There’s a tavern in Tribeca, a homey spot with exposed pipes crossing the water-stained ceiling. It’s got cheap beer and comfy pleather barstools worn in by decades of asses. The bartenders are friendly, which almost makes up for the trauma of walking into the blue-ribbon winner for worst bathroom in Manhattan. The cozy dive is lit by blue lanterns and red pin spots; drink specials are scrawled on chalkboards. At first glance, there’s nothing much remarkable about the almost-decrepit hole in the wall. But within its exposed brick walls, a cold war rages. One that has divided the New York publishing community since the first Bush administration.

“If I may have everyone’s attention.” Addison stands in front of a worn-out pool table with scratches and drink stains on the felt. About forty people crowd in around him. Above his head, a hanging exposed bulb casts bright orange light on his narrow shoulders. “This is the twenty-sixth annual tournament of champions for the right to claim The Table…”

As it goes, this crusty bar has been a popular hangout among the several magazines that reside in Lower Manhattan. As the publications traded staff over the years, more magazines began calling this place home. Until scuffles and even a few bar brawls broke out over who had claimed the territory first and to whom dibs on The Table—at perfect equidistance to the billiards and bar—belonged. One night those present nominated a champion from each magazine to play a tournament to settle the matter. And since then, for nearly three decades, we still gather to uphold the tradition. Really, at this point, it’s more about pride and bragging rights. And it’s an excuse to heckle the fancy kids from Vogue and the New Yorker.

Riot Street has entrusted our fate to Cara’s hands for the last several years, I’m told. So the rest of us stand back to watch and jeer while the champions battle it out.

“Where’s Ethan?”

That is the question that’s recently come to define my life. Tonight, it’s Kumi asking. We sit at a high-top table listening to Addison read the rules to the participants gathered around the pool table.

“I left him at home,” I tell her. “He wasn’t feeling up to it.”

A phrase Ethan uses a lot these days. About the only thing he gets up to is a bottle of whiskey, or whatever’s handy. It’s gotten to the point that I don’t bother waking him for work in the morning. Some days he comes in; some he doesn’t. Barely skating by on his assignments, while I do my best to cover for him. The tedium is getting to me, but nothing I say seems to make a difference. Not when Vivian’s always right there, enabling. Tonight, I’m almost happy to get away from him for a few hours.

“Are you two doing okay?” she asks.

Her hair has grown out a little, almost to her shoulders. It reminds me how long it’s been since I’ve seen her, and how much of my life I’ve ignored under Ethan’s influence.

“The problem isn’t really us, you know?” Considering her deep brown eyes, I inwardly cringe at the pity behind them. I know how I sound. “He just won’t face this thing with his mom. Like if he ignores it long enough, it’ll go away. He’s in pain and he won’t talk to me. All Ethan wants to do is get shitfaced with her and stay numb.”

“Vee?” Kumi’s attention wanders toward Navid across the room. “Navi’s mentioned her. Sounds super.”

“Pretty much.”

I’ve missed their entire relationship—Navid and Kumi. From the night they met at his show, I’ve been completely out of the loop. There was a time I couldn’t make a friend if I paid them. Somehow, it’s gotten too easy to forget the ones I have.

“You know…” she says, reaching across the table to cover my hand with hers. “You can always move back in with me.”

“I—”

“No, I know. You love him, and you want to make it work. But if at some point you decide it doesn’t, I’m here for you. I miss having my roommate. Besides, the new apartment is way nicer.” She winks and tips back whatever cherry-red concoction she’s drinking. “My dad felt so bad about kicking you out—well, I laid the guilt on thick—he sprang for better digs and new furniture. And this one has a doorman.”

“Doesn’t really change the fact that he thinks I’m a bad influence or a dangerous omen or something.”

“Eh.” Kumi shrugs and rolls her eyes. “When you need me, I’ll be there. He can deal.”

I’ve taken her for granted. A mistake I intend to put right. Same goes for Addison. Once he’s wrapped up his spiel, I corner him near the rack of pool cues.

“Hey,” I say, sliding up next to him as the first two players start their game.

He eyes me skeptically. “Hi.”

I deserve that. We’ve barely talked since our spat. Well, since I acted like a total jackass. Without the Ethan blinders obscuring my vision, I realize the apology we’ve been waiting on is mine.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“Nah, I’m good. Got to pace myself.” He leans against the wall, arms crossed. Addison’s not going to make this easy on me, and I guess I deserve that, too.

