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I look up from my pizza, glancing over my shoulder to where Lily stands by the door, pacing in circles and nodding profusely as she speaks on the phone. I turn back to Holden with a smile.

Lily and I never had friends growing up—not really. Just each other. There’s something strange in knowing I’m not the only one who worries over her anymore—strange, but not bad. If anything, it’s warm. Makes me feel calmer.

“She’s fine. Relax.”

I’m only relaxed because it wasn’t her father calling her. Had I recognized the area code or her dad’s name, I’d be worried. But the number was for the “Gallery Lady” as Lily has named it.

“How do you know—”

“You’d know, Holden,” I say, dropping my voice. “Lily doesn’t hide her emotions. She doesn’t really know how to, okay? If she’s not okay, you’ll know.”

“Things were bad, Tor.”

“He said I was acting like my mom.”

My imagination likes to depict Lily’s words all sorts of ways now, like a torture chamber of my own making, flashing images of her alone and lying in her darkened room. Not eating. Sleeping constantly. No one caring for her, urging her out of bed or out of her room.

And you had no idea.

Lily reappears, buzzing, her energy entirely different. Her cheeks are almost swollen with the width of her smile. It’s infectious, Holden and I matching it easily.

“Good news?” I ask. She stays standing at the end of the table, nodding rapidly. She’s still in her dress, tights and heels, but Holden lent her a sweatshirt.

“All my paintings sold,” she says, dazed. “I can’t— I didn’t think anyone was going to buy anything.”

Holden snorts. “They’re insanely good. Of course someone was going to buy them.”

I wait for Lily to smile and nod, agree with his easy confidence boost. But my heart lurches in my chest when she looks away from him and toward me, up from underneath her lashes. Looking for my approval.

“You know I think you’re the best artist I’ve ever seen,” I say, opening my arm for her to slide into the booth and against my body. I lower my voice but make sure she’s facing me. “Even better than Van Gogh.”

“Yeah?” she asks, voice bright and full of wonder. “What about Cézanne?”

And for a moment, I’m a kid again, following a weird little red-haired girl into the biggest house I’ve ever seen, sitting quietly on the floor of her room because I don’t want to mess anything up, letting her show me drawings and paintings she’s hidden away.

“My dad doesn’t like me to bring them to him. So maybe I can give them to you now.”

I kiss her temple, just because I can.

“Yeah, Lil.”

• • •

The entire car ride home, with Lily in the back seat, Holden and I in the front, Lily was on her phone texting. She almost fell down the stairs noisily when we headed inside together, too locked into the screen, lip between her teeth.

Tonight was difficult. It might have ended better than it started, but there is some desperate version of me that is tied too tightly to her emotions. Sometimes I can feel them as if they were my own.

I felt that way by the time I was ten years old.

In her room now, I relax on the edge of her bed and watch her carefully. It’s only when I feel the slight change in her demeanor, the sinking of her shoulders, that I say anything.

“I’ve barely seen you use a phone before,” I say, playfully. “What’s up?”

She puts her phone to her chest, blue gaze darting to mine before she slams the device on her dresser and yanks out a drawer of her silky pajama sets. Just the idea of them makes me rock fucking hard, but I bite back the distraction and focus on her hands shaking.

“It’s stupid,” she mutters. Her eyes dart to her phone again and she checks it nervously.

It rings in her hand, her dad’s name flashing across the screen as she freezes.