“I knew it.” Alex points at Lance triumphantly. “Jules and I have been saying for years you need someone who makes you use your words.”
“Someone who isn’t afraid of him,” Felicity mutters, then seems to catch herself and glances away.
Alex plucks the burgundy from my hand and swaps it for a different bottle. “This one. Less tannin. Your dish will thank you.”
I take it, studying him. Behind the theatrics, there’s something sharper than he lets on. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. Art’s lucky to have someone who cooks for him. He’s not always great at appreciating the people in his corner.”
My chest tightens.What’s he mean by that?Before I can ask, he pivots.
“Tell me something, Genevieve, can I call you Genevieve?”
“No.”
“Fine. Ginny. If you had to describe yourself in a story, what kind would it be?”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Humor me. Are you a comedy? A tragedy? A romance? An epic adventure?”
“I don’t know,” I say slowly.
“A tragedy, then.”
“Is it? I always thought tragedies ended with everyone dead. I’m still standing.”
Alex tilts his head. “Aristotle argued that tragedy isn’t about death. It’s about the fall from grace. The moment when everything changes and can’t be unchanged.” He snaps his fingers.
His eyes flick toward Lance.
Felicity reappears with a white paper package before the silence can settle.
“Got you the good stuff. Dad threw in extra thighs because you have excellent taste.”
“What do I owe you?”
“On the house. Belated welcome-to-our-dysfunctional-town gift.”
“Felicity, we can pay,” Lance says.
She scoffs. “Please stop ruining my friendship arc with your roommate.”
“Thank you,” I say, and my voice comes out thicker than I intended.
Her expression softens. “We should hang out. Me, you, Jules. You going to the golden boy’s anniversary party?”
I look around. “Who’s the golden boy?”
“Paxton,” Lance tells me.
“Oh—yeah. Art’s taking me.”
Felicity shoots a look at Lance. “And you?”
He nods.
“Good. Let’s take you out for a dress beforehand. Give me your number.”
