Now.”

“You didn’t even dress up to seduce me?” Peg whips her shirt off comically fast. She works off her sports bra and it doesn’t even clear her elbows before Whiskey’s lips are on her throat, wet and hungry, mouthing down along her collarbone. “Fuck.”

Whiskey laughs and the hot blast of her breath should not feel as good as it does when everything is so mind-numbingly hot. She looks up at Peg, eyes half-lidded and barely containing a heat that rivals the climate of the city. “You haven’t even seen seduction. You would not survive.”

Peg peels her sports bra the rest of the way off. “FYI, you don’t have to talk to me like you’re filming a video for your horny OnlyFans base.”

Whiskey, busy taking in the sight of Peg topless, the pink tip of her tongue poking out between her lips, suddenly looks back up, goddamn ecstatic. “You use OnlyFans? Who do you sub? Do any of them look like me?”

“Wow.” Peg groans. “You just—are we doing this or not?”

The smile on Whiskey’s face is so open, so real, so happy. Peg feels a sudden, gentle warmth that isn’t from embarrassment or the heatwave. Okay, maybe a little embarrassment, but still. When Whiskey smiles at her like this and answers her question with a kiss, it feels like nothing else in the world could possibly matter more than this, now, them. Instead of trying to explain any of this, Peg is eager to show and share. There really are better things they could be doing with their mouths.

***

“So, you’ve done that before.”

Peg stares up at the popcorn ceiling. The standing fan is whirring on the highest setting because it’s after midnight and still hot as fuck.

Whiskey half-plants her face against a pillow, hair deliciously disheveled. “You need to stop being surprised I know what I’m doing and I’m good at it.”

“I didn’t say you were good.”

“You aren’t complaining either.” Whiskey taps the tip of Peg’s nose and giggles when she blinks. “This is like the most chill I’ve ever seen you and I’ve seen you really high.”

“Yeah, well, it’s…been a while for me.”

“Me too. At least since I was with someone who…” Whiskey’s voice trails off and she tucks her bottom lip between her teeth, eyes darting to the opposite wall.

“What? Made you come?”

“You’re so proud. It’s not a bad look on you.” Whiskey purses her lips. “But yeah. Honestly, that was like the first time someone’s gone down on me and I wasn’t practicing soundbites for my future OnlyFans so he wouldn’t have a complex and bitch.”

“But that’s not what you were going to say…”

“No, it wasn’t.” Despite the temperature, Whiskey pulls the sheets up around her. “I was going to say, someone I was excited to be with…”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s stupid, Peg. Forget I said anything. I don’t even know what I’m saying right now.”

“Whiskey.”

She shifts to the edge of the bed and her gaze hardens. “I’m conventionally attractive. I know men like Miles Bron find me desirable. Duke knew it too and…suggested if I entertain Miles’ interest he might listen to me more than Duke being so direct and desperate about what he wanted. I saw the value in that avenue. I just wasn’t all that excited about it.”

Silence stretches between them and Whiskey refuses to look anywhere near her. Peg feels her chest squeeze and she has to remind herself to breathe.

“He’s lucky he’s already dead.”

“Peg.”

“You tell me he basically sex trafficked you—”

“It wasn’t like that! I could have said no if I wanted to.”

“And you don’t think he would’ve dropped you if you did?”

“There’s no way of knowing that anymore, is there? It’s not like he offered to pass me around to all of his friends. It was just Miles a few times.”

“Knowingly being exploited or not, he should have never asked you to do that.”

“I was down to pay to play. I’m no victim here. So don’t fucking look at me like—”

Peg pulls her into a hug. It’s a weird angle, but she refuses to let go, not even to adjust, not even a little. “I don’t care what you did with who or why, but I do care about how you’re treated. You deserve better.”

“I could say the same about you.”

Peg sighs, but doesn’t let go, especially not when Whiskey quiets and the tension in her body goes slack.

“Sleep here tonight.” Peg presses a kiss to her hair before rolling away. “It’s ridiculous you still don’t have a real bed.”

“Buying furniture sounds like such a pain.” Whiskey pulls the sheets up over the lower part of her face, twisting a corner between her fingers. This is the first time Whiskey has ever looked…shy. Not slutty hot blonde shy, but properly nervous and self-conscious. “Tell me things aren’t going to be weird between us tomorrow.”

“Knowing you, if you don’t want things to be weird, you won’t stop until you make it true.”

Whiskey laughs, “But you have such a natural way of making things awkward.”

“Then you might have to work twice as hard.”

“For you?” Whiskey scoots closer. “I’d be willing to work.”

“I will believe it when I see it.”

Whiskey shifts even closer, pressing her nose into Peg’s shoulder and whispering, “Thank you for not judging me or whatever.”

“That’s not true. I judge you a lot, but not for that.”

Whiskey grabs her by the wrist and pulls Peg's arm around her as she settles onto her side. Peg grumbles under her breath about it being too hot, but still goes where she wants her and holds her when Whiskey asks her to. Just until she falls asleep. Peg holds her long after that.

***

“You’ve been served.”

Whiskey feels the beginnings of a headache before even reading the document. She’s been expecting this from the moment she found herself sitting on the steps outside of a glass sanctuary on fire, listening to the disruptors commit to more lies.

“Did you see who’s representing him?” Duke’s mom asks. “That lawyer who defends all of the high-profile celebrity scumbags.”

Whiskey already knows her relationship with Duke and relations with Miles will come into question. It’s not a matter of if, but when. Her sex life is about to become public record. She curls her fingers into fists to hide the fact that she’s shaking.

“Did you hear they’re live-streaming the trial?” The older woman laughs, broken and bitter. “Duke would’ve loved that. Oh, the irony.”

Whiskey takes her time getting home that evening.

Home.

Has she ever had a home before?

Growing up, she had a tin can in a trailer park, always on-guard around the men her mother would parade through. Freshman year in college, she had a single dorm room and an unyielding bleached blonde roommate from Southern California. From there, she lived with whatever guy she was dating at the time, deferring to him if she lived there rent-free.

Now she has her own keys and neighbors who greet her by name. She has an apartment with soft sea-foam green walls and gold accents, walls covered in art from emerging artists. Most of it had been gifted to Birdie who wanted to throw them out (“They aren’t even famous.”) but Peg saw their potential and salvaged them. They sat collecting dust in the closet before Whiskey insisted on displaying them.

Whiskey gets home to Peg in the kitchen, unpacking groceries, a chocolate-coated biscuit stick poking out of her mouth, listening to one of her endless Spotify playlists. Whiskey takes a moment to soak in all that she has now, the one place she has ever felt truly safe and the person who’s a big part of that.

Peg catches her staring and the biscuit stick cracks between her teeth. “Hey! Karl wanted to know if you have a USB microphone for sale.”

“You mean Morpheu$ dollar sign?”

“Please do not encourage him!”

“Yeah, I still have a ton of recording shit I don’t even touch.”

