Next to You E-Book

Hannah Bonam-Young

• Herausgeber: Bedford Square Publishers
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 493

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Lane is in the middle of an identity crisis. Her friends are all partnered up, her career is leading nowhere, and she's just not happy. So, after a night out celebrating her birthday, she makes one hell of an impulse purchase: a giant yellow forty-eight passenger school bus that she intends to make a home. With little-to-no renovation experience, but a large sum of inheritance money, Lane enlists the help of her friend Matt – mechanic by trade, handyman by practice, and hottie by nature. While their mutual attraction is undeniable, Matt's a total family guy with 'settle down with me' tattooed across his forehead, whereas Lane is entirely commitment averse. Matt and Lane have silently agreed that friendship is the only thing that can ever exist between them. So when Matt offers to help her with the bus, and in the bedroom, Lane's sure it can never work… can it?

Leseprobe

Praise for Hannah Bonam-Young

‘Warm, sexy, and vulnerable… Hannah Bonam-Young needs to be on your romance radar’ Hannah Grace, author of Icebreaker on Next to You

‘Funny and huge-hearted and romantic and real’ Talia Hibbert, author of Get a Life, Chloe Brown on Next of Kin

‘Tender, thoughtful, and deeply touching’ Chloe Liese, author of Two Wrongs Make a Right on Next of Kin

‘You know when you read a book and it feels like there’s a fist around your heart and your stomach drops and your throat goes tight? Everyone needs to pay attention. Hannah is going to do incredible things’ BK Borison, author of Lovelight Farms on Out on a Limb

‘No one is doing it like Hannah Bonam-Young’ Lyla Sage, author of Done and Dusted

‘Phenomenal, adorable, sexy and romantic, hilarious, gasp-inducing! I will never be over it!’ Clare Gilmore, author of Love Interest on Next to You

Reader Reviews for Next To You

‘This is a one-sitting book. A book for the feelers. It is delightful from the story to the characters. It is filled with lyrical writing, banter that will leave you in tears, and swoon that will captivate your heart’

‘Hannah has a way of writing characters that makes you feel like you know them, that you’re there in their story with them’

‘Hannah’s characters, her words, her stories reach into my soul in a way nothing else has’

‘This is so much more than a romance. This is about friendship, family, grief and most importantly I think it’s about forgiveness’

‘Hannah’s writing is truly for those searching for romances with realistic, complex, and deep characters, for lovers of found family and for love that you can believe will last forever’

‘This book will have you laughing, crying and feeling all the feels, and you will love every single minute of it’

‘This book was like a giant hug on a cold day and I will forever be obsessed with Lane and Matt’

This one is for all of us criers. For the ones who seem to feel nothing or everything all at once. For anyone who’s trying to build a life where constant distraction doesn’t feel so necessary.

And, for my grandmother, Lorraine, who taught me the best stories don’t require an audience.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Dearreader,

‘He who has felt the deepest grief is best able to experience supreme happiness.’

– The Count of Monte Cristo, alexandre dumas

Next To You is, ultimately, about finding happiness after loss. Therefore, please be aware that grief is a constant theme throughout the book. I know that it can be difficult to read about losing a loved one when you’ve experienced it yourself, but it’s my hope that you may find it healing, if you do choose to proceed.

Content Warnings:

• Sudden death of a parent

• Fatal car accident

• Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD),anxietysymptomsandtreatments,and descriptions of agoraphobia

– Multiple, descriptivesexscenes

– Infertility(mentionedonlyinepilogue)

Allmylove,

hannahbonam-young

PROLOGUE

One hour until i can leave. Well, maybe one hour and three minutes, so as not to appear rude. Midnight is the minimum expectation at a New Year’s Eve party, after all. But the time beyond that is all mine.

Chloe’s apartment throbs with the bass from a stereo that should be called ‘neighbor’s nightmare’. That’s what I’d market it as. I can see the design I’d make for the ad if I shut my eyes.

The music playing is unfamiliar, but the playlist I threw together this morning was hoisted off the auxiliary cord at about ten. The TV and speakers have been playing Rockin’ New Year’s something-or-other live from New York ever since – and right now, it’s a DJ who’s pumping up the crowd, saying we’re about to have the best year ever.