“Look, I’m sorry. That day at lunch, I was way out of line. You were just trying to help, and I threw it back in your face. That was a shit thing to do, and I apologize.”

“Yeah, well…” Staring off into space, at the crowded bar thrumming with music and sweaty bodies, his expression warms. “Maybe it wasn’t my place to tell you your business. I probably wouldn’t have appreciated someone sticking their nose in, either.”

He smiles, a coy little grin. Enough to say there are no hard feelings. Enough that it puts me in a better mood as the night ramps up. Navid gets Kumi lubricated to the point she even takes a couple of turns at the microphone for karaoke. It isn’t pretty, but the crowd’s too drunk to care. For the first time in weeks, I’m actually enjoying myself.

As we all cheer on the face-off between a guy from Gotham and Cara, C.J. pulls up a stool beside me at the high-top. Of everyone I first met when I started at the magazine, she’s the person I got to know the least. Lately, though, we’ve become better acquainted since she was promoted into Cyle’s old job. Everyone’s started to notice the writing on the wall: Ed’s certain to retire soon—another few years, five at most—and Cara’s next in line to be the editor-in-chief. With C.J., Cara’s grooming her replacement to head the online section. And with Ethan being unreliable these days, I’ve found myself going to C.J. more often for advice on how to approach an interview or how to cut through bureaucratic red tape when requesting public records. She’s a good teacher, and she’s a great editor.

“I think that guy’s in over his head,” I say to her, raising my voice over the jukebox music and conversations around us.

We watch Cara sink three shots in a row and round the table to line up the next one.

“There’s something I wanted to mention.” C.J. leans in, pushing the discarded beer bottles and empty glasses out of the way. “I had a talk with her and Ed today.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve been asked to name my replacement in the Features section. They want to promote in-house rather than bringing in someone new.”

“Oh.” My fingers go a little numb. Anxious, excited energy skitters through my limbs as I try to keep a neutral expression. “I didn’t realize they were going to fill the spot.”

It’s been weeks since C.J. moved to online. She’s been pulling double duty, editing and still pushing out articles for the print side. I figured it’d stay that way.

“There’s an argument to be made for seniority,” she says, with the same intimidating gaze that makes her so powerful to watch on the cable news panels, “but I’m more interested in drive. We’ve all been watching you pull this story together with, let’s face it, almost no help.”

C.J. doesn’t mince words. It’s not in her nature, I’ve learned. The dig at Ethan isn’t malice—though it hurts me that he’s pissing away his reputation—but simply an honest assessment. I just wish I weren’t making my bones on his failures.

“It’d mean a bump in pay and a better title,” she says. “It also comes with more responsibility.”

Her pointed tone isn’t lost on me. I’m a teenager again, back in rehab with Maureen telling me sobriety is a journey, not a destination, and every day, several times a day, we have to make a choice to take responsibility for our own recovery.

“I don’t want an answer now,” she says. “Take some time to think it over. If you accept, Ed will expect even more from you. It only gets harder from here. You’ll need to consider if you can apply the proper focus to handle the job. Consider if there are any distractions you can afford to lose.”

And there it is. The summation of the last month of my life. And further proof that Ethan, and our off-hours association, has started to taint the milk, so to speak. Everyone’s past the point of looking the other way and ignoring the glaring empty space in the office. They’ve moved well beyond accepting Ethan’s erratic behavior as the price of doing business with an otherwise-brilliant writer. He’s one spark away from burning his career to the ground. And if I’m not careful, I might find myself trapped in the flames.

As I’m about to thank her for considering me, I notice C.J. looking over my shoulder, her lips thinning to a hard line. I don’t have to turn around.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he purrs at my ear. Ethan wraps his arms around my waist. “I missed you.”

C.J. peels away with a parting glance at me that is none too subtle.

“I thought you were staying home,” I say, pulling away as he kisses my neck.

He turns me on the stool to face him. Eyes dilated and red, unfocused, he wears a smirk that reminds me I used to hate that look.

“Changed my mind.” Ethan pushes my legs apart to stand between them, hands on my hips. “I don’t like being home when you’re not there. It’s lonely.”

“Funny.” I look away, toward the pool table surrounded by spectators for the next set in the tournament about to begin. Cara’s made it past the first round in quick order. “I was starting to think you didn’t notice anymore.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” It’s not worth another argument.