“Forewarning, he’s going to be all charming and ask for a discount.”

“Shameless,” Whiskey says. “If you really believe in him, he can have it for free. Just make sure you get a 20% cut as his manager when he makes it big.”

Peg fumbles an entire dish of limes. “What did he say to you?”

“He said 15% so I countered with 20% and my word that my modeling career won’t take priority over his whatever he’s on this week.”

“What modeling career?”

“My nonexistent modeling career he’s convinced I have. I promised not to monopolize your time. He will be the Miriam to your Susie and I’m cool with that as long as you get your fair share.”

“I still haven’t seen that show.” Peg nervously runs her fingers through her hair. “I don’t know the first thing about being a manager and the entertainment industry is super fucked right now.”

“If anything is going to find a way to survive, it’s the entertainment industry. And you’ve seen enough shitty managers being around Birdie, at least you know what not to do. I’m just saying, Karl believes in you and you believe in people and what they’re passionate about.” Whiskey adds “Morpheu$’ manager” to their mind map of possible next career paths on the refrigerator whiteboard. “Just food for thought.”

“Speaking of,” Peg clears her throat, “I’m making dinner for once so prepare for the unexpected.”

“Why are you home so early? It’s still light out.”

“Birdie took more than the recommended dose of Ambien which she thought was Molly. The last time this happened, she slept for like seventeen hours. I thought she was dead at one point.”

When her phone rings, Whiskey walks it over to the coral velvet armchair by the window. The bold pop of color belonged to the Mets Cap Dirtbag’s girlfriend, but after their nasty breakup, he wanted it gone and said they could have it for free as long as they moved it themselves.

“Hello?”

“Whiskey, it’s Helen. Helen Brand.”

As if she could ever mistake that accent for anyone else.

“Helen, hi.”

“I just wanted to say thank you for the, uh, gift basket and your note. It was unnecessary, but very thoughtful of you.”

“It was so necessary. I’m glad you got it.”

Spatula in hand, Peg wanders over, her mouth moving silently.

“Peg wants you to know the organic mushroom growing kit was her idea,” Whiskey says. “She thought your students would get a kick out of it and maybe learn something.”

Peg gives her a thumbs-up and returns to the kitchen.

“Peg? As in Birdie Jay’s assistant?”

“God, she isn’t going to shut up once I tell her you remember her.” As annoyed as she tries to sound, Whiskey can’t keep the fondness from her voice. “Yeah, we live together now.”

Helen’s sigh sounds a lot like here we go again.

“I’m pivoting! You have to admit I could have chose worse,” Whiskey insists. “Have you seen who Miles got to represent him?”

Helen huffs. “Of course a shithead would hire a shithead with a law degree to defend him. I spoke with Blanc, but he said it’s out of his area of expertise and in the hands of the court system now.”

Whiskey pulls her knees into her chest and bites the side of her thumb. “I got my witness subpoena.” She hears pots and pans crash in the kitchen. “It won’t be long until it all begins…”

“You good?”

“I will be,” Whiskey says.

“Well, now you have my number, if you need anything.”

“Do you really mean that or are you just saying it to be polite?”

“Don’t be mistaken. I don’t owe anyone any politeness and I sure as hell don’t say things I don’t mean. I don’t know, Whiskey. Maybe it’s the teacher in me. Maybe it’s because I once had a young, ambitious woman in my life and lost her twice. And I don’t like to make the same mistakes.”

“You really are cool as hell.”

Helen laughs. “I hope you meant what you wrote in your note.”

“I’m trying,” Whiskey whispers.

“At the end of the day, that’s all any of us can do.”

Long after the call ends, Whiskey stays by the window, staring at the cars and the odd commuters passing by, but not really paying attention. She doesn’t even realize how late it’s gotten until Peg shoves into her line of sight.

“Why are you crying in the dark?” Peg puffs out her cheeks and breathes out. “What did she say to you?”

There’s an edge of anger in Peg’s voice when she had only ever had stars in her eyes when looking at Helen.

“Nothing. Helen’s incredible. She’s my hero.”

“Then what?” Peg slaps at Whiskey’s knee until she shifts over enough for them to arrange themselves and fit on the chair together.

“They’re live-streaming the trial. Did you know that?” She barks out a wet laugh full of panic. “The douche bag celebrity lawyer Miles hired, his MO is shaming women on the stand. He’s going to make the jurors ask themselves why they should believe the word of a whore. No one will take me seriously after this. I can kiss a career in politics goodbye.”

“Then don’t do it. Plead the fifth. That’s a thing. I looked it up ahead of the Brand v Bron trial.”

“Yeah, to keep from incriminating yourself, which would have been a good move for Birdie if she hadn’t gone with straight-up perjury. All I’m guilty of is being a slut.”

“Whiskey.”

“I don’t have a choice. This is my stand up and break glass moment.”

“Of course you have a choice,” Peg argues. “I want to see Miles Bron rot in jail, but not at your expense. If you think the prosecutor has enough without you playing martyr, don’t do it. I will support you one hundred-percent either way.”

“That’s fucked up.”

“I’m aware.” Peg gently thumbs away the tear tracks down Whiskey’s cheeks. “You’re more important to me than justice.”

“That’s so dangerous, Peg…” Whiskey looks her dead in the eyes. This feels like the most serious they’ve ever been together. This feels monumental. “Do you trust me to have your back like that?”

Peg holds her gaze and nods. “Is that naive?”

“Very, but it’s mutual. I’d get rid of dead bodies for you.”

“Even if I give you food poisoning tonight?”

Whiskey exhales a strangled sort of laugh and presses a soft kiss to Peg’s lips. “Even then.”

***

True to Whiskey’s word, Miles Bron’s defense attorney tears her apart on the stand with his sharp questions that force her to expose herself and leave little room for explanation or context. If it were anyone else, Peg would be watching the jurors to see if they’re being swayed either way, but she can’t take her eyes off of Whiskey. The lawyer laughs at her name and proceeds to make her out to be a clout-chasing gold digger willing to say anything for attention. Peg has trouble sitting still, getting more worked up by the second.

Once court is adjourned, Peg wants to check on Whiskey, make sure she gets home alright, just be there for her. Before she can, Claire is blazing a path in their direction with her top aide, Amy, silently trailing behind her.

“What an absolute shit show,” Claire sneers. “What was she thinking?”

“She told the truth.” Peg knows the question is rhetorical or for Birdie, but she can’t just stay quiet.

“Some good that did her. It might help to secure a guilty verdict, but at what cost? The internet is eating her alive as we speak.” Claire glances to Amy whose eyes are on her phone. She nods to confirm it.

“Oppose to what?” Peg asks. “Perjury to preserve self-interest? Not that you would have any idea what that’s like.”

Claire looks at Peg for the first time with a side-eye. “Well, well, well, look who’s got bark in her after all.”