Yeah, right.

I steal two bobby pins from Chloe and Warren’s bathroom cabinet and pin my bangs out of my face. The purple hue of my hair is beginning to fade at the roots, revealing a pale brown. I canceled my hair appointment a few weeks back for the third time in a row. It always seemed too big a chore. Too far from home. The only place I want to be these days.

I’d hide out in the bathroom forever, but there’s only one in the apartment, and I’m sure by now there’s a line forming at the door. All the other guests are probably wondering if I’m taking a massive shit. Nope. That smell, dear friends, is the scent of fear.

My piles of self-help books would suggest I ought to evaluate. Get to the root of the issue, they’d say. But I can’t be bothered. Let the fear live, I proclaim! It’s what’s kept the human species alive. Survival of the fittest, baby! Perhaps I’m a little drunk.

I step – and almost fall – out of the bathroom into an unexpectedly empty hallway. Chloe and Warren’s friends have impressive bladders. Speaking of, when did they even acquire this many friends? There have to be twenty people crammed into the apartment that Chloe, our other best friend Emily, and I used to share while in university.

Life was simpler then. When all I had to do was complete homework and assignments from the safety of my room, occasionally coming out for air and food. It’s expected of university students to be shut-ins. Hermits. Recluses. Homebodies. All words that are affectionately used until you reach a certain age. Or meet a certain doctor. Then it’s ‘agoraphobia’.

Agoraphobia… I always thought it sounded like a fake country from a Disney movie, like Genovia.

‘Princess of Genovia,’ I say to no one in particular as I reach into the fridge for another vodka cooler. My fifth, if you’re counting. Which I am not.

‘Pardon?’ a soft, deep voice asks as I shut the door.

I turn to walk toward the loft’s spiral staircase, hoping to find a private perch away from the other guests. Like a nosy owl.

‘Guess not,’ the same low voice says from behind me, hitting me in the gut. I turn to find the source.

Familiar dude. Handsome. And we’ve definitely met before. I think he’s Warren’s friend or co-worker. Basic name… Steve. No. John. Nope. Kevin?

‘Matt.’ He points to his chest, wearing a quizzical expression with one raised brow. He’s got a warm, welcoming smile, like he’s hearing one long joke – but not at your expense. His light brown eyes have a certain kindness to them that puts me instantly at ease. His dark beard isn’t particularly tidy, but it’s full and fluffy-looking. His nose is ragged, like it’s been carved out of rock, and his hair is longer than mine, thrown haphazardly into a bun on top of his head.

And, goodness me, his lips. I could curl up on them with a good book.

‘I’m Lane.’ I raise my bottle to him before turning to take three steps up. I fumble back onto the stairs, my palm finding the step just before my butt does. The cool metal touches bare skin a fraction below my underwear, eliciting panic that I’ve flashed my backside to everyone below the stairs. I reach under my bum to tuck the black fleece skirt under me and tug it farther down my thighs, keeping my knees tightly pressed together. My black turtleneck shirt is new and itchy around my throat. I have to actively fight to stop myself from adjusting it every few seconds. This outfit is cute but not conducive to settling nerves.

‘I know, Lane. We’ve met…’ He smirks into the top of his beer as he takes a sip. His lips look even better that way. ‘Here alone?’ He asks this as if he is an adult who’s found a lost child. Your mommy around, sweetie? Let’s go find her.

‘Alone,’ I confirm. ‘And you, Matthew?’ Surely a guy with silky black hair, full lips, and a strong dad bod is here with someone. Guys like him are everyone’s type.

He huffs out a quick laugh. ‘Yeah, me too.’

Ah, well, he must be deeply flawed then. Just your type, my inner saboteur hums. Shut up, I quip back. So why is he talking to me and not someone else?

‘Is it me, or does everyone at this party seem to know everyone else at this party?’ I sigh, looking down at the large group of people strewn about the apart-ment below.

