AN: *shoves an angsty chapter at everyone after not updating for many months*
*mumbles a promise to update again soon*
*runs away*


Miranda leaves work a little early to collect the girls for dinner with Andrea, distracted with thoughts of Nigel, still sulking, Irv, still plotting, and Andrea, still stunning. She's completed this journey so many times that she could do it in her sleep—each stride confident, heel and toe striking the concrete in even rhythm, fifty-four steps from elevator to idling town car. No one ever bothers her on this walk. Huge sunglasses, pursed lips, and predatory stride all serve as a effective warnings for lesser beings. Which is why she is so surprised when someone seizes her by the elbow halfway to the curb.

Miranda has lived in New York her entire adult life. She reacts on instinct: allowing herself to be turned, even as her free hand swoops into her purse, emerges with pepper spray, and shoots it directly into Nate Cooper's wide eyes.


"You should not have grabbed me," Miranda says sometime later, tilting her knees towards the door in a discreet effort to widen the space between herself and the miserable man hunched beside her.

Nate dabs his streaming eyes with the wad of tissues Roy gave him. "I realize that now," he says.

The fact that he manages a wry tone despite his pain gives Miranda her first insight into why Andrea has poured so much time and energy into this relationship. Perhaps there is a brain hidden somewhere under that thick skull and unsightly scruff.

Miranda directs her thoughts away from the question of what sort of romantic partner, exactly, Andrea deserves. "I presume there's a reason you chose to assault me?"

He lowers the tissues to his lap, sniffling. "It's about Andy."

"And here I was hoping we could discuss your favorite quiche recipe," she says in her most withering tone. "Obviously you are here about Andrea. Get to the point."

"I want to know your intentions for her."

She scoffs. "Have we wandered into a Jane Austen novel? How quaint."

He shakes his head, face set in a serious frown that might have impressed her in another man. "The fancy lunches. The 'mentorship'. That necklace. And now, celebrating the most exciting day in her life. Whatever this is you're doing with her, it isn't innocent. You're manipulating her somehow." He winces. "Seducing her."

Miranda swallows a laugh. Clearly this man-child doesn't know Andrea at all if he thinks her so easily seduced. Nor does he have the slightest understanding of Miranda, if he thinks she would waste her valuable time or energy manipulating someone as naive as he evidently believes Andrea to be.

She smiles, the gentle smile of a lioness whose claws are poised to extend. "Andrea pursued me , Nathan. She attached herself to my life and would not be dissuaded. I assure you, my intentions at the time were quite innocent. Now?" The claws come out. Her smile turns sharp. "I admit, even the most innocent of intentions are not immune to Andrea Sachs."

A mighty sneeze makes him convulse, and when it ends he is slumped against his seat, dejected as a whipped dog. "I love her," he says helplessly.

Me too is the impossible, unacceptable thought that springs to mind in instinctive response. She presses her nails into her knee, the sharp pain forcing the thought away. She makes herself look at Nate, confronting her imprudent subconscious with the image of the kind of person to whom Andrea is attracted. His red, swollen eyes and miserable expression give her a burst of unwanted sympathy. Perhaps, after all, this is the kind of person to whom Andrea was once attracted, but no longer. Miranda imagines that the only thing worse than longing for Andrea Sachs and not being desired in return would be having her love only to lose it.

She clears her throat delicately. "If Andrea loves you back, you've no need for concern."

He smiles bleakly. "If," he agrees.

She catches Roy's eye in the mirror. A moment later, the car rolls to a stop at the curb.

"This has been delightful," she tells Nate, "but I'm afraid I have another engagement. You understand."

He opens the door, movements slow and ponderous as if gravity has increased tenfold.

"And Nathan?"

He looks at her.

Her lip curls. "Next time, it will be far worse than pepper spray."

To his credit, he straightens his spine ever so slightly in response to the threat. "Don't hurt her," he says, and departs.