“Peg!” Birdie grabs her by the arm and yanks her back. “Why don’t you tell the driver to bring the car around? While you’re at it, call ahead and have chef prepare that salad I like. Ooh, you know the one! Claire, care to join us?”

“No cheese," Claire says. "I cannot do dairy."

Birdie scrunches her nose. "Duh."

"We need to regroup after today," Claire continues. "And travel separately. The media is swarming the front like gnats.”

Amy looks like she wants to say something to her, but Peg can’t right now. She walks the long hallways of the courthouse, searching for Whiskey, but she’s already gone.

When Peg gets home later, sure to keep refilling Birdie’s wineglass so she’d pass out faster, she walks in on Whiskey ranting, holding her phone up in front of her.

“And another thing—”

“Please tell me you aren’t live.” Peg rips Whiskey’s phone out of her hand, relieved to see she’s just recording a video of herself. It’s at five minutes and climbing.

“What the fuck?” Whiskey lunges to try to take it back, but Peg stumbles away. “You did not just take my phone! Give it back!”

Peg gets a good look at Whiskey who has cried all of her makeup off once again, eyes wild and wet, baring her teeth. She’s beautiful.

“Whisk, the last thing you want to do right now is post something online.”

“Don’t tell me what I want.”

“No, because we don’t do that. We don’t tell each other what to want or what we want to hear. We tell each other what we need to hear. You would be telling me the same thing.”

“Fuck you.” Whiskey slumps onto the couch. “Don’t treat me like I’m Birdie. I’m fucking not.”

“You’re not.” Peg does not break eye contact. “You’re smart. You’re smarter than this. You know being passive right now is better than blowing up and regretting it later. Don’t throw away everything you’ve worked for, not when it’s still viable and it is. We just need to lay low. Wait for this to pass and it will once the bigger fish are on the stand. If you go radio silent, it’s understandable after what you’ve been through. If you start ranting online, you’re giving the world more opportunity to reduce you to unflattering gifs and memes.”

Whiskey shuts her eyes, face tilted to the ceiling, silver streaks of tears down her cheeks. “Peg, I don’t want to hear your crisis strategy right now.”

“Then what do you want?”

Whiskey goes quiet and it’s like all of the fight just falls away. She drops all of the defenses and armor she assembles daily, all of that anger she swathed herself in and the venom that she was spitting. Under all of that, she’s just a girl. She’s just Whiskey.

Peg drops to her knees and takes Whiskey’s hands. “What do you need from me?”

Whiskey’s eyes are the darkest they’ve ever been. “I want you… I-I need to feel useful.”

Peg doesn’t ask any follow-up questions. She won’t make her explain. When Whiskey trembles, Peg holds her steadily and kisses her surely. Whiskey is always tactile because she understands the power of touch, but it’s different tonight. She touches Peg like she needs it, like she needs to, like if she’s away from her for even a second, she might break completely.

That’s why it fills Peg with dread when she wakes up in the middle of the night and she's alone.

***

It’s one thing to know that every time Peg leaves the apartment, she’s with Birdie, but seeing it with her own eyes is entirely different. Actually seeing Peg still trailing after Birdie like a faithful puppy leaves Whiskey feeling upset, distracted, and fuming at the worst possible time. When she starts to interrogate it, why she even cares—

Not an oh, but a fuck.

She cannot be in love with Peg, her roommate, the only person she wants to know her, whose opinion she values and considers when she has never given anyone that privilege before. She cannot be in love with someone already in a codependent relationship.

Even if she has developed complicated feelings completely against her will, Whiskey knows she cannot act on this or tell her. Peg overthinks everything when their friendship is supposed to be the easiest thing in both of their lives. Peg never puts her own needs above Birdie’s. Peg is never going to leave Birdie.

So Whiskey decides to handle this unexpected development with utmost maturity and spends the next few days avoiding Peg. She finally unboxes and inflates the air mattress and sleeps on the floor of her bedroom. She doesn’t come out of her room until Peg leaves and returns before Peg gets home. Whiskey turns down invites to eat together or watch something, often with shitty excuses and turns on Billboard Hot 100 loud enough to drown out everything else.

At least once a day she realizes how stupid she’s being, how she needs to get over herself so things can go back to normal. Then Peg does something unexpected and sweet like bring home her favorite ice cream just to do something insane like leave at 2AM to bail Birdie’s driver out of jail. Who the hell tells their employee to do that and who does it without question?

Feeling confined and like she’s truly losing her mind, Whiskey jumps at the chance to help Ma Cody box up more of Duke’s belongings and take what she wants. The older woman watches The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel while Whiskey does most of the work per usual, occasionally requesting a martini with olives.

“They’re just staring at each other—” Whiskey points at the TV, momentarily forgetting the martini glass in her hand, liquor splashing over the sides. “—and it’s like, the hottest thing ever.”

“Why didn’t you mention Duke telling you to sleep with the douche bag billionaire in your testimony?” Ma Cody asks.

Whiskey is suddenly very interested in the shape of a martini glass. “How do you know about that?”

“You lived in my house. Duke was always so noisy, especially when he was having one of his fits.”

“It wasn’t relevant.”

“Could’ve painted a more sympathetic picture of you. You don’t have to protect him anymore. Neither of us do.”

Whiskey finishes her martini and reaches for the bottle of vodka. “It’s weird. He was kind of a dick, but I think he did care about me and all of his shitty friends, even though I’m not sure they—we—returned that as intensely, which is why he took to the whole mandom thing. They’re the only ones who could reflect his intensity, which makes it sadder.”

“I loved my son, but he could be a dick when he wanted. Got that from his good-for-nothing father.” After a short stretch of silence, she asks, “Do you want an air fryer? I know you don’t cook, but someone gave me a brand new one as a sympathy gift. Who the fuck does that?”

Whiskey gets home well after midnight, struggling to unlock the front door. She drops her keys and once she bends to retrieve them, the door opens and Peg is looming over her.

“Hey,” Whiskey slurs. “I got us an air fryer.”

“Where have you been?” Peg sounds angry. “Are you drunk?”

“Uh-huh.” Whiskey pushes into the apartment, hugging the air fryer box to her chest. She flops onto the couch and pulls at the straps of her sandals like it’s the most complex process ever invented since locks on doors.

“Who were you drinking with?”

“Don’t worry, mom.” Whiskey laughs, setting the air fryer on the coffee table and patting the top like a good little lad. “That’s funny because my mom would never ask that. She could’n give less of a shit.”

Peg’s harsh expression softens. “Do you need help getting to bed?”

Whiskey bites her bottom lip and shimmies her shoulders. “You’re gonna put me to bed?”

“Bold assumption from someone who’s been dodging me all week.” Peg tenses at her own words. “Nope. You’re clearly not in the headspace for that conversation. Just sleep here tonight.”

Whiskey tries to take off the Only Murders hoodie, but it gets caught in her necklaces and her hair. She huffs, frustrated, before Peg’s hands push and pull at the fabric to help.