‘I’d have thought you’d know most people here, being Chloe’s best friend.’ Matt takes another sip of his beer.

‘Mmm, but you see, Matthew, I do not venture out much.’ Ever.

‘Introvert?’ he asks, standing at the bottom step, a firm grip on the metal railing.

I bite the skin around my thumb just once before I remember I’m no longer alone and that habit isn’t the slightest bit attractive. I let out a nervous laugh, placing both hands around my cup. ‘No, actually. I’m an anxious extrovert. We are a rare but not extinct breed.’

Matt nods, his eyes narrowing, causing happy, wavy crinkles on the outer corners. ‘I didn’t know there were others. I’ve been living underground.’

‘Aw, well, we do like to hide.’ I chug my drink and stand to fetch another.

‘You know what’s great? Ice water,’ Matt adds as I sidestep him and make my way toward the fridge. ‘Have you had some today?’ His voice is cautious, like he’s approaching a street cat. ‘Can I get you some?’

I nod, grinning ear to ear as I look up at the curl that looks like an upside-down question mark resting on his remarkably tanned forehead. ‘D’you work outside, Matt?’

‘I work with Warren.’ He takes my glass and places it on the counter, turning his back to me.

‘I do not understand the mechanics of mechanics.’

Matt looks at me over his shoulder, not laughing but obviously amused – a small tug at his lips and inquiry in his eye.

‘I work inside the shop mostly.’ He uses tongs to place a few cubes of ice in my glass before pouring water from the tap. Tap water? My mother is somewhere clutching her pearls.

‘But you’re so tan…’

‘Built-in skin tone.’ He hands me a full glass of water, and I take it with two hands, trusting neither to do their job alone in my inebriated state. ‘My mom’s Samoan,’ he adds.

You dumbass. Why’d you ask such a stupid—

‘Got any straws back there, barkeep?’ I ask, hoping to swiftly move past my blunder.

With a smile and a less-than-sincere eye roll, he turns and grabs a straw off the counter and drops it into my cup.

‘Thank you, Matthew.’ I bow slightly, trying to capture the straw with my tongue as it dodges me and spins around the rim.

‘It’s Mattheus.’ He chuckles under his breath, scratching where his cheek meets beard.

‘Huh?’ I turn and walk back to the stairs.

‘You keep calling me Matthew… but Matt is short for Mattheus,’ he says, following close behind.

‘Oh, sorry.’ I sit down, careful not to spill my water.

‘Don’t be.’ He gestures to the stair below mine, a question in his rich honey-colored eyes.

‘Have at it.’ I signal to the step with a flourish.

‘Is Lane your full name?’ he asks, lowering in front of me. His body is so broad all over that he barely fits on the step, so he sort of hovers, balancing himself against the railing.

‘Elaine,’ I answer. ‘But I’ve never suited Elaine. Maybe I should try it. New year, new identity.’ I push an invisible pair of glasses up the bridge of my nose. ‘Hello,’ I say in a hoity-toity accent. ‘I’m Elaine… the third. Charmed.’ I hold out a limp wrist that he shakes lightly, his lips curled between his teeth.

Matt’s laugh seems to burst out of him. It’s deep and full and shocking. I focus on how his throat bobs while he does it and the way his lips part. Cute.

‘Wow, uh… thanks,’ he replies, looking down between us with a subtle, pleased grin.

I said ‘cute’ out loud, apparently. He studies me and then looks off to the crowd, glancing side to side. Still trying to find my keeper, I think.

There’s an ease to him in total juxtaposition to the liquid energy that seems to be rushing through his veins. No part of his body appears to stay still for long – a knee bouncing or a foot tapping. But the smile that’s yet to fully fade has a calming effect. I wish I could bottle it like a perfume. I could use a few spritzes throughout my day when my brain won’t cooperate.

I’m still staring at him, with no words being said. I don’t even think I’m smiling, just blankly looking at him like art in a gallery. Yet he doesn’t look uncomfortable. He just looks about the room, his gaze landing nowhere in particular.

Attempting to look away from him feels like swimming against a current. I start up the conversation again so I don’t have to. ‘Any New Year’s resolutions?’

