While waiting for Phoebe, I started thinking about my forthcoming independence. About whether it was sensible or bizarre to insist on getting my own place when I already have one with doors I can lock for free. Whether it was grown-up or merely stubborn to demand a job at my father’s company rather than working with Phoebe at Très Chic.

A boutique job belongs to a kid, whereas a job at a real estate development company is something a proper adult might strive for. But then again, the development job was at my daddy’s company. Would I hold a token job with no true purpose or responsibility … or was I doing what I told myself I was doing, working my way up from the bottom, climbing rungs in a business I’d love to own once upon a someday?

Was I taking a chance and working hard … or merely the beneficiary of obvious nepotism?

That’s what I was thinking when I first sat in the booth, alone, looking out across the full tables at the trendy Nosh Pit — a place that didn’t exist when I left for school. So much of Inferno keeps changing. The town used to be home, but not exciting. Now it’s a hot spot.

I was thinking about how I’d find an apartment, then pay for it with my own money.

I was thinking about tomorrow, about the job my father would find for me, and whether it was best to accept whatever it was or jockey for something better. Or maybe it would be too good, and I’d have to ask if I could start with something worse.

I got to thinking about advancement. About working my way up from the bottom.

And where was the bottom in Life of Riley? You could say it was a position like receptionist, but the real ground floor is in construction. I don’t know all the logistics — yet — but I’m pretty sure Dad used to subcontract then moved construction in house when he realized how much he was blowing on middlemen. Compliance and union issues had been a real pain; I’d been hearing about them on and off when calling or visiting home.

If I really wanted to start at the bottom, I’d come to work with a hammer.

I’m not planning to do that, but that man I met today? Brandon Grant? He started in construction. So it’s possible. It does my heart good to see that my legacy is a true meritocracy. Do good work at Life of Riley, and you can rise to vice president. Bearded or not.

For some reason, Dad’s question about that beard snags in my mind. He was joking, of course. Brandon, if he gets the position, really should at least trim his beard, though. It looked a little overly … well … construction guy-ish. It’d help his chances. I don’t think he needs to shave it. I don’t normally like beards, but on him, it works. He has those soft blue eyes topped by eyebrows that aren’t bushy, or timid. A thoughtful brow, really. Like he was, as Dad said, used to being quiet and absorbing what others said then pondering his way to decision. Short brown hair. A way of behaving that’s not quite shy, but not at all forceful. Strong and silent, judging by my scant moments of exposure.

“Top you off?”

I’m so lost in thought that the sudden snap to reality causes me to slap my coffee cup with my hand. I jump a bit in my seat, then turn to see a red-haired waitress standing beside me.

The waitress seems rattled. She’s holding a coffee pot in one hand and has placed the other across her heart. Other than the coffee pot, she might be someone out for a stroll down the aisle. The Nosh Pit’s trendiness extends to the waitress uniforms: knee-length and pretty-enough-to-pass-for-real dresses, almost formal. They comes with slim black belts, and her no-skid restaurant shoes actually have an open toe and a small heel. The heel must be optional because I also see women in flats, and the waiters are in pressed shirts and what look like shoes worthy of a street side polish stand.

“I’m so sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

I smile. It comes naturally. Many of Dad’s friends treat restaurant staff like shit, but several of my friends have served. And besides, this girl is probably just a few years older than me. If I’m going to stay in this town and make a proper name for myself, she and I might one day orbit the same circles. Everyone works their way up, and from what I understand, the Nosh Pit is far from the bottom.

“It’s no problem,” I say. “Just off in the clouds, I guess.”

“Would you like more coffee?”

I nod. While she’s filling my cup, I notice a name stitched into the dress. It should look terrible, but the designers managed to make the stitching look almost like a monogram.

“Abigail,” I say.

She looks up.

“Do you go by Abby?”

“I like Abigail better.”

I’m just about to say I admire when people use their full names rather than shortening them when Phoebe shows up. She isn’t delicate, and nearly sideswipes the server, as if she thought Abigail was about to steal her seat.

The server blinks. Her red hair is straight and understated. She has a spray of subtle freckles, and it almost looks like she’s tried to cover them in makeup that’s mostly worn off during her shift. Her nose is tiny and porcelain; the freckles lie across them in a delicate blanket. Normally, I’d never want red hair or freckles for myself, but they look stunning on Abigail, and I’m momentarily jealous. I’m all white teeth and blonde hair. Put me outside on a sunny day, and I swear, I’ll vanish.

“Hi,” she says to Phoebe. “Can I get you anything?”

“Coffee.”

Abigail hangs around for a baffled moment then turns to go. I’m left facing Phoebe, who’s perusing the menu even though I know she won’t order a thing. She told me to meet her at the upscale diner despite having eaten dinner at home. When I suggested we meet at a Starbucks instead, she laughed in a pitying way that suggested I was too uncool to know better.

“Hi,” I say, making a point to stare her down.

Phoebe looks up with just her eyes then folds the menu and sticks it off to the side, in the rack with the salt, pepper, and sweeteners. She looks properly up at me then crosses her arms on the table. Phoebe has intense, deep-set brown eyes and a deceptively stylish mop of brown hair. It looks like a mess but is carefully choreographed.

“So,” she counters.

I always get the feeling I’m keeping Phoebe from something. It’s easy to forget that she was the one who called me last week, demanding to know when I’d be home so we could hang out again. It’s easy, now, to forget that she called me again today, before I was half-unpacked, and demanded I meet her here the minute I finished.

“So yourself,” I say.

Phoebe’s mouth cocks then she’s sliding her tongue into the corner as if thinking, or cleaning her teeth. The impasse breaks, and she sits back.

“What you been up to?”

“Oh, just four years of college. You?”

“Selling clothes.” Her eyes tick toward the red-headed waitress, who’s neared the kitchen. I really do like her uniform. I’d wait tables if I could wear that. “You met Abigail?”

“You know her?”

“Of course I know her. I know everyone in town.”

“No, you don’t,” I counter. Phoebe has always been antisocial. Or, more accurately, she’s antisocial with anyone who doesn’t seem especially hip, which is most people. “You’re an asshole.”

Her demeanor breaks, and she laughs. “I’m on the upswing. I started taking this course with a life coach online.”

“What kind of course?”

“On how to be a life coach.”

That sounds like a pyramid scheme, but I keep the thought to myself. The idea of Phoebe as a coach, life or not, gives me chills. But she’s always into something, always searching.

“Anyway, I’ve learned to open up. Network. You know?”

This is even harder to believe. My father’s employees network, not Phoebe. I try to imagine her handing out business cards and suggesting lunch. Maybe that’s what we’re doing now. Have I been networked?