Overnight, Viv’s mood changes. When she wakes in her bed alone the next morning she feels sorry for herself, but even more sorry about how she handled Damien. She should’ve gone after him last night and apologized straight away.

But it’s not too late; she knows what she has to do. She dresses down in jeans and a sweater for her outing this time. She was glamorous last night, and he didn’t much care. Now that she gets to know him she thinks that a more casual approach might be better.

It’s already afternoon before she makes it out of the house. It took her a bit to get over the self-pity and then, while she dresses, she feels sick. She lies back down on the bed, hand on her belly, and listens to her body. There’s a smile on her face. The first morning sickness. It doesn’t bother her. It’s not very bad. This is a good sign; she’ll be able to tell Damien all about it soon.

When she gets to the penthouse she stands by the front door for what feels like an age after ringing the doorbell, but nobody answers. She’s so impatient to talk to him. It’s too early to feel the baby, of course, but she keeps stroking her belly, imagining what that’ll be like.

She looks around. There are no benches, or even flowerpots on whose rim she could perch. But she doesn’t want to leave. She ambles in the direction of the nearest intersection, pulling out her phone as she goes. Damien’s number rings through to voicemail right away. She takes a deep breath.

“Hey, it’s me. I, uh, I wanted to say sorry about yesterday. Call me when you get this? Bye!”

She hangs up, then curses herself. She should’ve said she’s in his neighborhood; he might’ve come home for her then. But she decides against calling him again. She’ll find somewhere to wait. He’ll call her back soon.

There’s a small café on the opposite side at the nearest corner. She should be able to see his front door if she sits at the high table in the window. Viv crosses the street and walks inside.

To Viv’s horror, it’s one of those bubble tea places. The space is tiny, with peeling paint on the walls and barely enough space for a counter, the table in the window and an upright fridge with cakes and fruit all looking past their prime. She almost walks straight back out, but this is the best place for what she plans to do, so she approaches the spotty youth behind the register.

“Can I have, uh, a raspberry bubble tea,” she says, scanning the menu and naming the first thing her eyes fall on.

“Milk?” the Japanese, or Chinese, or Korean boy—how’s she supposed to know?—asks, not sparing her glance.

Viv looks along the drinks options again and sees no mention of soy or almond milk. “Uh, no thanks.”

He fills a plastic glass with tea, ice and tapioca balls, takes her money, and hands her the change with a bored expression. Then he turns away and focuses on his phone.

Viv takes her tea to the table. If she sits in the seat wedged into the far corner she can see down Damien’s street but is shielded from view by the fridge holding the unappetizing food. She pulls out her phone. There are five missed calls since the morning. Viv scans the list, hoping that one is from Damien. But they’re all from Victor. He hasn’t left any voicemails, though.

She stabs at the text icon and types a message to him.

Stop calling me! I’ll call when I’m ready.

She sends it before she can change her mind, then goes into her address book and blocks all of Victor’s numbers. Lastly, she makes a mental note not to pick up any calls from unknown numbers.

It’s an unexpected relief, not to have to deal with Victor for now. Without thinking, Viv takes a sip from her bubble tea, and then wishes she hadn’t. It’s cloyingly sweet, and she’s sure this place isn’t hygienic. She can see the A rating in the window, but Viv doesn’t trust it, not here. What Damien thought when he bought a place in Chinatown she’ll never understand.

But the bubble tea looks nice with the rays of sunlight that have just broken through the clouds falling on it. She picks up her phone again and takes an arty picture of the tea with the street blurred through the window. With a small flutter she wonders if anyone could identify the street corner where she is just from that picture. But so what? She can sit in a café in Chinatown if she wants to.

Viv opens her Instagram. She hasn’t posted any pictures since she arrived in New York; her disagreement with Damien last night ruined the most exquisite chance she’s had so far. She puts a heart emoji in the caption under the picture, and presses Share. Then she watches for a few moments as the likes come flooding in, pinging at the top of the phone’s little screen.

And soon there are comments too. Since she doesn’t have anything better to do Viv goes to the comment section and starts reading. Mostly, it’s people sending her heart emojis or the usual love declarations. But then her eyes fall on one comment.

U tryin 2 be just normal or sth? Stop pretendin!

Heart beating fast, Viv taps Reply before she can think and types with shaking fingers.

You’re so clever huh? I AM normal. You know nothing about me. Get a life!

She presses Post, shaking now, then, for good measure, blocks the rude person’s account without paying attention to what they’ve got on their wall. She thinks she recognizes that it’s a young girl, with a profile picture of what looks like a selfie of her and Damien. Viv frowns. Is she seeing things now? Well, it doesn’t matter who that was.

Forcing herself to close down the app, she chucks the phone back into her bag. All the fun has drained out of her adventure. As she rummages in the bag for a mint or gum to take the foul taste of the tea out of her mouth she spots a green spiral notebook at the bottom. On a whim, she pulls it out.

Viv can’t remember how it got into her bag. She supposes she must’ve put it there before leaving LA, thinking it’d be useful to have somewhere to take notes in. She opens it.

There are a few lines of scribbles in what she recognizes as Victor’s handwriting on the first page, but other than that the book is empty. She rips out the first page, then pulls the little pencil free that’s attached to the notebook.

She writes on the first, narrow line:

After a moment, she erases ‘penthouse’ and writes ‘PH’. Then, at the top of the page, she writes DT in big letters. It raises her spirits to make a note of her adventure. She feels a little bit like a private investigator. Another thing she’ll be able to tell Damien later. He’ll find it funny, that she hung around here, waiting for him.

But Damien never shows. Viv stays at the café for nearly three hours. Her butt is sore from the uncomfortable bar stool, and finally she admits defeat. Without looking toward the cash register, where the youth has been waiting for customers with as much success as she has been waiting for Damien, Viv exits the café.

She’ll try again tomorrow. This was a waste of time.