Once she’s free, Whiskey mutters, “I had that.”

“Sure, but why when you’ve got me to help?”

“Do I?” Whiskey raises an eyebrow. Or thinks she does. Tries to. “Not when fuckin’ Birdie will call and you go running.”

“That’s not true.”

“Peg, you’re so unserious.” Whiskey kicks her sandals aside and curls up on the couch. “You have a nice face and hands and your mind is amazing, but unserious.”

“You are so drunk right now.” Peg sits on the arm of the couch and reaches down to brush back the blonde locks that have fallen in Whiskey’s face. “We aren’t going to wake up in the morning and NYPD put out an APB on an air fryer thief, are we?”

“That feels nice.” Whiskey moves Peg’s hand so she can feel her cool fingers splayed across her neck. Whiskey opens her eyes just to half-lidded slits and whines, “Peg, come closer.”

She doesn’t even have to try very hard to get Peg to slip down onto the couch with her. Whiskey’s hand finds purchase on Peg’s hip, pulling her in until they fit together just right.

“Why do you have to be drunk to want to be around me lately?” Peg whispers. “What did I do?”

“Nothing. That’s the whole thing! I can’t be mad at you for being you.”

“I thought you said it’s a good thing that I’m me.”

“It is.” Whiskey keeps cradling Peg’s hand to her neck and lets her eyes close. “’s why I love you, but also…the thing that scares me.”

***

They’re out of sync and Peg hates it.

It hurts to be left on read by a person in the next room, not having their quiet little nighttime talks, not even being given the opportunity to make her laugh and bask in the sound of it. The court hearing fucked Whiskey up and that’s understandable, but Peg doesn’t understand why it affected their relationship. She wants to be patient and respectful, but she also wants to scream all the time.

Peg sets the water and aspirin down on the air fryer box and sits in the coral chair with her legs hooked over one arm, scrolling on her phone. She cleared Birdie’s morning so she could sit and wait for Whiskey to wake up. When she does with a groan, it’s time to fix this.

“Grace Pollard,” Peg says. “She got date rape as a felony codified into law. A con man scumbag tried to shame her when she testified against him by showing their sex tape in court. Still, her testimony all but secured a guilty verdict. The tabloids printed nasty shit about her after, but she’s still regarded as a hero for women’s rights.”

“I know who Grace Pollard is,” Whiskey grumbles.

“My point is she didn’t stop. People still try to undermine her, but she says fuck you and kicks ass in court every day. Her paralegal is trying to domesticate Birdie’s favorite fire performer. She said 50/50 Pollard would hire a law school grad who had a similar experience and a lot to prove. Also, I might have ruined their relationship in exchange for this information. He shouldn’t be messing around with Birdie’s favorite juggler anyway.”

“Peg, you need to talk slower and use less words or just stop.” Whiskey presses a pillow over her eyes. “What are you still doing here?”

“Birdie has nothing scheduled until this afternoon.”

“Isn’t this when she needs supervision most?”

“She’ll live. She can live through anything. She’s the cockroach of the fashion industry. I didn’t want to leave without talking first because if I did, you’d probably disappear into your room and never come out again.”

“Can’t talk right now. I can’t even think.”

“Okay, just listen.” Peg goes to sit on the coffee table next to the air fryer so she can be right in front of Whiskey who’s still laid out like a beached shark, mouth open, one arm thrown over the back of the couch. “I know the last week sucked and you’re going through it, but I’m here. Whatever you need. You just need to tell me.”

“I know.”

“Okay. Good. So why do I feel like I’m missing something?”

“Just ignore me. I’m hungover and my life is a mess and there’s no one to blame, but me.”

“Ignoring you is the last thing I want to do,” Peg says gently. “You did the right thing. It was brave, but you know you don’t have to be brave with me.”

“I know. Okay, I’m going to shower and hopefully feel human again.” Whiskey doesn’t move a muscle. “…I will once I remember how bodies work. You can leave now.”

“Real quick, what do you remember from last night?”

“Midge and Lenny in the club scene could almost make me believe in romance. I think. Duke’s mom kept sending me to make her another martini with olives even though she says I’m a terrible bartender.”

“You were drinking with Duke’s mom?”

“Who else would I be with?”

“I don’t know! That’s why I was—” Peg cuts herself off. “Lately you haven’t been talking to me at all.”

Whiskey opens one eye that darts in Peg’s direction. “For the record, whatever I might or might not have said while drunk is null and void. It’s a rule.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes. BFF protocol. You’d know that if you’ve had friends ever.”

“Ouch,” Peg says sarcastically. “This is a little beneath you, don’t you think?”

“What? I’m just being my real, authentic self.”

“You’re being a bitch to try to push me away. Who do you think you’re trying to fool? Whether you like it or not, Whisk, I know you. I want to care for you so just fucking let me! I need you to believe me when I say I’d do anything in my power to make you feel better, to help you be better or worse, whatever you want. You should know this about me by now so what are you so scared of?”

Whiskey rubs her face. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Is this because we had sex after you testified?” Peg blurts out. “Was it too much? Was that not okay?”

Whiskey groans. “Peg, no. That’s not even…I can’t do this right now.”

The blonde finally pushes herself upright and makes to escape.

“No one has ever told me they love me before or love things about me, any of it.”

Whiskey, who has only been half-participating in this conversation, goes completely still and meets her eyes for the first time. “…Not even your parents?”

“My parents aren’t big on…emotion,” Peg explains. “They always said passion gets you nowhere. Hard work and discipline are all that matter in life. They disowned me when I dropped out of college. Like, actually said the words and broke off all communication. It hurt, but silver lining, good thing I never told them I’m gay. I can’t even imagine what would have happened if I came out in high school…”

Whiskey sits forward so their knees touch and takes Peg’s hand, twisting their fingers together.

“The last time I quit, right after the Beyoncé thing,” Peg continues, “I burned through my savings faster than I expected so I asked my parents for help. They wanted me to beg and marry some Chinese businessman. Then all would not be forgiven or forgotten, but I could go home… I said no, I’d rather be Birdie’s bitch forever than whatever they wanted me to be.”

“Your parents suck.”

“Yeah, right back at you.”

“I’ve heard Birdie say she loves you.”

“Only when she wants something or she knows I’m pissed about whatever she did. It’s not the same. You know that’s not the same thing.”

Right on cue, Peg’s phone rings.

She looks from Whiskey to the phone and back. “I won’t answer that if you don't want me to.”

Whiskey laughs, but it’s not a sound Peg has ever heard from her before. It sounds…profoundly sad. “I don’t know anything about anything anymore, Peg, but I know that’s not how it’s supposed to work.”

“What about us is supposed to work?” Peg declines the call with an aggravated tap of her finger. “We only met because we both have questionable taste in rich shitheads, but here we are and good luck getting rid of me!”