Licking his lips, he runs his hands up the outside of my thighs. It’s almost painful, the ache in my heart, when I realize his touch only leaves me numb.

“Come home. I want to take you to bed.”

“This is important.” Sure, it’s just stupid bar games, but these little traditions are the difference between an office and a family. I push his hands from my legs. “I want to stay.”

“What’s with the fucking attitude?”

Ethan backs away. I close my legs.

“You’re already drunk, Ethan. I’m not getting baited into a fight with you here.”

“And there it is.” He makes a big show with his arms, voice rising. “Every fucking day, Avery. When you are going to cut me a break?”

Now they’re looking. Ed and Navid, peering over their shoulders. Kumi questioning if I need a rescue. It’s humiliating.

I look him straight in his dead, vacant eyes. The frustration from his voice, any feeling or light at all, left them weeks ago.

“When you sober up.”

“Uh-oh.” Vivian appears beside him, shock of pink hair blinding under red lights, holding three shots of something dark and pungent. Her thin lips and inhuman gray eyes offer a saccharine smile that makes me want to vomit. “Someone’s wound a little tight.”

She holds out one shot glass to me but Ethan snatches it from her. “She doesn’t drink.”

“Well.” Vivian winks and gives him the second shot, too. “More for us.”

“Avery!” Kumi comes bouncing over, her affected act she puts on when trying to cover a strategic rescue. “Someone I want you to meet. They graduated from SU, too.”

“Yeah.” I hop off my stool to join her and leave Ethan and Vivian to their vices. “Have fun with that.”

For the next two hours, though I try to keep my mind only on the tournament and listening to Kumi talk about life at her uncle’s law firm, I can’t help watching Ethan knock back drinks, or Vivian handing them to him. Her voice carries, the high-pitched, cloying whine. She lays into one writer after another, offering her unsolicited opinions on everything wrong with their publication and all the ways she’s so philosophically superior. I admire their fortitude to stand there absorbing her drunken rants as long as they do before slipping away and passing her off to the next victim.

Ethan, for his part, is all but absent. He medicates, staring at nothing and speaking to no one. He’s furniture at this point. A marble bust on a pedestal. Every part of me wants to run my fingers through his hair, hold his face in my hands, and tell him to snap out of it. Take him home, get him in bed, and make him remember who he used to be. But I’ve tried, and there’s no getting through to him. I’m at a loss, drifting rudderless. At the mercy of his tide swelling higher with each day.

I can’t look at it anymore.

Just as Cara slays another victim, I head to the restroom. It’s a filthy closet with one stall. Holes in the wall and mold creeping up from the baseboards. The toilet is basically the fifth circle of hell. I have to wipe the seat and build a nest of toilet paper, then still sort of hover above it as I half-sit. Outside the stall, the bathroom door squeals with someone entering. Now I’m in a semi-squat with someone listening as I’m about to pee. I fucking hate that.

“Avery?”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“Sorry,” Vivian says. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Seriously, die in fire.

My bladder is at maximum capacity and the overflow backing up into my kidneys, so I have no choice but to let it go.

“Listen…”

Like I have a choice.

“I want us to be friends. I think I’m going to be sticking around, and it’d really be best for everyone if you and I could get along.”

By “everyone,” she means Ethan. To which my answer is an emphatic Fuck off.

When I’m done and walk out of the stall, she’s waiting beside the sink.

“We don’t have to be enemies, Avery.”

Vivian stares at the side of my face while I wash my hands. I have zero intention of humoring this bullshit performance. Ripping a couple of paper towels from the dispenser, I watch in the mirror as she pulls a tiny vial from her pocket and spoons out a bump of white powder to snort up her nose. I’m frozen, our eyes meeting in the reflection. A stinging, sour taste pricks my tongue and my mouth fills with saliva. My fingertips go cold. I blink, and I see the vivid, spectacular color of the first time Jenny and I snorted heroin together. The blissful, serene silence. Total comfort and perfect peace. I’d never been so content in all my life.

See, that’s the thing about heroin: it isn’t scary. Sure, everyone knows the horror stories. We’re all scared straight—now. But for me, back then, ignorant as a newborn, it was a way out of a cycle of nightmares and depression. It doesn’t fuck you up or freak you out. It just makes you happy. The rest we do to ourselves. We imbue this wonder drug with all meaning and joy in the world. And we need it. To wake up. To function. To breathe. Then we need more of it. There’s no such thing as enough, like it’s impossible to quantify the oxygen you need for a lifetime.

