“I suppose cacao is too sophisticated a flavor for a baby’s palate,” Lucy said. She sighed and dumped the contents of the pot into the sink. “Tomorrow,” she said, “we try again. We fail again. We do better.”

“THERE ARE A MILLION perfectly good reasons a venture fails, Anya,” Charles Delacroix lectured. He had proven himself to be a decent enough business partner, but he did like to hear himself talk. “The failure is the only part people remember. For instance, no one remembers that the man who was to be the district attorney of New York City was taken down by a seventeen-year-old.”

“Is that what happened?” I asked. “As I recall, the man who did not become district attorney had an unwise obsession with his son’s love life, and his opponents preyed on it.”

Mr. Delacroix shook his head.

“Like a lion felled by a tiny burr,” I said. “Also, I’m not seventeen anymore.”

“I was waiting for you to object to that.” He held his fingers to his mouth and whistled like he was hailing a cab. The sound echoed across the club, which still didn’t have much furniture in it. Several members of my newly hired staff came out with a birthday cake. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ANYA was spelled in pink icing.

“You remembered,” I said.

“August 12, 2066. As if I could forget your eighteenth. No more trips to Liberty Children’s.”

The staff sang and clapped for me. We didn’t know one another very well yet, but I was the boss so it wasn’t like they had a choice. I was glad when the compulsory merriment was over and everyone returned to work. I did not relish being the center of attention, and there was so much to do before we opened in a month. I had already hired (and fired) contractors, waitstaff, designers, chefs, publicists, doctors, security, and event planners. There was a never-ending series of permits to get from the city, though most of that was Mr. Delacroix’s responsibility. I had tried (unsuccessfully) to broker a peace with my cousin Fats and the Family, and had (successfully) negotiated a great deal on cacao from my friend Theo Marquez at Granja Mañana. There were tiles, linens, and paint colors to be selected; ovens to be leased; menus and press releases to be written. There were glamorous jobs like arranging for garbage pickup and choosing toilet paper for the bathrooms.

“Vanilla,” I noted, looking at the sliced cake. “Not chocolate.”

“We can’t have you brought down by minor indiscretions,” he said. “You’re an adult now. The next

time you’re in trouble, it’s off to Rikers. I’m headed home. Jane and I have plans. Promise me you’ll settle on a name before tomorrow. We have to start getting the word out.”

Naming the club had proven difficult. I couldn’t use my name because that would have associated the business with organized crime. Cacao or chocolate couldn’t be in it, though it was necessary for people to know that they could get chocolate here. The name needed to sound fun and exciting, but not illegal in any way. I still clung to the probably foolish idea that it should evoke good health.

“Honestly, I’m not even close,” I said.

“That won’t do.” He looked at his watch. “I still have a little time before Jane will murder me.” He sat back down. “Let’s have your top five then.”

“Number one, Theobroma’s.”

“No. Hard to pronounce. Hard to spell. Ridiculous.” “Number two, Prohibition.”

He shook his head. “Nobody wants a history lesson. Plus, it seems political. We don’t want to seem explicitly political.”

“Three, the Medicinal Cacao Company.”

“These are getting worse. I’ve already told you, you cannot have medicinal in the name of a nightclub. Sounds like sick people and hospitals and bacterial outbreaks.” He shuddered.

“If you’re going to shoot down everything, I don’t know why I should go on.” “Because you have to. Something has to be painted on the sign, Anya.” “Fine. Four, Hearts of Darkness.”

“Is that a reference? It’s a bit pretentious. But I like ‘dark’—‘dark’ is better.” “Five, Nibs.”

“Nibs. Are you kidding?”

“That’s what they process the cacao into,” I explained.

“It sounds dirty and weird. Trust me. No one will ever go to a club called Nibs.” “That’s what I’ve got, Mr. Delacroix.”

“Anya, I think we can go by our given names now.”

“I’m used to Mr. Delacroix,” I said. “Frankly, I think it’s rather presumptuous of you to call me Anya.”

“You want I should call you Ms. Balanchine?”

“Or ma’am. Either one. I’m your boss, aren’t I?”After what he had put me through in 2083 (prison, poison), I felt entitled to josh.

“Partner, I’d say. Or legal counsel to unnamed Manhattan club.” He paused. “Mrs. Cobrawick was a formidable woman. When you were at Liberty didn’t she teach you anything about respecting your elders?”

“No.”

“That institution is a waste of the land it sits on. Returning to the discussion at hand. How about the Dark Room?”

I considered it. “Could be worse.”

“There’s the unavoidable photography reference of course. But it’s a little bit evil. It references what we’re selling. And, at this point, we have to choose a name. Don’t you know how publicity works, Anya? You repeat the same message over and over again in as loud a voice as possible. To do this, though, we need to have something to say.”

“The Dark Room,” I said. “Let’s do it.”

“Good. I’m off for the night, then. Happy Birthday, ma’am. Big plans for later?”

“I’m going to a play with my best friend, Scarlet, and Noriko.” Noriko was my brother’s wife and she was also working as my assistant.

“What are you seeing?”

“Scarlet bought the tickets. A comedy, I hope. I hate crying in public.” “It’s a good policy. I try never to do it myself,” he said.

“Unless it served your interests somehow, I imagine. How’s your son?” I asked casually. We never talked about Win. It was a tiny present to myself to even ask the question.

“Yes, him. Change of plans. The boy has decided to go to college in Boston,” Mr. Delacroix reported.

“He mentioned that.” I’d boxed up his possessions, but I still hadn’t managed to bring them to work.

“He’ll be back for holidays and summers, I imagine,” Mr. Delacroix said. “Jane and I will miss him, of course, but Boston isn’t very far.”

“Well, give him my regards, will you?”

“You could always come give them yourself. His father won’t object.”

“I think that’s done, Mr. Delacroix,” I said. “He doesn’t understand about the business.”

Mr. Delacroix nodded. “No, I can’t imagine that he would. He’s prideful and he’s been too sheltered.”

I wanted to know if Win ever asked about me, but the question was too humiliating. “Relationships aren’t always meant to last forever,” I said, trying to sound wise. If I said this enough times, maybe I would start to believe it. “Isn’t that what you’ve always told me?”

“Life is not easy for the ambitious, Anya.” “I’m not ambitious,” I said.

“Sure you are.” His mouth was amused, but his eyes were annoyingly certain. “I should know.” “Thanks for the cake,” I said.

He held out his hand for me to shake. “Happy birthday.”

Not long after Mr. Delacroix departed, I took a bus back to my apartment. The truth was, I did not miss that boy.

Maybe I missed the idea of that boy.

(NB: No, it wasn’t just the idea. It was him. I missed that stupid boy, but what was the point of that? I had no right to miss him. I’d made my choice. Forgive me the honeyed lies I told myself—I was still so young. And when we are young, we don’t even know completely what we are giving up.)