Abigail freezes in the doorway of Holy Grounds, shock splashed across her face. She’s wearing her work uniform: dark jeans, a button-down straining over her generous curves, and a tiny name tag peeking out under the waves of her hair.

By the time Jackson turns to look at her she’s managed to smooth her face into something less obvious, but I know she didn’t quite expect to see him at my place of employment. Me either.

Abby steps to the counter, giving Jackson a curt nod. The two of them have been living in the same town so it’s not like they haven’t seen each other in the past few years, but Abby’s surprisingly quiet. She never warmed to him completely, even though she accepted him as inevitable when she came into my life junior year.

“You like him, don’t you?” she asked one day that fall as we waited to catch the bus to her house.

I glanced away from the spot in the parking lot where Jackson was leading some other girl to his car, his arm draped around her pretty neck.

“What?” I tried to straighten my face into something less guilty, but there was never any point in denying it. Needing him was the kind of thing that made up the fabric of me, like the way I needed to write to be able to sleep at night, the way I needed to breathe.

Now, with the two of them in the same room, it’s almost stifling.

“So, Nat,” says Jackson. He steps to the side to make room for Abby at the counter and accidentally knocks over a display of granola bars. I glare at the offending spill, annoyed I’ll have to straighten up after he’s gone. “I should run, but let’s catch up sometime.”

My ears burn with the thought of Abby overhearing this exchange and I don’t answer.

Jackson lifts his Emerson mug in my direction. “Thanks again for the coffee. I’ll see you around.”

No.

Yes.

Abigail stays silent until the door closes behind Jackson, then she takes out her wallet to order an iced coffee with a dash of almond milk. A few years ago Holy Grounds was all dairy, all the way, and I’m glad to see that while everything else is the same, this part of life, at least, has made an inch of progress.

“What did Jackson Wirth want?” Abby asks while I fix her order. She mimics Jackson’s voice to add a pointed, “Nat.”

I make a face. “Probably the same thing as always. To annoy the fuck out of me.”

“That’s not how I remember it.”

She has a point.

When I hand over her mug, Abby gestures for me to join her at one of the tables. Jess still hasn’t emerged from the back room to help me, but I grab the coffee I’ve been slurping this morning and follow my friend anyway.

We sit at the table and Abby reaches into her backpack. “Are you going to tell me why you bailed on our play date?” She pulls out a stack of textbooks and sets them next to her cup. She’s been working her way through community college, and long before my hasty return to Swan’s Hollow she’s been coming to the coffee shop to do her schoolwork.

“It’s my secret escape from childcare,” she told me once. “Sometimes I pay the sitter extra just so I can have a little bit of silence with my caffeine.”

Given the uniform, I’m guessing she’s on lunch break from the bookstore today.

I grin at her and slide into a seat. “Well,” I say, leaning in. “Speaking of adult conversation…” The whole thing feels like this bubbly secret in my chest, and thinking about it shifts me out of the awkward funk of having seen Jackson. Everything starts to feel like possibilities again. I might just find a way to get back to Boston after all. Maybe I can even get back this summer, so I don’t have to compete for housing with college students coming into the city for fall classes.

I glance up at the counter, making sure Jess doesn’t decide this is the perfect moment to finally start to work, but she’s still in the back room somewhere. “I think I’m going to start a lube company.”

It’s a true measure of your friendship, what someone will say when you tell them you are starting a lube company. I hold my breath, waiting for her reaction.

Abigail looks at me for a second, her eyes popping, and my stomach tightens. Over the years Abby and I have talked about everything from the merits of vibrators to the perfect way to distract a toddler while you get busy in the next room (tablets for the win!), but up until now I never had anything that exciting to contribute to the conversation. My love life with Matthew was fine, I guess, but also kind of beige.

For a second I wonder if I misjudged the situation, but then Abby throws back her head and laughs, her hair spilling over her shoulders. “You’re serious.” I nod. “And you got that idea from our conversation yesterday? I was kidding about selling your body, you know.”

“I know. But actually, the numbers are there. People really buy it.”

“Only you would be crazy enough to start a lube company.” Abigail gives another small chuckle. “Did I ever tell you about the time I needed to use lube to get Nico’s head unstuck from the railings on the stairs?”

I cover my mouth with my hands. “You did not.”

“It was that or, like, olive oil. So I chose the thing that would wash off easiest.”

I laugh so hard I have to wipe tears from my eyes before I respond. “Oh my god. Do you have photographic evidence of that for when he’s a teenager? You need some blackmail material.”

“It was too traumatic in the moment so there are no photos.” She grins. “But that image is burned in my brain.” Abby shakes her head like she’s clearing the memory. “Anyway, back to you. Are you, like, going to get investors or something?”

I haven’t gotten that far yet. I already owe Sally Mae so much money for a degree I don’t even have. I can’t stand the idea of being in debt to anyone else. “I’m going to try to start small and see if I can keep costs low. Maybe I’ll do a hundred or so bottles to start, to make sure the idea is going to pan out.” At least I feel better knowing my Holy Grounds paycheck will be funding something awesome.

“So what’s the plan? Do you start mixing lubes in your kitchen?”

“Not quite. You know how in my coffee shop in Boston we sold beans online?” Abby nods. “Well, we got the blends custom-manufactured from a huge supplier. I’m thinking I can go to a manufacturer who’s already in business and have them make me a custom formula.” I gather my breath. “And then when I have a product, I can sell it online, like I did with the coffee. In theory.”

“Okay then.” Abby holds up her coffee mug in a toast. “Cheers to lube, my batshit-crazy friend.”

I clink my coffee cup against hers, then take a sip and smile. “Now I just need to come up with a business lady name.”

“Is that like your porn name?”

I grin at her over the edge of my mug. “Kinda.”

“You can’t just be you?”

I’ve been thinking about this awhile, and it’s the one sticking point of this whole thing. “I mean, I can be me. But I don’t really want this to show up on my future job résumé. And if word gets back to Mr. Spence, I’ll probably lose my job here. So I think I should use a new name for this.”

“Plausible deniability?” Abby asks.

“Exactly.”

“Okay.” Abigail digs a pen from her backpack and slides a notepad out of her stack of books. “So why don’t you do the standard porn name setup? Make it legit? First name is the name of your first pet, last name is the name of the first street you lived on.”

My mom brought home a tabby named Delilah the year before the divorce, a little terror of fluff and teeth who would bite my ankles for no good reason. Maybe that cat was some sort of balm for my mom—a way to fill the distance that already stretched between her and my dad—but I just thought the cat was a jerk. Either way, the cat and my mom both live in Florida now. During my visit last Christmas, the cat sunk her teeth into my hand as a greeting. At least my mom was happy for my company. And at least that cat wasn’t named Muffin or something.

Delilah …Overbridge? No, that’s not right. It was Overbrook Drive.

I glance over Abby’s shoulder. “Jess can’t hear us, right?”

Abby turns to look. “I don’t think so.”

I break out in a smile. “I’m Delilah Overbrook.”

Abby writes it in her notebook and underlines it twice. A burst of adrenaline warms my chest when I see the name, real, in writing.

“Not bad.” Abby reaches out to shake my hand. “Nice to meet you, Delilah Overbrook. How soon until you can lube me up?”