“No, I love her,” I say quickly because I do.
“You know what I mean.”
I do. But I want a real friendship out of this. I don’t want Penelope to be a means to an end. I want her to be someone I know in five years, who I send Christmas cards to, who I tell my children about. I only just moved in, and I’m already attached.
I blow out a sigh. “Is my outfit okay though?”
Mila looks me up and down. She looks at Chase, who is back on his phone. She looks back at me and whispers, “Do you have your blue top?”
I inhale. The blue top is the one that matches my eyes. The blue top is the one Mila made me buy in a TJ Maxx years ago, the one she saidwould— I remember her exact phrasing —take a boy down.
“I don’t think it’s the right night for that,” I whisper back.
She nods. “Okay. Yeah. You look good. You can never go wrong with a white tee and jeans.”
I walk to my dresser and spray myself with the perfume my mother gave me for Christmas — vanilla and something floral, very safe, very sweet — and I pull out my phone.
“I’m texting Mara that we’re on our way.”
“First,” Mila says, “let’s take a picture.”
I lean my back against her shoulder. My hair falls onto her collarbone, and I tip my chin up and try to look like someone who knows what to do with her face in a photo. She takes three quick shots in the mirror.
Chase rolls his eyes. “Come on.”
It deflates the moment by just a notch. Mila is unfazed. She keeps posing. We burst out laughing as Chase huffs and walks out of the room, and the laughter is the first real thing I have done all day.
We walk into the kitchen and take a shot.
“You guys are killing me,” Chase says, leaning over the counter.
Mila scowls at him. “Don’t be a buzzkill, Chase.”
He looks at me like I’m about to defend him. I lift a brow and take my first shot of the night. I’ll be needing more of this later.
When we hit the sidewalk, the air is colder than I expected.
“It’s an eighteen-minute walk,” I say, checking the map on my phone.
“We should just take my truck,” Chase says, pulling his keys out of his pocket.
I open my mouth to say no — to say it would be nice to walk, I’d like the air, and I wanted the time with Mila to settle my nerves before we got there — and I close it again, because Chase has already started toward the parking lot.
We climb into the cab of his truck.
I’m wedged between them. Mila’s perfume — something sharper and more confident than mine — fills the small space. The dashboard glows blue. Chase puts on his music, which I have developed a complicated relationship with over two years. It’s always the same six country songs on a loop, the kind of country that is only about trucks and beer.
I inhale when we pull onto Hawthorne Street shortly after. Cars are parked end to end on both sides of the road. My heart is consistently thumping against my ribs. My fingers, in my lap, will not stay still.
Chase finds a spot. He parks and cuts the engine. The silence in the cab, after the music, is enormous. I pull out my phone andstart texting, praying that Mara will walk out the front door to get us.
Me:Here.
Mara:Coming!
“Ready?” Chase says.
I nod, even though I’m the opposite of ready. I have never, in my whole life, been less ready for anything.
