"Anyway." Amanda refills her glass, even though she's barely touched it. Classic nervous habit. "Enough about your mysterious Russian. I have news."
"News news or 'I bought another pair of Louboutins' news?"
"News news." She bites her lip, and suddenly she looks less like a glamorous socialite and more like the girl I met freshman year—bright-eyed and desperate for connection. "I met someone."
I sit up straighter. "When? Where? Why am I just hearing about this?"
"His name is Dylan. He's a photographer—like, actual art photography, not Instagram stuff. We met at that gallery opening last week." She's talking fast now, words tumbling over each other. "He's smart, V. Like, actually smart. And he listens when I talk, which is apparently rare in men these days?—"
"Amanda."
She stops. Takes a breath.
"He sounds great," I say carefully. "So why do you look terrified?"
Her smile falters. Just for a second, but I catch it. I always catch it.
"Because he wants to take things slow." She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Can you imagine? A guy who doesn't want to rush into bed? What's wrong with him?"
Nothing, I think.What's wrong is that slow means you might actually have to be alone with your thoughts.
I don't say it. I don't have to. We've known each other too long for that.
Amanda grew up in a penthouse three times this size, raised by a rotating cast of nannies while her parents chased their careers across continents. Her mother is a fashion executive who speaks four languages and can't remember Amanda's birthday without a calendar reminder. Her father runs some hedge fund in Singapore and sends checks instead of Christmas cards.
She learned early that empty rooms are the enemy.
"He texted me goodnight last night," she continues, swirling her wine. "Just... goodnight. With a little moon emoji. And I almost called him to come over anyway because the silence in this apartment was so loud I couldn't—" She stops. Swallows. "God, I sound pathetic."
"You sound human."
"Same thing, isn't it?"
I reach over and squeeze her hand. Her fingers are cold despite the warm apartment.
"Maybe slow is good," I offer. "Maybe it means he actually wants to know you, not just?—"
"Sleep with me and disappear?" She snorts. "Novel concept."
My phone buzzes. I ignore it.
"You should check that," Amanda says. "Could be your mysterious cancellation with an explanation."
I want to say I don't care. That Dmitri Baganov can wait until hell freezes over for all I care about his explanations.
But my fingers are already reaching for the phone.
The screen glows with a single message:I'm sorry. Family emergency. I'll explain when I can.
Something loosens in my chest. Something I didn't realize had been tight.
"Well?" Amanda leans over my shoulder. "What'd he say?"
"Family emergency." I stare at the words. "He apologized."
"Dmitri Baganov apologized?" She whistles low. "Must be serious."
Must be.