“Want a hit?”

She sees it. The desire heating my face. The monster, decrepit and clawing to the surface. Vivian finds me doused in gasoline and offers to light the match.

“No,” I say, balling up the paper towels and tossing them in the trash. “I’m straight.”

It’s all I can do to keep from grabbing it, all of it, whatever it is, and getting it inside me as quickly as possible.

“Suit yourself,” she says with a shrug. “More for us.”

To hell with this. All of it. To babysitting a grown man, watching a brilliant, beautiful person I love waste away to a torpid shell of his former self. I’m not built for this. Never have been. Just taking care of myself is almost more than I can handle, and I’m not even very good at that. I’ve spent last several years in a straitjacket, muzzled and sedated. Walking a thin white line on the floor painted there to keep me out of trouble. When do I get to relax? When is it my turn to misbehave?

That’s when I realize there’s no one stopping me.

From the bathroom, I head straight for the bar and climb up on a stool. The balding bartender spots me in the mirror framed by bottles and turns to me with a nod.

“Tequila,” I say. “Neat. Top shelf.”

He sets a short glass in front of me and pulls down the bottle to pour my drink, setting a lime wedge on the rim. I sniff it first. The sour, salty tinge stings my nose and makes my eyes water.

“Having second thoughts?” Beside me, a thirty-something blond guy in a plaid button-down, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He smiles, looking at me over his shoulder.

No. I down the drink in one gulp and nod at the bartender for another. My throat flames and the scorched trail burns all the way to my gut. But it’s a good pain, soothing. Like plucking your eyebrows. The bartender pushes my refill at me and I brace for a second hit, but the blond makes me pause.

“Maybe go easy,” he says. He turns on his stool, elbow propped on the bar top. “An awful lot of nosy witnesses here tonight.”

Well, I suppose he has a point there.

“Marshall West.” He holds out his hand to shake mine. His grip is firm, deliberate. Not one of those insipid men who limp-wrist a woman. “New Yorker.”

“Nice to meet you.” I bring my drink to my lips and try sipping this time.

“You’re Avery Avalon, correct?”

“What gave me away?”

Marshall smirks, because we both know I can’t hide in here. The secret’s out now. All that’s left to do is get used to it.

“I read your last essay.”

“You’re not armed, are you?”

Leaning toward me, he breathes out a subdued laugh. “Actually, I found it sharp and incisive. Not everyone can excel at a first-person essay, but I think you have a certain knack for it.”

“Funny you should say that,” I bring my drink to my lips, “I—”

“The fuck is this?” Ethan comes up beside me and grabs my wrist. He stands there, brow creased and eyes narrowed. His jaw set tight. “You’re drinking?”

I rip my arms from his grasp and take another sip. “Just following your lead, ace.”

“Enough.” Grabbing the glass from my hand, he sets it down and wraps his arm around my waist to pull me from the stool. “You’re coming with me.”

“Uh, no.” I look up into his tempest eyes and for the first time in weeks see some semblance of life. But too little, too late. “I’m good here. Thanks.”

Ethan bends to speak in my ear, his fingers digging into my hip. “Avery, don’t be difficult.”

“Ash, lay off.” Marshall stands, both men tall and hovering over me. “She said no.”

“Mind your fucking business, asshole.”

“Ethan, stop it.” Pulling his hand from my hip, I take a step back. “I’m fine here. Leave it alone.”

“See? She said no.”

“Has he offered to show you his office yet?” Ethan spits out. “Take in the view while he’s bending you over his desk.”

“Screw off, Ash.”

“Hey.” I shove at Ethan’s stomach. “Don’t be crass. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

“Time to go.” Marshall puts his hand on Ethan’s chest and he smacks it away.

They shove, shouting at each other. The scuffle quickly gathers a crowd as staff from both sides jump in to break them up. It isn’t until a man pulls Marshall away and Ed gets in Ethan’s face that he finally relents. Breathing heavily, face red, he charges out of the bar and leaves me standing there, mortified in front of everyone I know and a few dozen people who already have suspect notions about me. I’m trembling with rage when Kumi comes up, her eyes wide with concern when she smells the alcohol on my breath.

“Come home with me,” she says, hands rubbing my upper arms. “Stay a few nights to clear your head.”

I would. I want to. But there’s the lingering fear of what Ethan might do if I’m gone. He’s at a dangerous precipice, and it seems I’m not ready to abandon him to the fall. Not yet.