“So dramatic.” Whiskey rubs her thumb over a mostly healed cut on one of Peg’s fingers from the last time she tried to cook for them. “You’re the only person who knows what I’m really like. It’s way too late to cut you loose. I’m sorry I’m being a bitch. It’s nothing you did so stop stressing. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Peg’s phone goes off anew. They both know Birdie will start to take more drastic action if she doesn’t get what she wants soon.

“Please do something about that,” Whiskey says. “If I have to hear that, I might actually throw up.”

“Drink your water and go take your shower,” Peg says. “It’ll help.”

Whiskey gives a weak, almost thumbs-up and drags herself off to the bathroom. Peg waits until she hears the door shut before answering Birdie’s call.

“Bird, please tell me nothing is on fire… What do you mean Dancing with the Stars called?”

Peg does go to work, but not before ordering a BEC on a kaiser roll from that hole-in-the-wall Whiskey loves. She waits for it to arrive, sets it down on the air fryer box and cues up Legally Blonde on the TV before she leaves.

***

“Psst, assistant, are you dating someone?”

Peg looks up from her unanswered string of texts to Whiskey and sees Birdie’s favorite dancer smiling at her viciously. Her partner in crime, the model, is across the room, dressed in one of Birdie’s latest creations, making uncomfortably long eye contact with the photographer as Birdie berates the photographer’s assistant for the unflattering lighting.

“Um, no,” Peg replies. “And I’m not looking, but I’m flattered.”

The dancer laughs like she just heard the funniest joke ever. “Oh, no. I’m not asking because I’m interested.”

“Cool.” Peg turns her attention back to her phone. You can make desserts in an air fryer too?

“I’m just curious because you seemed happy for a while there, almost pleasant to be around—” And the hits just keep coming. “—but lately you’ve been looking at your phone like Birdie just dropped another racial slur in a tweet.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Birdie sing-songs from across the room because of course she’s eavesdropping and of course she’s bad at it.

“Nope, not dating anyone,” Peg says. “I’m just texting my roommate. We just got an air fryer and you don’t care so why am I still talking?”

“Oh, so that was a you’re fucking your roommate and now things are complicated face. I’ve been there. How does it always get so weird so fast? Sex is just sex. How can something we do with our bodies disrupt an entire ecosystem?”

Peg gulps and hopes no one hears it. “All valid questions that I will not be discussing.”

“Because she’s supposed to be working.” Birdie takes Peg’s phone out of her hand and replaces it with her own. “Peg, what’s the status on lunch? Aren’t you supposed to be talking with the Dancing with the Stars people to see if it’s ‘safe’ or whatever to do the show?”

“Bird, you cannot do Dancing with the Stars. You are a key witness in an ongoing felony trial.”

“Claire said the courts are all fucked because of the ‘pan-dem-ick’—” Yes, Birdie does the air quotes and everything. “—and that you get a paper thingy that tells you the exact date you need to show up in court. We can fly into LA for the weekly taping, fly back and be here the rest of the week. Tyra Banks is the host now! Her people requested me. The two of us together, guaranteed ratings goldmine!”

“So we can fly to LA?”

“Duh. You go where I go.”

“Do you remember what happened the last time we got on a plane?”

“LA is not Greece and it’ll only be a few days a week. I can just drag my dancing partner wherever we go. They do that and make cute video packages out of it. Why do I know this and you don’t? This is your job, Peg. No phone for the rest of the day!”

“Bird!” Peg shouts, but the former model is already dancing back across the room to terrorize other people. Slouching in her seat, Peg uses Birdie’s phone to research if a key witness in a criminal trial is allowed to leave the state.

At the end of the day, when she finally finds her phone where Birdie hid it, Peg sees a slew of texts and missed calls from Whiskey. In the last two weeks, the most she could get out of her was tapback reactions so this is pretty alarming. Peg scans over the texts that include fuzzy photos of a man standing outside their local grocery store and outside of their building. The texts amount to, I think this man is following me.

Peg calls Whiskey as she rushes home, thinking about that one episode of Law and Order where a mob boss sent hitmen to kill witnesses. Miles Bron definitely has the money to be that petty.

“Oh, hey, Peg.” Whiskey finally answers her phone and she sounds…high.

“Whisk, what the fuck? Are you okay? Where are you?” Peg power-walks down their street with her head on a swivel and her hand on her butterfly knife in her pocket.

“I’m fine. I’m in 5A. Are you home?”

“That’s it? You’re fine?”

“Maybe if you answered your phone three hours ago when I first called…”

“Are you serious?” Peg pushes into the front of the building. “I would have if Birdie didn’t take my phone. I’m here. Are you coming down?”

“I’ll be back when I’m back.”

The call cuts off and Peg tries to push down that rising feeling of frustration. She tries to relax (paces a line in the floor) as she wait for Whiskey to get back. When the front door finally opens, it’s accompanied by Whiskey’s fake-giggle and a distinctly masculine voice.

“Thanks for walking me.”

“Nah, it’s my pleasure.”

Peg glares down the length of the foyer at where Whiskey lingers near the door with a lanky young man in a LeBron James Heat jersey and a puka shell necklace. He is definitely looking at Whiskey like it’s genuinely his pleasure.

“Peg!” Whiskey calls out. “This is Elliot from the fifth floor. He’s from Miami. He was telling me about these two girls he knew in high school who exposed their fake feminist serial cheater class president. Isn’t that wild?”

“Sure,” Peg says flatly. “No mask? Yeah, restrictions are being lifted, but it’s still building policy to wear your masks in the halls. We have a lot of elderly residents.”

Absolute mood killer. Nailed it.

“Thanks again, Elliot.” Whiskey starts to close the door. “I’ll see you around.”

“For sure.” He moves to maintain eye contact even as the opening starts to get smaller and smaller. “And if you need a hook-up, your boy in 5A’s got you.”

Whiskey’s painted-on smile drops once she shuts and bolts the door. “5A is a candy shop of designer drugs. Apparently he’s a trust fund baby slumming it.”

“What the hell, Whiskey?” Peg hisses the words through clenched teeth. “You leave me about a million messages about someone stalking you and now it’s like no big deal?”

“Yeah, the creep followed me from the grocery store. Once I got back, the Old Biddy Brigade yelled at him out their windows and Old Pete chased him off. I was shaken up so Karl asked if I wanted to smoke and he introduced me to Elliot. That’s all.”

“That’s all?”

“It would have been nice if you answered and stayed on the phone with me, I really didn’t want to be alone, but I get it, you were working.”

“See, Whisk, I hear you saying you get it, but I feel like you’re mad at me.”

“Why would I be mad at—”

“Me being me?” Peg finishes for her.

“It’s fucking fine, Peg. Drop it.” Whiskey starts walking to her room and Peg follows. She isn’t going to drop it. “Six feet! I was smoking with strangers. I should probably quarantine in my room.”

“Did you do that on purpose to keep me away? That’s fucked up.”

“I’m fucked up so makes sense.”