He turns back toward me slowly, his shoulders raising and tensing a little. His eyes shift from side to side for a moment, then he shrugs. ‘Not really. I’d like the shop to do well.’

Right! This is Warren’s friend who will be running the shop with him when their burly boss guy retires. That is soon, I think. ‘When do you and Warren take over?’

‘My uncle Ram retires at the end of January, then it’s all ours.’ His jaw tics as he throws back his beer. He blinks a few times too. He’s either nervous about this takeover, or I’m far more drunk than I thought and misreading him entirely.

‘You worried?’ I ask.

‘Little bit,’ he replies with a dim smile. ‘What about you?’

‘Constantly.’ I blow out a breath, trilling my lips.

‘I meant, any New Year’s resolutions?’ he asks, voice sincere.

‘I – uh.’ Where to begin? ‘This year hasn’t been my best. There’s… a lot to improve on.’

He pouts his lips but stills, waiting for me to go on.

‘I’d like to start by being a better daughter,’ I offer plainly, but I’m not sure – even if I was sober right now – that I could stop the emotion tensing my expression. ‘My mom has stopped asking me for things. I’d like her to ask again.’

‘What sorts of things?’ he asks.

‘She’s on a board for this charity, and they have a gala every year. I used to do the designs for it – invitations, posters, stuff like that. Now? She hires out. She doesn’t want to ask me.’

This change only happened about eight months ago, directly after a phone call with my sister. I mentioned, in passing, that I was going to the pharmacy to pick up my anxiety meds. Since then, it’s been near silence from my mom. Fewer phone calls, texts, requests, and questions. Instead, I get care packages in the mail. Bath bombs with lavender, an oil diffuser, self-help books, a weighted blanket, Sleepytime tea… you get the idea. Like get-rich-quick schemes but for fixing mental illness.

Matt nods thoughtfully, slowly. It spurs me on.

‘I’d also like to call my sister more. She isn’t much of a texter, but she gives in because I hate talking on the phone, but that’s not fair.’ I rub the back of my neck. ‘I miss her,’ I nearly whisper.

‘That’s a good one. I’m stealing that,’ Matt says.

‘You have a sister?’ I ask.

‘I have five sisters.’ He lowers his emptied bottle from his face and watches me with a knowing smile.

‘Five?’ My lips part into a wide O. ‘You have five sisters?’

‘And three brothers,’ he adds, grinning.

I slam my drink down beside me and bring two hands in front of my face, raising five fingers on one hand and three on the other, then adding one for Matt. ‘Nine of you?’ My voice is quickly approaching a pitch only audible to dogs.

‘Nine.’

‘Your poor mother!’ I laugh, and so does he. Thank god – I hoped I hadn’t sounded rude. ‘That’s a lot of phone calls,’ I add.

‘Well, I guess I’ll call my parents more, then,’ Matt replies. ‘What else is on your list?’

‘I’d like to take my job more seriously. I’m… not the best employee. I show up late, I call in sick when I’m not. “Technically.” I do the bare minimum.’

‘I’m sure that’s not true.’

‘That’s sweet – but it is. I started more than a year ago, and the person I trained last spring just got a promotion to be my supervisor. It’s a tech company, and people bounce around. There’s lots of room for upward growth – if you’re trying.’ I mime climbing a ladder and falling to my death, and Matt watches me with a subtle smile. I should be embarrassed, but I’m not. The alcohol is working.

The television in the living room catches my attent-ion as the presenter begins speaking over cheering crowds. ‘We are just ten minutes shy of midnight, and what an incredible night it has been…’ My focus falls to the ice in my cup, and I stop listening, watching the ice cubes dance around one another until my brain goes quiet.

‘You okay?’ Matt asks, leaning into my view to catch my eyes.

‘Hmm? Yeah.’ I smile weakly.

He sits back and looks across the room to where Chloe and Warren stand near Emily and her boyfriend, Amos. They’re all laughing, except for Warren, who shakes his head and smiles into the top of his glass.

‘They seem happy,’ Matt says, petting his beard absently.

