The waitress set steaming plates between them — a glossy rack of ribs sending up a smoky, sweet perfume, a mound of mac and cheese glistening with butter. They thanked her, and she glided away.


Paris popped a sweet-potato fry into her mouth and glanced up. “Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked, chewing, trying to keep the tone light.


Ira didn’t answer right away. She unpeeled a roll, tore it in half, and gave Paris a slow, crooked smile that felt far too sharp. “Nothing. So—what’s new with you?”


“Nothing much,” Paris said, reaching for her drink. “Just work. I’ve been wrapped up in this project I started while I was in New York.” She sounded small, the words almost swallowed by the restaurant’s noise.


Ira’s smile broke into something colder. “Yeah? Because when Devin was in New York, he told me you two ran into each other.”


Paris forced a laugh that came out brittle. “Yeah, but it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t serious. I didn’t tell you because—”


“Of course you didn’t.” Ira shrugged, plopping a rib onto her plate. “Not a big deal if you two just passed each other. But you went out to eat. Went to a club. Went back to his room to "watch a movie"—and you didn’t think, for one second, ‘let me call my "best friend"?”


Paris’s hand trembled around her glass. She flagged the waitress for a refill, then tried to steady her voice. “I’m sorry, Ira. That’s all I can say. I didn’t know it would be a big deal. It won’t happen again.”


“Of course it won’t,” Ira snapped, her voice bright and cruel. “Bitch—I killed him, remember?!”


She turned back to her plate and kept eating as if she hadn’t just dropped a bomb. Paris stared, the fork hovering in midair.


“You know I love you,” Paris said finally, voice whimpering. “I would never want to hurt you. You’re like my sister.”


Ira barked a laugh that had no humor in it. “I don’t want a sister anymore. You’re fake, Paris.” She jabbed a finger at her phone, eyes burning. “The only reason you’re in town is because I found out you were going to meet Devin this week. He’d already booked the room. I saw the messages last night. He was going to leave me for a week to spend it with my best friend.”


The words hit Paris like a slap. She felt air leak from her chest; her napkin trembled. Ira let the silence stretch, then began to cry — a ragged, theatrical sound — clutching her chest as if wounded.


“You’re a dirty bitch,” Ira said through the tears. “Sitting here acting like you care about me. I bet it’s killing you because you want to go down to the morgue, right? Go ahead.”


The rib clacked against Ira’s plate as she stabbed at it, and the clatter of silverware around them filled the space where an answer might have been. Paris’s throat closed; the restaurant noise swelled into a cruel, indifferent chorus.