I let the caterer out the door, thinking I have fifteen minutes to get ready—and finds Andrea standing at the bottom of the few steps leading up to the entrance of my townhouse. Dressed in black skinny jeans, a white shirt and a mustard leather jacket, she looks professional. Add to that her computer messenger bag slung over her shoulder and the way she looks entirely relaxed as the caterer passes her with a polite nod, and, most likely, an appreciative glance—she looks like she owns the world.

I, on the other hand, feel sucker punched. Some invisible person has snuck up right in front of me and driven their fist into my solar plexus and I cannot—I won't—let that show. I don my cold-and-polite smile, the one I used to practice in front of the mirror when I was a very young woman set on succeeding in this cutthroat business.

Andrea returns it with one of her honest, blinding ones. I hold the door up, blinded, but pretty sure the cold-and-polite is still in place.

"Do come in, Andrea."

"Thank you for doing this, Miranda," Andrea says and enters my home for the first time in over a year. Am I delusional or does the house change before my eyes? Are all my blue and white accents suddenly more vibrant? I shake my head and hold out my hand, impatient as always.

Andrea hurries and shrugs out of her jacket and hands it to me. "Now why does this shake the foundations of my world—you hanging up my jacket?" She flashes another smile.

It's all I can do to keep breathing, keep the cold-and-polite in place even if it will soon make me look like raving lunatic. "You're not my assistant anymore." I point toward the dining room where the caterer, who isn't really a caterer, but a waiter at Smith & Wollensky that brought what Emily ordered via phone to my house. "I thought we could start by replenishing and you can begin the interview when it suits you."

"Sounds great—wow!" Andrea stops on the threshold and stares at the dining room table. I told Emily to ask for sample platters of all their dishes, and they took it literally. Andrea is gaping, and I'm not far behind. I glanced at the table before, but not from this angle.

"We won't be able to eat all that." Andrea turns to me so fast, I have no way of stopping where I'm walking up behind her. I bump into her and my skin is on fire immediately.

Andrea's eyes grow bigger. "Oh, I'm so sorry."

I disregard her superfluous apology. "Whatever the two of us can't manage, or the girls, I will have sent to the closest homeless shelter. It's what we normally do at Runway these days."

"Really?" Andrea beams. "That's great. Usually what the Mirror bestows upon us during meetings are donuts of assorted flavors and people virtually inhale them. So, no leftovers."

"Donuts?" I crinkle my nose. I haven't had one since I was in high school.

"Yeah. I really like the ones with chocolate frosting, but lately I think I overate on them." Andrea sits on the chair I motion toward, in a ninety-degree angle from me when I take my seat at the head of the table.

I let my eyes roam her lithe body. "You don't look like you overindulged."

Andrea laughs, her infamous cackle that could get the entire outer office going into paroxysms at any given moment. "Probably because I'm on my feet all over Manhattan this last year."

"Ah. The life of a cub reporter."

"Yeah. I bet you wonder why I got the assignment to interview you." Andrea grows serious.

"You know me. You've worked for me. That together with the fact that you're a good writer." I shrug. "Any or all of the above."

Now Andrea blushes and it makes her look even more beautiful. Can it be that her lips grow fuller as well, or is that my sinful imagination?

"I would hope the latter, but sure, my editor knows very well that I used to work for you. He was the one you faxed." Squirming, Andrea places some lettuce on her salad plate.

"I see." She can't hold that fax against me, can she? It must've helped her get in the door.

"I never truly thanked you for that." Andrea plucks at her utensils. "I suppose there's a lot we haven't talked about that should be dealt with."

There. Goes. My. Breath. Again. I stab at a piece of innocent cucumber and places it in my mouth. A clever way not to have to answer. A delaying tactic. I swallow, and my respite is over. "Do share, Andrea. I'm very interested in what you think we've left unsaid."

Andrea mimics my tactic after pouring some Caesar dressing on her salad. Chewing on a piece of lettuce, she prepares. "I left you in Paris because it hurt to be around you." She raises her chin in a clear challenge.

"Hurt?" Not in a million years could I have imagined that sentence coming out of her mouth. "How?"

"Are you certain you want to have this conversation, Miranda?" Andrea fills her bigger plate with a little from several platters on the table. How can she maintain an appetite when we're headlong into what happened between us? "I mean, once the genie is out, it's out."

"You started it." I triumph, because she sort of did.

"Perhaps. And to answer your question, it hurt being around you for several reasons. On the surface, it pained me what you did to Nigel. If I'm painfully honest, it hurt even more when you said you saw something of yourself in me—and not in a flattering way."

I'm shaking on the inside now. Who was I kidding? This young woman had clearly an axe to grind, rather than fond memories, of her short stint with me…with Runway.

"And it hurt because I wanted so much more and knew it could never, ever happen." Andrea places her fork on the edge of the plate. Her eyes area like warm amber now as the light from the window hits her from the left.

I must have misunderstood. I watch her, trying to remember exactly how she worded it. I can't. "What?" I whisper.

"Don't worry, Miranda. I found my bearings when it comes to my feelings a long time ago. I'm not here to embarrass you."

"No, I mean, what did you say? Exactly?" I wrinkle the napkin on my lap in my fists.

Andrea blinks. "It hurt because I wanted more than I knew was possible. That what I dreamed of could never happen." She tilts her head.

I sip my Pellegrino. "To set the record straight about Nigel, he is leaving Runway to head up Runway Men two floors up in the Elias-Clarke building."

Andrea smiles broadly. "That's beyond amazing. Good for Nigel. And for you."

"I fail to see why losing Nigel is good for me—or for Runway, but it is time." I sip my mineral water again. "As for my unfortunate comparison, I do realize that the situation was not entirely comparable. I had my magazine to consider as well as all it's thousands of employees around the globe. I maneuvered you into taking Emily's place in Paris, which you did—"

"She broke her leg. She couldn't go." Andrea has started eating again and now grips her utensils hard.

"And you were talking to her at the time, ready to let her know that she was being pushed aside. You were prepared to do that to further your career."

Looking deflated, Andrea leans back in her chair. "I always did think I was to blame somehow for her being careless and getting hit by that car. No matter what I was going to tell her or not, I distracted her…" Andrea gives a helpless little shrug.

"That's not on you," I say firmly, aghast at how she managed to take the blame where no blame had been cast. "Emily never blamed you for that part. And when you sent her the clothes you were gifted in Paris, she all but erected a shrine in your honor. And she went through four second assistants in as many weeks."

"Really?" Her lips slightly parts at my words, making Andrea looks so soft, so approachable, I must force myself to remain in my chair.

"Yes." I keep going before I completely lose my nerve. "As for what you hoped for and that you thought was impossible, or something to that effect, I'm not entirely sure what you mean." I place my glass very carefully on the coaster on the table. "All I can say is that I wouldn't have invited you to my home, or doing the interview, if not everything was possible."