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“Tomorrow is Thanksgiving.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“You got big plans?”

“Not really. My sister’s hosting. She lives in Jersey.”

“Ewwww.Jersey.”

He laughs. “What about you?”

“My parents.” I nod. “They still do all our holidays.”

“Do you come from a big family?”

“Huge,” I say. “The ladies of my tribe are extremely fertile.”

“Is that so?” he asks.

It’s rhetorical, I know, but I feel the need to continue. We walk across Avenue A. “Yes. That’s why I’m the black sheep.” Nate glances at me, but I stop dead in my tracks once we reach the corner. “Do you hear that?”

“Huh?”

“Shh,” I say. “Listen. There’s music.”

He says nothing for a moment. “I hear it.”

“It’s this way.” I pull his arm and walk toward East 4th Street.

“Do you always get this excited over music?” he asks.

“It’s old music!” I exclaim.

“Not really,” he says, jogging next to me. We cross the street. “It sounds like Camila Cabello.”

I locate the source of the music. I have discovered a wild party that has spilled out onto the sidewalk. And yes, Nate is correct, it is Camila Cabello’s “Havana” on full blast, with accompaniment from over a dozen people who must have had their own fancy juice because they are so happy. But I am also correct because “Havana” is over five years old.

“What is this place?” I ask Nate.

He looks up. “It’s Sing Sing,” he says. “It’s a karaoke bar.”

“Pen! We have to go in there!”

“No,” he says. “I think we’re good. I think coffee is what we need.”

“One song. Please? I promise if we can just sing one song, then we can go.” I give him my best puppy dog eyes.

“What is this we business? You want me to sing a song with you?”

“Yes! I have to! Dillon Norway said I must immerse myself in the literary community. He said that I haven’t even read my stuff out loud. This will prepare me! Don’t you see? This is research!”

“I’m going to be honest. I don’t think that you even know what karaoke is, based on what you just said.”

“Just come,” I insist. I approach the door, and the bouncer there insists we sign some piece of paper attached to a clipboard in order to go in. I have no idea what it is but it’s the only thing keeping me from the stage, so I scribble my name and look at Nate. He’s trying to read the thing, but I tug at his sleeve and put my face up to his ear. “Come on,” I whine.

“Should I call my agent before I sign this?” he asks, confused.

“What are you even talking about? My God, Pen, listen to yourself! Do I need my agent to let me sing karaoke? It’s. One. Song.” I cock my hip and give him a face of pure exasperation. He shakes his head, but I can see a smile playing on his lips as he hurriedly signs on the dotted line.