He ends the call, and just like that, the silence is back.
I catch my reflection in the dark TV screen—tall, broad-shouldered, sweat still clinging to my hair, looking nothing like the guy who used to feel so sure of where he belonged.
Closing my eyes, I lean into the couch, listening to the hum of the city. Maybe this place isn’t as bad as I’m making it out to be. There’s a rhythm to it—a kind of electricity that almost feels like home, if you listen really hard.
I open the Tupperware again and pull out another cookie. I’ve got to give it to Nicole, this is a solid peace offering.
I’m halfway throughRemember the Titansand another cookie—okay, fine, it’s my third—when there’s a knock at the door. Inearly drop the cookie into my lap as I rack my brain as to whether or not I ordered a package…
Or if it’s going to be more peace offerings.
I debate ignoring it. But there’s always the chance it’s important, and if it’s Nicole, Ishouldtell her thanks. I grab a towel to wipe chocolate off my hands and open the door.
And sure enough, there she is.
But she’s not alone.
Nicole stands in the hall, flanked by a man who looks vaguely familiar—like I’ve seen his face on a magazine cover in a dentist’s office and never paid attention. But their resemblance is unmistakable. They’ve got the same high-wattage smile and ocean-blue eyes.
Nicole’s traded her usual athleisure for a purple-and-gold jersey—Lakers, of course—worn like a challenge over skinny jeans and iridescent sneakers. Her hair is loose in careful waves past her shoulders.
She’s gorgeous. And I’m sure she knows it.
However, the man beside her is all polish. His suit is perfectly fitted, not just tailored but custom-shaped to make every other suit in the world seem like pajamas. His shoes gleam, and when he smiles, I swear the temperature in the hallway goes up a degree.
He screams confidence. Ambition. Andmoney.
“Dom!” Nicole chirps, waving like we’re old friends instead of people who’ve shared exactly two conversations and one dog-related incident. “This is my dad, Nikko Farrarah,” she says quickly, like she’s ripping off a Band-Aid.
Nikko Farrarah.
Oh.
Tech, I think. Something big.
“He’s in town for work,” she adds. “And when he found out you live across the hall … well. Here we are.”
“Oh…” I glance down and suddenly realize I could pass for a homeless person, and I can only imagine what her father is thinking. But also…
Why are they at my door? Is this about the shoes?
Nikko Farrarah extends a hand. “Dominic Neelson! The man himself. Pleasure, son. I’ve been keeping up with you.”
“Uh,” I say, remembering to keep my grip firm. “Nice to meet you.”
I should’ve put on shoes. The clean ones.
But he doesn’t miss a beat. “You know, I caught part of your last game with the Jets. Solid baseline D, though your wingspan is wasted if you don’t go for the block now and then.”
I blink. “You watch me?”
He laughs. “I watch all ball. NBA, G-League, Euro. Old ABA reruns. My girl here runs circles around me, but even I know a talent when I see one.”
Nicole rolls her eyes. “Don’t let him fool you. He memorizes every stat. He was banned from March Madness pools at three different offices for ‘predictive modeling’.”
I try to hide my smile, but it’s impossible. Ifeel honored.
Nikko claps me on the shoulder like I’m family, and peers around me into the apartment. “Moving in okay? I know these new buildings look fancy, but sometimes they forget to put in, you know, basic appliances. Water heater blew out twice at Nicole’s in just the first week. They sent a guy named Karl, and he nearly set the place on fire.”