“Whiskey, all I ever want is for you to just ask me for help when you need it and the one time you did, I wasn’t there. That sucks and I’m sorry, but it’s not like I wasn’t here because I didn’t want to be.”

Whiskey turns to face her abruptly. “It does suck, but nothing is ever going to change so whatever. You’d drop me for Birdie in a second and that’s fine. I’ve never needed anyone. I use people, but I don’t need them. You aren’t useful to me.”

“You cannot believe any of that is true.”

“I don’t get it, but I know it’s reality. Are you like, in love with Birdie?”

“No. I…” Peg goes quiet as she tries to arrange all of the thoughts racing through her head. No one has ever asked her to explain her feelings for Birdie before, not someone whose opinion matters this much. “I might have thought I was at one point in the beginning, even before the beginning, if I’m being honest. Then I saw the real her and that…shifted.”

“She sucks and you’re ride or die even when it makes you miserable.”

“I know!” Peg shouts, and she doesn’t think she’s ever raised her voice like this at anyone other than Birdie. She feels bad, but this blonde’s wide eyes aren’t filled with hurt. Whiskey looks thrilled to have gotten this reaction. “I know. I know. I’m not in love with Birdie, but I’ve known her forever and I care about her. I take care of her. You know she would be helpless without me.”

“She’s a grown woman who made billions off of sweatshop designer sweatpants, but if she makes you feel useful and that’s what you need, it’s your life.”

“But you get it, right?” Peg asks desperately. “Duke was an opportunistic, misogynistic asshole, but beyond all of that you still cared about him. It’s possible to care about awful people and it sucks, but it’s real. At least for you…”

Peg stops herself when she sees Whiskey start to close in on herself in real-time.

“At least I what?” Whiskey presses. “At least Duke died so I had an automatic out?”

“That’s not…”

“That’s exactly what you were going to say. You know what, who cares? I am so over this.”

“What do you want me to do? You want me to quit?”

“I shouldn’t decide that for you, Peg. I know I could and I know you’d let me, but I won’t make you compromise yourself for what I want. You do that enough with Birdie. Leave me out of it.”

Peg stands there, stunned long enough for Whiskey to slip into her room and slam the door. Peg presses her hand to the door like if she wants it enough she could phase through it.

When did it all go wrong? How did she let it get to this point?

It feels cliché and untrue to try to blame this on the fact that they started having sex. This was inevitable from the moment Whiskey showed her true self and Peg wasn’t scared, but excited.

After going through the motions of her nighttime routine, Peg stares at the popcorn ceiling in bed, wide awake. Maybe an hour later, Whiskey’s door opens. Footsteps pace around the apartment. Peg strains her ears to listen, her heart hammering in her chest. Then she hears what’s distinctly the front door clicking shut.

Peg runs to investigate. All of the lights are off. Whiskey’s room is empty. Peg shoves her feet into the closest pair of shoes, grabs her keys and yanks the front door open. She walks out, swings back in to grab a mask and heads back out.

By the time she pushes her way out into the surprisingly cool night, Peg can just make out the tail lights of a car a few blocks down as it gets farther away. She calls Whiskey’s phone and it goes to voicemail so quickly it had to have been declined. Tears burning in her eyes, Peg ends the call without leaving a message and goes back inside.

***

This is why she doesn’t do relationships just because she genuinely enjoys a person.

Whiskey reflects in the backseat of Duke’s orange muscle car. After the childhood she had, Whiskey told herself she’d never end up like her mom, heartbroken and willing to accept anything she could convince herself is love. After Duke, she started to think maybe empty relationships as a means to an end aren’t a way to live either. After Peg…

The door at her feet opens. Whiskey reaches for the speargun on the floor and screams. Duke’s mom holds up a golf club, ready to swing, and screams. They scream back and forth for a good ten seconds.

“You almost gave me a heart attack! I thought you were a home invader!” Duke’s mom clutches her heart over her fluffy bathrobe. “What the fuck are you doing in my garage?”

Whiskey thinks to lie, say she missed Duke and wanted to feel closer to him, but his mom has always seen through her. They never discuss it, but Whiskey could always tell.

“Got into a fight with my roommate and I have nowhere else to go. I figured since I’m showing the cars to potential buyers tomorrow and I still know the code to the garage…”

“I’ll change that in the morning.” When Duke’s mom starts to get into the backseat, Whiskey shifts to the other end, grabs the mask hanging out of her purse and puts it on.

“I’m supposed to tell you I smoked pot with strangers earlier today so I could have been exposed,” Whiskey explains, though Duke’s mom doesn’t seem to care. “My roommate says it’s common courtesy, especially around…elderly people.”

“You got any pot on you now?”

“No, but…” Whiskey pulls out her vape pen.

“I never understood you kids and those things.” Duke’s mom pulls out a fat cigar and lights it. “Fighting with your roommate, huh?”

“Mhmm. Caring makes things complicated. Compromising what I think is right or wrong for my ambition, fine. That makes sense. But compromising yourself for another person who treats you like crap, zero upward mobility? I can’t understand wanting that.”

“Is she your roommate or your roommate?”

Oh, the tables have turned.

“Where did you learn that?” Whiskey asks.

“I wasn’t born yesterday and I already know the answer. You never shut up about your roommate. It’s ‘my roommate this’ and ‘my roommate that’ just nonstop.”

“That’s not—”

“I had a lesbian lover once,” Duke’s mom says with uncharacteristic softness.

Whiskey has no idea how to respond and it shows on her face. “Nice.”

“We had a good summer, but she had her life back in London and my parents were pushing me towards the man who’d become my second husband, before Duke’s father. I can’t say I regret not choosing wild passion over stability and family, but I do wonder about her from time to time.”

“Have you tried looking her up on Facebook?”

Duke’s mom knocks Whiskey’s vape out of her hand. It goes flying across the car.

“What? Your generation is all over Facebook now.”

“This is what I get for trying to show a little sympathy!”

Whiskey feels…oddly touched. “I appreciate your sympathy and I can’t judge you for your choices.”

“Then I guess I can’t judge you for yours and you know I love doing that. Life is just a series of choices until you die. Now get up and fix me a martini.”

Whiskey grabs her purse and shoes, but leaves the speargun behind.

“I wanted to ask before, but never got the chance,” Ma Cody says. “I’ve been thinking of starting a foundation in Duke’s honor. What do you think?”

“A cause Duke would have supported?”

“Fuck no. I did that enough in life. Took the speargun, but left his epipen when going out of the country!” She shoots a barbed look at the ceiling. “If he couldn’t leave the earth better than he found it, I guess I’ll have to do one last thing for my boy.”

“Maybe some kind of youth enrichment program,” Whiskey suggests. “Allergy research and resources? I can look into it for you if you want.”

“Do that. A foundation is gonna need legal counsel, you know.” Duke’s mom pats the back of Whiskey’s hand. It’s not at all gentle, but the thought is there. “No more holding back and using him as an excuse.”