Miranda will not see him again, save for one encounter almost a decade later. On that day, she will take someone she cares very deeply for to a dinner at Marceaux, a new Michelin-starred restaurant with a divine tasting menu. When the chef comes out to introduce himself, he will be accompanied by a rather green Nate Cooper, sous chef, who will refuse to look Miranda or her companion in the eye.


Andrea leaves instructions with Emily for Miranda and the girls to be ready to go at 7 p.m. and to "dress down". The latter instruction causes a great deal of consternation for Miranda—trust Andrea Sachs, of all people, to make her self-conscious about clothing—and a great deal of excitement for the girls. Roy picks them up with his usual punctuality and takes them to a tiny Thai restaurant on 9th Avenue between 51st and 52nd Street.

Andrea awaits them out front, "dressed down" in faded jeans and a v-neck t-shirt that proclaims her to be a "Muggleborn Ravenclaw" ("So cool," Cassidy breathes) (Lovely, Miranda's subconscious whispers). The girls scramble out of the town car, babbling a mile a minute. Miranda follows more gracefully.

"9th Avenue is awesome—is that a tattoo parlor?—"

"—Andy, we read your article, it was really good—"

"—where I can get a shirt like that, Mom doesn't let us wear t-shirts—"

"—Thai food? Is it like Chinese?—"

"Whoa, whoa." Andrea laughs, holding her hands up in surrender. "Slow down, kiddos. You're giving me whiplash. I figured you guys might like to see how we mere mortals tend to slum...it...for...dinner."

Andrea's voice trails off as Miranda glides into view. Her eyes drag their way up Miranda's skintight True Religion jeans to her loose, deep-necked, wine-colored Bill Blass tunic. She blinks a couple of times; swallows visibly. Miranda rubs the tips of her fingers together, wondering how it would feel to draw them down that long, Hepburnish neck.

"Miranda. You, uh, look nice. Really nice."

"Thank you, Andrea," Miranda says, smug with her revenge for Andrea's vague instructions.

"We've never seen Mom in jeans before," Cassidy whispers loudly.

"She should wear them more often," Andrea whispers back.

Miranda clears her throat, cheeks warm. "Shall we?"

Andrea is well-known at the restaurant; she is greeted by name and they are seated immediately despite the two parties ahead of them. They pass through the dimly-lit restaurant, whose decorations consist primarily of Buddhas and floral imagery, and take a cozy table near the back. Thinking fondly back to the birthday party, Miranda intends to sit beside Andrea and enjoy whatever incidental contact may result, but the twins have other ideas. Caroline takes the seat beside Andrea on the other side of the table and Cassidy wedges herself in next to Miranda.

Ordering turns out to be a great deal of fun—not a word Miranda has associated with her life in a very long time, if ever—mostly because the twins are convinced that "one of everything" is the only way to ensure their first encounter with Thai food is a success. Andrea, who intends to foot the bill, negotiates them down to two dishes apiece, with appetizers to share.

The twins have rudimentary chopstick skills, which improve drastically over the course of the meal under Miranda and Andrea's tutelage. Caroline's favorite dish turns out to be pad see ew; Cassidy's is pad thai. ("So many carbs," Caroline says, rapturously. Andrea hums her agreement.) Both girls scrunch their noses at the softshell crab curry, which Andrea and Miranda end up sharing. (The twins exchange wide-eyed looks, but none of the Priestlys explain to Andrea that Miranda never eats anything family style.)

"Did you always know you wanted to be a writer, Andy?" Cassidy asks.

Andrea nods. "Since I was a little girl. What do you two want to do when you grow up?"

This launches the twins into enthusiastic, lengthy discourse about their desired professions. Caroline wants to be an astronaut, or perhaps a painter, while Cassidy is committed to a future as a singer-songwriter. Miranda listens with a half-smile as Andrea draws both girls out with the same sincere interest she would show interviewing the CEO of a Fortune 500 company.

Miranda considers paying, mindful of Andrea's low income and the possibility that she will soon be paying her rent single-handedly if she does indeed boot Nate out of her life, but Andrea gives her a stern look, as if she knows exactly what Miranda is thinking. Miranda remembers then that Andrea is also an extremely headstrong young woman determined to prove her independence.

