“That doesn’t make it better!”
“It’s my birthday weekend.” She pulls out the big guns. The nuclear option. The ultimate trump card. “And you almost lost me last week. And Marcus literally stalked you to our building with flowers and I had to watch through the window while a serial killer hunted my best friend. Dom’s threatening your career. We’re investigating murders. Life is short and terrifying and I watched you almost die on Wednesday and I want to drinkwine and draw a hot naked person with my best friend because we should do fun weird things while we still can. Is that too much to ask?”
Almost lost me.
The words land somewhere behind my ribs. That empty bus seat beside me. Her bedroom door closed while I stood in the hallway trying to figure out how to apologize. The three days of silence that felt like drowning.
Not death lost either.
Worse. A friendship breakup.
My throat tightens but I push through it. Because she’s right. We almost destroyed this. Almost lost the one relationship that matters more than anything else in my life.
She’s right. She knows she’s right. I know she’s right.
We almost destroyed our friendship over ghosts and fear and me being too stubborn to listen.
And now she wants to drink wine and draw naked people and laugh and be ridiculous together.
How can I say no to that?
And here’s the thing—I’m about to be terrible at something. In public. In front of strangers. The old Dylan would’ve found excuses. Would’ve performed confidence while dying inside. Would’ve refused to be vulnerable, to be seen failing, to be anything less than competent.
But Alex is asking. Alex, who forgave me. Alex, who’s wearing my surrender around her neck. Alex, who needs this joy after everything we’ve survived this week.
I can be bad at drawing for her. I can be awkward and uncomfortable and publicly terrible. I can choose her over my armor.
I can stop performing and just... be.
“I hate you,” I say.
“You love me.”
“I’m reconsidering.”
“No you’re not.”
“I might be.”
“You’re not.”
At that exact moment—that perfect, comedic, universe-has-impeccable-timing moment—the studio door opens.
And a guy walks out.
Not just any guy.
A hot guy.
Six-foot-something. Dark hair that falls just right. Cheekbones that could cut glass. Strong jaw. Eyes that are probably some ridiculous color like green or gray. Wearing a robe. Just a robe. White terry cloth. Heading toward what I assume is the model’s dressing room.
Alex and I freeze.
Watch him pass.
He nods at us. Casual. Friendly. “Ladies.”
“Hi,” I say.