‘They do,’ I answer, my voice not hiding the jealousy that creates an ache in my throat.

It’s not that I’m not happy for Chloe, I am – she deserves the world. All I could want for any of my friends is a guy like Warren. He worships the ground she walks on and lets her shine, unafraid of being in the shadows. Emily deserves it too. She and Amos have only been together a few months, but they make a gorgeous couple. Stylish, tall, and equally striking, they get a lot of head-turns walking down the street. I know this because I’m usually trailing behind them, cementing my third-wheel status.

‘Three things…’ Matt says, dragging my attention away from our friends. ‘The shop, calling my parents, and finding someone who looks at me like that.’ He points with the tip of his beer bottle toward the happy couples.

‘Single?’ I ask.

‘Perpetually.’ He blows out a long breath.

‘That’s an eighteen pointer,’ I say before cracking an ice cube between my teeth. A bad habit, my mother would say.

‘Eighteen?’

‘Perpetually is worth at least eighteen points on a Scrabble board,’ I explain.

‘You play a lot of Scrabble, Lane?’

‘Used to. With my dad.’ A trapped sigh comes out. I rarely talk about my father – and when I do, it’s not with people I’m attempting to flirt with. It’s not just a difficult topic, it’s one I still can hardly speak about – without crying, that is.

‘Oh. I’m sorry,’ Matt says, rubbing his eyebrow as he looks down between us. I guess my face said what my words failed to.

‘It’s okay. Long time ago now.’ Three thousand and forty-two days, to be exact.

‘I’m still sorry,’ Matt says, his eyes searching mine.

I look away quickly, suddenly shy. ‘I’m going to get another one of these. Want something?’ I rattle the lone ice cube in my glass.

‘Let me.’ Matt reaches for my cup and walks to the kitchen. From my elevated position, I watch him move about. He turns to narrowly pass through a group that’s congregated near the kitchen island and makes conversation with them as he fills our cups. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but I hear his laugh as he sidesteps them again on his way back.

I check the time on my phone – four minutes till midnight – as he returns.

‘Thanks.’ I take the glass of fresh water from him.

‘So anything else on that list of yours?’ he asks, eyes softening as they meet mine. ‘Or are you already seeing someone?’

I scoff. ‘No, the girl I was recently hooking up with called it off when she procured herself a sugar daddy.’ Can’t say I blame her. ‘But yes, another one on the list. I’d like to be a better friend too.’

‘How so?’

‘Well, I should probably be helping with wedding stuff? I feel like Chloe doesn’t ask because… well—’ I sigh. ‘She knows Emily will pick up my slack.’ I take a deep breath, my chest rising high.

‘Right, the wedding. I keep forgetting. It’s coming up fast.’ Matt looks toward our friends briefly. ‘I should probably do stuff too, right? What do groomsmen usually do?’

I shrug. ‘I think you get off easy until the week of the wedding.’

‘Right, still… I’ll add that to my list.’ He clears his throat and checks his watch in quick succession. Then he raises his cup toward me, and we cheers. ‘To a new year, new chances, new lessons, and… new friends.’

‘To calling family and not dying alone.’ I raise my cup, smiling.

‘To succeeding at jobs and taking charge,’ he responds, voice louder, as we clink glasses again.

‘To you, Mattheus.’ I lean forward and wink.

‘To you, Elaine.’ He matches me, and a rush of excitement has my bottom lip pressed between my teeth, biting down on a giddy smile.

As the clinking of glass sounds between us, our eyes meet and hold.

‘You know, you’re cute too,’ Matt says as his eyes briefly glance over my face. ‘Too bad.’ He leans back onto the curved railing behind him.

‘Too bad?’ I ask, voice hesitant. What does that mean? Cute but a mess? Cute but not my type? Cute but a basket case?

He freezes, as if he’s said the wrong thing. His brows are furrowed in confusion, and only then does it dawn on me that I mentioned it was a woman who recently dumped me.

‘I’m bi—’ I’m cut off by every other party attendee when they begin counting down from ten. The room explodes into chaos all around us, but it blurs out of focus. I’m tunnel-visioned, looking at Matt. He’s so still. Steady. His eyes hold on me in an unreadable gaze.