Perhaps it's the memory of that odd confrontation with Nate that makes her bold at the end of the delightful evening. As they are saying their farewells—outside Andrea's apartment, because Miranda insisted on giving her a ride to her apartment two blocks away—she draws Andrea into an embrace. She can't remember the last time she instigated such a thing with another adult.

Andrea is tense with surprise but melts like an icicle struck by the sun, her own slender arms coming up strong and sure against Miranda's back. Miranda's heels bring her almost to Andrea's height; she presses her cheek to Andrea's, barely resisting the urge to rub their skin together.

"Congratulations again," Miranda murmurs. "You are astounding, Andrea. Truly." She says it with all the baffled awe that has consumed her since this young woman forced herself into her day, and life, and heart.


Stephen wants little in the divorce, and yet it's still too much.

"The Mercedes," his lawyer drones. "Half the proceeds when you sell the townhouse someday. Joint custody of Patricia."

Miranda clenches her hands together under the table, glaring at Stephen's smug face. " Unacceptable." The bit about Patricia is a non-starter, of course—he can't have been serious about wanting to share custody of Miranda's Saint Bernard—but the rest, reasonable though it may seem on paper, is reprehensible to contemplate.

Her lawyer, Lucas Hastings, gives her a look, reminding her that she'd agreed to let him do the talking. She arches an imperious eyebrow back in return.

His lips twitch. "Unacceptable," he tells Stephen's attorney.

Stephen glowers at them both. His lawyer shuffles some papers. "Ms. Priestly has been the primary breadwinner since the commencement of the marriage. In order for my client to continue to live in the manner to which he's become accustomed—"

"You used to be a rather good financier, or so you said when you were courting me," Miranda interjects, ignoring Lucas's frantic gestures for her to stop talking. "I'd think your own millions would be enough for you."

Stephen's face twists in the annoyed expression he wore as a default the last few months of their marriage. "It's not about the money, and you damn well know it. It's about what I deserve for putting up with—"

"Stephen," his lawyer hisses.

"What about the girls?" Miranda interrupts at the same time. "You haven't mentioned them in any of your demands."

"What about them?" Stephen says coldly. "They aren't mine."

Her lip curls. "And that's why you get nothing from me." She cannot fathom why she ever thought it a good idea to bring this man into her home, her bed. He's a user. A taker. Nothing like—

She halts that thought in its tracks.

Stephen narrows his eyes. "I didn't want to have to do this. I hoped you wouldn't make me use the word."

In other circumstances, his predatory sneer might cause her some inkling of worry. She's fairly certain of what he's going to say, however, and so she crosses her legs at the knee, and says, "What word might that be?"

"Infidelity."

It falls from his lips like an anvil. Both lawyers inhale sharply.

"Infidelity?" she repeats blandly, as if she's never heard the word before. "With whom?"

"Don't play dumb," he growls. "Andy Sachs. You've been seeing him on the sly since at least October. I have copies of your calendar from before I left."

"Miranda, don't reply," Lucas instructs her, pushing to his feet and giving Stephen's lawyer an angry look. "We're done here."

Miranda does not follow suit. She frowns as if in thought. "Andy Sachs. Andy Sachs. The name doesn't...Oh!" She feigns realization. "You must be talking about Andrea Sachs, the young woman I'm mentoring."

Stephen rolls his eyes. "Oh, come on—"

"You know, I think I have some of her work here with me." With no rooting around at all, she pulls the Cincinnati Monthly from her briefcase and slides it across the table to her soon-to-be ex-husband. (This is a spare copy. She has others at home.)

He stares down at the cover and Andrea's name in bold, face filled with the same slow dread with which one might regard a gangrenous limb. "Andrea," he repeats.

