Outside, the morning sun is already brutal—typical Florida, humid and bright, even if it is January.
My car is still parked from yesterday when I came to make dinner.
I climb in and head toward the house I share with Trisha and Angela.
The rental is in a decent neighborhood—three bedrooms, small yard, the kind of place that looks fine from the outside but is complete chaos inside.
Trisha's parents own it, rent it to her cheap, and she sublets the other two rooms.
I've been there for a year and a half.
It was supposed to be temporary.
But temporary became permanent became the place I'm too stuck to leave.
I park in the driveway behind Angela's beat-up Honda.
Both of them are home.
Great.
Inside, the house smells like vanilla candles trying to cover up stale alcohol and last night's takeout.
The living room is exactly as messy as I expected—throw pillows on the floor, empty wine bottles on the coffee table, someone's shoes kicked off by the couch.
Trisha and Angela are in the kitchen, both in pajamas, both with mimosas despite it being 11 AM on a Sunday.
"Well, well," Trisha says when she sees me. "Look whofinallydecided to come home."
"Hey." I head for the fridge, grab a water.
"Hey?" Angela's eyebrows shoot up. "That's all we get? You disappear Friday night from the bar, don't answer texts all weekend, and that's all we get?"
"I've been busy."
"Busy doing what?" Trisha leans against the counter, mimosa in hand. "Or should I say busy doing who?"
I should've known this was coming.
Should've prepared better.
"I'm seeing someone," I say, keeping my voice neutral.
They exchange looks.
"Seeing someone," Angela repeats. "As in dating?You?"
The way she says it—like the concept of me in an actual relationship is absurd—makes something in my chest tighten.
"Yes. Me."
"Who?" Trisha demands.
"Does it matter?"
"Of course it matters. We're your friends. We want details." She grins, but there's an edge to it. "Is he hot? Rich? Good in bed?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