Whiskey nods. “Does that mean we should be drinking less?”

Ma Cody tries to knock Whiskey’s purse out of her hand, but she shifts out of reach this time. “Your interpretation is not my problem. Now get moving and would you make a good martini for once? You’re a terrible, just terrible bartender.”

“Coming right up.”

***

Peg doesn’t sleep at all.

She gives up on tossing and turning and tries to distract herself with a crossword puzzle, but it just reminds her of Whiskey. Everything in the apartment reminds her of Whiskey from the mind map of potential career moves on the refrigerator whiteboard to that coral armchair that Peg never would have chosen herself, but makes the perfect reading spot.

Just after one o’clock in the morning, she gives in, calls Whiskey and leaves a voicemail asking for a sign that she’s alive and safe at least. She receives a text:

WHISKEY
 🤺

Peg knows in Whiskey-speak that means back off.

Needless to say, Peg is in a foul mood when she leaves in the morning. She steps out onto the stoop and Betty and Janice and even Bill start yelling at her from left and right, asking about Whiskey. It’s so early and Peg pulls out her vape because she needs something.

“Look! That’s the stalker!”

Peg was the type of kid who used every excuse to sit out of PE class yet here she is sprinting full-speed. Once she’s only feet away, Peg recognizes him. She has seen that same look of fear on his face the time Birdie sent him on a grocery run and he didn’t get the emu eggs at the height of her essential amino acids obsession. Peg tries to pull back, but her momentum carries her forward and she ends up tackling him to the ground. The neighbors all “oooh” behind them.

“Mr. Aziz?”

“Ow.”

Peg grabs Birdie’s driver by the lapel of his jacket as she staggers to her feet, hauling him up with her. “What the hell are you doing here? Have you been stalking my roommate?”

The middle-aged man and former pizzeria owner has been on Birdie’s payroll even before Peg. He blocks his face as if expecting her to hit him. “Birdie told me to! She wanted me to stake out your building and report back on what you do and who you spend your time with and you really should get curtains or blinds or something, Peg.”

“Oh, my God. When I bailed you out of jail for trespassing the other night…?” Peg looks to the adjacent building. It’s about the right height so you could probably see into their apartment from the rooftop. “Dude!”

“I’m sorry! I was just doing my job!”

“What happened to employee-employee solidarity?”

“What was I supposed to do? Say no to Birdie?”

There was a time where Peg loved being the only person in Birdie’s life who ever said no to her. Now she’s just exhausted.

Peg has Mr. Aziz drive her to Birdie’s. It’s the least he can do. On the drive, Peg tries to call Whiskey. It’s the first time she’s tried since the sun came up so it’s not that pathetic. It still goes to voicemail, but she’s rarely up at this hour.

“Hey. I took care of the stalker thing. You don’t have to worry about that anymore, but we need to talk. I’ll be home early. I’m thinking Thai for lunch. I’ll get our usual, but if you want anything else, text me.”

Peg storms into Birdie’s bedroom to find her asleep, half-naked and tangled up with the model and the dancer. No shocker. This isn’t even the first time she’s walked in on this combination of bodies.

“Birdie, get up!” Peg shouts. “You had Mr. Aziz stake out my apartment?”

“Do you have to shout?” Birdie snuggles up to the shirtless model and throws her leg over his hip. “Peg, where’s my espresso? You know I can’t start my day without it.”

“No. No espresso before you explain to me why you would make Mr. Aziz spy on me to the point of getting himself arrested and why he’s being a creep and following Whiskey around?”

“Is Whiskey your dog’s name?” the model asks groggily.

“No, it’s her roommate she’s fucking,” the dancer corrects him. “Keep up, babe.”

“Peg,” Birdie says petulantly. “Espresso first.”

“Birdie, I swear if you don’t start talking I will pull a Helen and smash everything! That autographed A-Rod bat is about to meet the piano that was not a gift from Elton!”

The dancer slaps the model on the tit. “You owe me fifty bucks.”

“Okay! Fine!” Birdie flings herself upright. “I had the driver look into you, but only because you’ve been so distracted lately. You didn’t even notice when I was testing you! I mean, for God’s sake, Peg, you still haven’t said anything about my Meghan Markle tweet. Really, you were asking for it.”

“Birdie, I quit. Consider this my two weeks.”

She laughs. “No you won’t. You can’t quit on me.”

“I mean it this time.”

“Peg, this isn’t you.” Birdie crawls over the bodies in her bed to get to her feet. “This is her talking. Whiskey. She’s poisoned you against me! I cannot believe you didn’t tell me she’s living with you!”

“You have a Zoom meeting with the ABC people at noon,” Peg says, starting to leave the room. “Hair and makeup will be here in half an hour.”

“That’s it?” Birdie chases her. “After everything we’ve been through together? Everything I’ve done for you? What are you going to do without me?”

“I don’t know, but it can’t be worse than this. You talked about Miles Bron being a little thing in your hand that you could control and you loved controlling. I’m no different, am I? I got so used to being miserable working for you that it started to feel normal, but it isn’t! It sure as hell isn’t healthy so I’m done.”

“And whatever you think you have with Duke’s little whore is so much better? She doesn’t even have money! Neither of you do! How are you going to survive, Peg?”

It takes every ounce of self-control she has to keep from really punching Birdie in the face this time. All of their fights are a game of chicken until they crash and reset to do it all over again the next day.

“Peg!” Birdie stomps her feet. “What do you want? Do you want a raise? The driver sent me pics of your apartment building. Bitch, you live like that? I can get you a much nicer apartment or you can move back in here, be apart of my pod ag—”

“Thank you, but no thank you,” Peg cuts her off. “I just want to do my job for the next two weeks and then I’m gone.”

Birdie closes the distance between them and takes Peg by her arms. When Peg flinches and restores a professional distance between them, Birdie’s face contorts with an anger she hasn’t shown since Heidi Klum blocked her.

“What happens when she’s done grieving Duke and playing dyke and wants to get back to her life? What happens when she gets bored and leaves you?” Birdie goes for the lowest blow with intent to hurt. “You’ll come crawling back to me like you always do.”

Peg steels herself. Time to stand up and break glass.

“Aw, Bird, you’re looking tired.”

Birdie’s eyes fill with tears. “That’s the meanest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Peg checks her watch. “Hair and makeup will be here in twenty-five. I’ll get the NDAs.”

“And my espresso!”

Peg tells herself to be strong. She knows this doesn’t mean anything if she doesn’t follow through. All of the other times she quit, she felt guilt and panic immediately after. This time, she still feels the panic because she has no plan, but knows this is only the first step on a long path to figuring out what she wants and who she wants to be in a post-Birdie life. For the first time, fire consumes the guilt, making room for something new.

***

Whiskey barely makes it up the steps of her apartment building before hearing a chorus of voices telling her all about Peg running down her stalker. They paint a heroic portrait of events, which is sweet, but the mental image is more awkward in that way Peg makes everything awkward, which only makes it better. Also, Janice is sewing them curtains because apparently the stalker is also a pervert.

