Was something wrong? Did something happen to Daphne?
Oh.
Oh, shit.
I double-checked the date on my phone. May 15. My heart sank. I had been so consumed with my failed fake relationship with Macey that I had completely forgotten the date. Daphne’s semester had ended, and she was flying into Chicago today. Right now, actually.
We were supposed to be packing up for our big summer road trip—the cross-country adventure we’d planned since last year before everything in my life went sideways.
What the hell was I going to say to Daphne? I couldn’t cancel the trip. We both needed this. But it didn’t feel right to leave Chicago with my life in shambles. My thoughts whirled in panic, my brain trying to grasp a solution as if I could fix everything in the short time before she arrived.
I checked her location on my phone. She was almost at my apartment. If I hurried, I could beat her there.
But first—a pit stop. I jogged down the street, my mind racing as fast as my feet. I needed a peace offering, something to soften the blow of my negligence. Donuts. Mario’s Donuts. Her favorites. I grabbed a half dozen and sprinted back to my place, barely beating her to the door.
I unlocked the apartment and left the door slightly ajar, knowing Daphne would let herself in like she always did.
“Way to leave me on read!” Daphne’s voice rang out the moment she stepped inside, her tone laced with teasing accusation. But her expression softened the second she saw the white box in my hand, her eyes lighting up.
“Are those Mario’s Donuts?” she asked, her voice a mixture of excitement and exasperation.
“Only the best for my best,” I said, grinning as I opened the lid to reveal her favorite treats.
Her hair had grown longer, I noticed. Now it fell in tight curls down to her mid-back. When had that happened? Had Ireally been so wrapped up in my own drama that I missed these small changes?
She dropped her suitcase by the door and plopped down on the couch beside me, then crossed her legs. “I know you’re trying to butter me up with donuts before apologizing for ghosting me. And just so you know, I’m going to need a lot more sugar to forgive you for leaving me hanging all morning.”
“I can arrange that,” I said, handing her the first donut as a peace offering. “I really am sorry. Today was…well, let’s just say it wasn’t my best day.”
“Oh, how the tables have turned.” She took a giant bite out of the cheesecake donut and spoke through a mouthful. “You know, I’ve been waiting for the day you went through an existential crisis while I was the stable one.”
I raised an eyebrow, taking a slower, more controlled bite of my own donut. “What makes you think I’m having an existential crisis?”
Daphne rolled her eyes in that way only she could—exaggerated, like she couldn’t believe I was asking something so obvious. She picked apart another donut, intent on tasting every flavor in the box.
“Please,” she said, “I can see it in your eyes.”
“What, do they look bloodshot?”
“No,” she said, her voice softening. “They look like mine did last year—before I had any clue what I was doing with my life. And guess who helped me figure it out?” She jabbed a finger into my chest. “Now it’s my turn to help you.”
I sighed, running a hand through my hair as I leaned back against the couch cushions. It felt strange, confiding in Daphne like this. Growing up, I’d always been the one fixing things—her problems became our problems. Mine were never hers.
But now, sitting here with her, it struck me that we weren’t kids anymore. She wasn’t the little sister who needed me to pickher up from school or help her with homework. She was an adult, smart and capable in ways that surprised me sometimes.
“Fine,” I said, giving in. “This week has been rough.”
I told her everything—about Macey, about my mistake with Victoria, about the way I’d let everything fall apart because I didn’t know how to hold on. Daphne listened without interrupting, nodding thoughtfully as if she were mentally cataloging my problems, sorting through them like some puzzle she was determined to solve.
When I finished, she sat back, crossing her arms. “You know, when I said ‘existential crisis,’ I didn’t think I’d be right, but damn, Noah. You really went all in.”
I groaned and dropped my face into my hands. “I know. I’ve screwed everything up.”
“Maybe you’ve screwed some things up,” she corrected, her voice light but firm, “but not everything. You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m not being dramatic?—”
“We can fix this.”