Miranda steeples her fingers. "I'm not sleeping with her, Stephen. How nice of you to insinuate that I was." Part of her wonders if Stephen is more insightful than she realized. If he saw something in the way she spoke of Andrea, in the way she behaved after meeting Andrea, that hinted at feelings Miranda herself hadn't begun to suspect.

She wonders what sleeping with Andrea Sachs would be like, though she doesn't allow herself to imagine it for long. She re-crosses her legs.

"Stephen," his lawyer says tentatively, "if you have any proof…"

Shaking his head, Stephen sags in his chair, his sole trump card effortlessly defeated.

"Speaking of infidelity," Miranda says, reaching into her briefcase once more, this time for her private investigator's file on Stephen, and smiles as the color drains from his face.


"So that's it? You're divorced and he got nothing?" Andrea says at lunch the next day, over salads and overpriced champagne.

(A dangerous combination. The greens do little to soak up the alcohol, and Miranda already feels pleasantly light in a way that would concern her if she weren't so pleased, and in such good company.)

Miranda draws her finger around the rim of her salad bowl. "We still have to wait the full year before the divorce is final. He signed the settlement agreement, however. It's as done as it can be for now."

"It feels strange to say congratulations about a divorce," Andrea says, eyes warm. "Still…congratulations. I know how hard this has been on you."

How hard it's been? She wonders what's given Andrea that impression. She feels freer than she has in a long time. Stephen's absence is a relief. "I don't know what you mean."

Andrea, who must be a bit tipsy herself, leans across the table to touch the space between Miranda's eyebrows. "You've had a little wrinkle right here ever since Paris," she says. She sits back, taking her hand away. The spot where her finger rested tingles.

Miranda's fingers itch to take out her small compact and examine the spot Andrea pointed out. She keeps meticulous track of her wrinkles, but this is a new one.

"Plus," Andrea says, "I know you were worried about what the press would say, and even if it hasn't been as bad as you expected, it can't be easy going through something like this."

Miranda gazes at the hollow of Andrea's throat, where Miranda's necklace resides. She hasn't seen Andrea without it since she gave it to her, even on days when they've had nothing planned and have happened to run into each other on the elevator or one of them has needed an emergency coffee break.

She's been silent too long. When she drags her gaze upwards, Andrea is eyeing her with cheeks rosy from the champagne.

"It's been easier than you think," Miranda says. She's lonely, yes, but no more lonely than she was before Stephen left. Not nearly as lonely as she was before Andrea wandered into her life. "Not having the pressure to meet him at a certain time or place, no matter how busy I may be. Not having the nightly disagreements. And the girls are glad he's gone."

Something flashes across Andrea's face too quickly for Miranda to identify it.

"What was that?"

Suddenly Andrea can't meet her eyes. "What?"

"That look."

"It's nothing."

Miranda mock glares at her. "Since when have you, of all people, been afraid to speak your mind to me?" It's one of Andrea's most charming and exasperating traits.

Andrea licks her lips, takes another gulp of champagne. They've nearly emptied the bottle. Miranda has, perhaps, been a bad influence when it comes to the day drinking.

"It's just that—and don't take this as criticism—you could have gone to more of those events with Stephen, if you'd tried."

Miranda wonders whether there's something off about this salad. Her stomach is roiling. She sets her fork down with too much force. "Excuse me?" she demands in a voice as cold as ice.

Andrea flinches. Miranda hasn't spoken to her that sway since the second time they'd met, at that Fourth of July party all those months ago. Still, she's no coward. She rallies.

"You make time for the things that matter to you," she says. "The twins, whenever they have something going on at school—and lasagna night. And—and me, I guess. You make time for lunches and things with me."

Miranda stares at Andrea, too astonished to be angry, seeing only a stranger where a moment before her dearest friend had sat. Who is this girl talking to her? This judgmental chit? Where's the insightful woman who understands Miranda so well?

Maybe she never existed, Miranda thinks bitterly. Maybe she was just the figment of a lonely woman's twisted imagination.

"Not any more," Miranda says, pushing back her chair.