She walks into the apartment to find Peg on the couch sipping a Thai iced coffee, today’s New York Times spread out across her lap. “Whiskey! You’re home!”

“Where else would I be?” Whiskey sets down a cardboard box. “I live here.”

“I don’t know. Wherever you went last night…”

“Yeah, that was shitty of me.” Whiskey sits next to Peg, in what has become their spots. “I’m sorry I left in the middle of the night and didn’t answer your calls.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not okay. I should’ve at least told you I was safe. I should be better about that. I will be.”

“I shouldn’t have brought up Duke like that. I’m sorry.”

Whiskey shrugs. “I mean, it’s true.”

“I only said it because I was desperate and…scared. Birdie has been my safety net for so long and no one has ever cared enough to call me out on it. The truth is, I don’t know what life after Birdie will look like and it scares the shit out of me, but it’s happening. I put my two weeks in.”

Whiskey stares at her cautiously. “Really?”

“You’d think the Mona Lisa burning would be enough of a wakeup call, but no, having her driver spy on us and stalk you…”

“Should'a known.” Whiskey rolls her eyes. “How did Birdie take it?”

“As expected,” Peg sighs. “First she was in denial, then pissed, then she tried to throw more money at me, pissed again and mean about it and the crocodile tears came last. I don’t think Birdie believes I’ll actually quit, but all that matters is that you believe me.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m pathetic and fucked up and you still like me, which probably says more about you than it does about me.”

“I’m well aware.”

“But I want to believe I can do more than this and be more than this. I don’t think anyone has ever believed in me the way you do.”

Whiskey takes Peg’s hand and squeezes. “I’m proud of you. And I’m scared too. I don’t know how to do any of this. Duke died and I didn’t take it well. If it fucked me up to lose someone who on most days I’m not sure I even liked all that much… I don’t even know what to do with how I feel about you.”

“Don’t run,” Peg suggests. “But if you do, just come home. That’s my professional opinion.”

“Not a bad crisis strategy.”

“That’s what I’m here for.” Peg squeezes her hand back. “I'm going to need you too. Every time I’ve tried to quit, I’ve always gone back. Every. Time.”

“But you didn’t have me those other times. I think I can come up with a few different strategies to keep you home.”

Whiskey looks into eyes filled with a devotion that dances on the edge of self-destruction. It still scares her, the thought of being the person Peg dedicates that intensity to, but it excites her too. Whiskey leans closer and Peg pulls her in to kiss. They kiss until it becomes too difficult to with how they both keep smiling and laughing.

“This is deranged, you realize that, right?” Whiskey fucking giggles. “If I said, hey, this person sucks, we should destroy them, what would you say?”

“What do you have on them?”

“Just like that?”

“I trust your judgement. You wouldn’t suggest it without a reason and if it would make Helen proud or it’s purely for personal gain, I’m in. I’m with you. I look forward to poking holes in your plan before we make a move.”

Whiskey grins, all cheeks. “That’s the hottest thing anyone has ever said to me. Is that fucked up?”

Peg’s eyebrows shrug as well as her shoulders. “If it is, it doesn’t scare me. It’s one of the things I love about you.”

“I think you take ride or die to a whole other terrifying level, but it’s one of the things I love about you,” Whiskey says sweetly. “Ruining lives with you could be fun, but I wouldn’t mind just hanging out in our apartment.”

“Same,” Peg agrees. “And! I’m determined to figure out how to make this air fryer situation work for us. It takes up half the kitchen. It's going to work for us.”

“That reminds me! I got you an apology gift even though I know you’d rather I live my word or whatever you said.”

Whiskey leans over the arm of the couch to rummage through the cardboard box. When the bottom of her shirt rides up, Peg slides her fingers along that bit of exposed skin and presses little kisses across her lower back. Whiskey gasps and bites her lip, meeting Peg’s steadfast gaze before shoving a mini cactus at her. It has a pack of cannabis chocolate truffles leaning up against it in a little ceramic pot painted with “Peg Two” in glittery letters.

Peg grins impossibly wide. “An edibles arrangement?”

“Named Peg Two! I named her after you. Minnow warned me about getting you plant life, but it’s a fucking cactus. We cannot fuck it up. She did the design. The kid loves arts and crafts.”

Peg takes the little plant in both hands and stares at it with misty eyes. Whiskey plans to break her of this behavior. How many kind gestures would it take for this to be Peg’s new normal?

“I’m starving.” Whiskey turns her attention to the promised Thai takeout. “Duke’s mom had me make Bloody Marys for breakfast.”

“You went over there again? What did you bring back this time?”

“I got this collector to drop some serious cash for the ugly orange muscle car and I didn’t even have to fake-cry or flash my tits. Duke's mom gave us a robot that’s a vacuum and a mop.”

“Are we naming it after you or Bruiser?” Peg sets the cactus down and picks up a set of chopsticks.

“I was thinking some kind of cheese. Manchego or Colby or Cheddar. We could’ve used a vacmop that time you dropped an entire charcuterie board on the floor.”

“It was an accident! I hate you.” The exasperation in Peg’s voice doesn’t match the affection in her eyes. “You know I don’t actually hate you, right?”

“Obviously not. You love me.”

“Clearly not as much as you love me.” Peg’s face is so deliciously smug. It really is too good of a look on her.

“Peg, I swear, this is the most I’ve ever had to do to convince someone I love them.”

“Because it’s real,” Peg says with certainty tinged with a bit of anxiety because she’s her. Whiskey wouldn’t want her any other way. Her instinct is to fight for the last word, but Peg cuts it off with a kiss. She doesn’t mind that either.

Whiskey has never put much stock in “I love you” or relationships in general, but she believes Peg. She knows she chose right when the trial comes to an end and Miles gets a life sentence for his multitude of crimes. Peg doesn’t say anything for once. They just share a look. She knows she chose right when a clip of a catfight on Dancing with the Stars goes viral and Peg decides to get a new phone number just in case.

Strange happenstance led Peg and Whiskey to each other, but daily choices make them stronger together. They support each other through an image rebuild, a call from Cinda Canning and the law school application process, through many odd jobs, even more passion projects, and someone offering their apartment as practice space to a band she found in a park and believes in.

(The number of noise complaints they receive that day is truly outrageous. They would’ve been run out of the building if not for Whiskey’s charm and the pork dumplings Peg has perfected in the air fryer.)

Occasionally, late night talks lead to hypothetical conversations about how to infiltrate the life of another millionaire douche bag, procure incriminating evidence, leak it and watch an institution crumble on the front page of the NYT. Mostly, they discuss what’s for breakfast, the building’s Christmas party once restrictions have been fully lifted and plans for Peg’s birthday.

They chose each other and continue to choose each other. Everyone else can fuck off and the rest of the world can burn.