Lila pokes her head through the open door without knocking because she has never once respected privacy in the entire time I’ve known her.
She stops short.
Looks at the room.
Looks at me.
Looks at the bed.
Then she slowly grins.
“Oh my God.”
I grab the nearest pillow and throw it at her.
She catches it one-handed.
“You changed the sheets.”
“Get out.”
“You changed the sheets,” she repeats, scandalized and delighted. “Stella Cortez. You romantic little closet freak.”
“I said get out.”
She leans against the doorframe and folds her arms.
“This is for Basketball Boy, isn’t it?”
I try for dignity.
“Do not call him Basketball Boy.”
Her brows shoot up.
“Wow. It’s serious.”
I turn away and fluff a pillow that does not need fluffing.
“It is not that serious.”
“Mm-hmm.” Lila watches me for a second. Then, to my immense irritation, her voice softens. “You okay?”
I look down at the smooth white bedspread, at my own hands stilling on the edge of it.
“No,” I admit. “Actually. Not remotely.”
That makes her laugh. “Good. That means it’s real.”
I throw the second pillow at her. This time it hits.
She leaves still laughing, and I close the door behind her before she can come back with follow-up questions I do not have the emotional stability to answer.
I sit on the edge of my ridiculous, freshly made bed and stare at my phone.
No text from Tristan yet.
Which shouldn’t matter.