Dread creeps across Andrea's face and settles there. "Miranda—"

Miranda fumbles blindly for her purse, trips over the leg of her chair, which pierces her stockings to leave a long, shallow scratch on her leg, and leaves. Leaves the restaurant, leaves the fantasy, leaves Andrea and the thousand-dollar check.


Miranda's temper for the rest of the week is more vicious than it's been any time in recent memory. If anyone in the office believed her to be softening, they now learn the error of their ways. She runs them ragged, day and night, demanding perfection and finding it elusive as a friend who won't betray.

"Stephen," she overhears Nigel saying knowingly one day, and grits her teeth.

"Andrea," Emily whispers back, and Miranda shatters a glass.


"Your skin really is something amazing," one of Runway 's makeup artists tells her as she puts Miranda's face on for a tedious event hosted by Chanel.

Thinking about skin—thinking about anything—makes her think of Andrea. "What about that wrinkle?" She hasn't searched for it in the mirror; hasn't wanted to see the visible flaw Andrea felt the need to point out before ruining the wonderful thing they had.

"What wr—oh. This one up here? You know, I could have sworn that wasn't there a second ago."


The scratch on her leg scabs over. It itches constantly. She reopens it whenever she idly reaches down to scratch it.


"What's going on with you and Andy?" Caroline asks one night at dinner.

"What do you mean, Bobbsey?" she replies with an airy tone that fools them not at all.

The girls exchange a look. "You haven't mentioned her in over a week," says Cassidy, the more politic of the two. "Usually you talk about her a lot. Like, a lot."

Miranda reminds herself that these are her daughters, not a pair of uppity employees, and she is legally incapable of firing them.

"You're exaggerating," she says through her teeth. "Andrea is a friend. I talk about her the same amount I talk about my other friends."

"What other friends?" Caroline mutters.

Cassidy elbows her. "We want to know if something happened between you two."

Part of her wants to tell the truth: to admit that Andrea has turned out to be as disappointing as every other adult in Miranda's life. More disappointing. The larger part wishes to preserve their childhood optimism for as long as possible. And they adore Andrea, damn it.

"Adults sometimes grow apart," she hedges. "We may not be seeing much of Andrea in the future, girls."

You make time for the things that matter to you, Andrea had said, and had dared to include herself in that number.

"That's crap," Caroline says. "How come?"

Miranda, inexplicably, feels her eyes heat. She shakes her head. She touches her brow and feels the tiny wrinkle there.

She looks at her daughters, whom she loves more than oxygen, and hates herself for causing them to fret. "We're going to be just fine, Bobbseys," she says through a lump in her throat. "Just the three of us."


This is not like those other times when one of them said the wrong thing and the other lost her temper. Andrea does not come, hat in hand, to beg forgiveness. Miranda is just as glad, for she has none to offer.

She does not care what the press says about her, so long as they refrain from mentioning her daughters. She does not care what her employees call her behind her back as they hurry about her hallways doing her bidding. She does not care what Stephen thinks about her, if he curses her for being frigid or distant or unreliable.

She does care what Andrea Sachs thinks of her, though—or did, until now. Because if Andrea thinks Miranda did not try, did not stretch herself in every possible direction, did not exhaust herself daily to make her marriage work, then she does not understand Miranda at all. If that is true, then Miranda has been a fool all this time, fundamentally overestimating Andrea, and she is done.

And if her days seem longer, her life a little colder, well, she was fine before Andrea Sachs came along. She'll be fine again.


She glances at herself in the mirror one morning as she brushes her teeth. She stops mid-brush when she notices that the spot between her eyebrows is as smooth and unlined as it's ever been. She leans in to take a closer look, but no, there's nothing there.

So Andrea was lying about that, too. She supposes she shouldn't be surprised, or feel that heavy weight of disappointment in the pit of her stomach.

At the thought of Andrea, a tiny crinkle forms, and she thinks, Oh. Of course.

Even if she never sees Andrea Sachs again—and she hopes to God she does not—the girl has left her indelible mark on Miranda's very being.