‘Nine, eight, seven,’ they chant.

‘I’m into everyone,’ I say, a little too loudly and cringe at my urgency to tell him he’s a possible candidate. Even though no one else can hear us from up in our little nest, I look over my shoulder, blushing.

‘Oh,’ he says, bringing my attention back. He wipes a hand over his beard and mouth, but I can see the grin he’s hiding. He drags his hand from his chin to the back of his neck and tilts forward as he rubs it like a sore muscle. All the while smiling down between us.

I can’t help but smile too. The embarrassing kind where you absolutely have to because someone’s joy is being reflected onto you.

‘Three,’ we say in unison with the crowd. My nose twitches, and he swallows, his throat working.

‘Two.’ His chest rises as he takes a deep breath, but I can’t seem to breathe at all.

‘One.’ The hand he has splayed across his thigh twitches, and I fight the urge to lay my palm on top.

‘Happy New Year!’ the crowd shouts, but not us.

The sounds of noise blowers and confetti poppers fill the room, and I turn over my shoulder to the sudden influx of sound. Couples descend upon each other’s faces like wolves on the hunt. I look up toward the ceiling as confetti falls slowly.

When I look back to Matt, he’s staring up at me, eyes curiously narrowed as a stray piece of silver confetti drifts between us.

‘Happy New Year, Lane,’ he says, his smile faltering.

He looks disappointed. For some reason, I hate that. I make a split-second decision and throw caution to the wind. I place my cup down on the stair beside me and put two palms on his cheeks, scrunching his face together like I’ve done to Chloe’s sweet baby girl so many times.

‘Happy New Year,’ I say, pulling his face toward me, his lips squished and opening for a laugh as they land on mine.

A firm palm lands on the edge of my jaw, and I lean into the touch. His hand is cool from holding his drink, and the pads of his fingertips are rough on the edge of my hairline. My hands around his face soften, and as they do, his lips follow suit. I was totally right. They’re lips you could curl up on.

A few beats pass while I’m locked into the sweetest kiss I have ever had. Time slows – as if the confetti is floating around us instead of falling, voices dropping low and drawn out, ‘Auld Lang Syne’ stretching like a vinyl spinning at half speed.

Pulling away from Matt’s lips feels like an abrupt reminder that the world is not so still. The party continues and – surrounded by people and noise – isn’t where I want to be.

Still, as we settle back against the stairs, my pulse races and the butterflies in my stomach take off in flight like never before. I mindlessly brush my thumb over my bottom lip. It’s warm and buzzing. When I notice him watching me, I play it off – using the same hand to brush hair behind my ear. He clears his throat to speak, but I’m looking for a quick escape, not more conversation.

I’ve been with lots of people – kissed lots of people, but I’ve never felt shy after. Like a part of me was exposed the moment our lips broke apart. And I don’t like it. At all.

Home, my anxiety demands. Agreed, I reply.

I stand and raise my chin as I try to step around him without toppling.

‘Heading out?’ Matt looks up at me with sad-puppy-dog eyes, rising slowly as I pass him. A twinge of guilt rises, but I shove it down.

You’ll see him around. You probably shouldn’t go home with your friend’s friend, anyway. It’s hard to ghost someone you’ll see at birthday parties for years to come.

‘Got a new life to start, Mattheus.’ I shrug playfully. Casual, unaffected, unbothered. ‘No time like the present.’

He nods, his polite smile masked by confusion. ‘Right, well, good luck.’

I look over my shoulder, stealing one last look, and nod. ‘You too.’

Goodbye, lips. I’ll miss you most of all.

ONE

15 months later

I have been propositioned for a threesome four times this afternoon after being on the lovebite app for only six hours. This has to be some sort of record. People read ‘interested in anyone’ and take it to mean everyone and all at once.

And while in college I would have perhaps been more than happy to oblige. The difference now is that it is exclusively couples asking for me to join them. Which just about sums up my life these days.

Emily and Amos are newly engaged, and Chloe and Warren married last summer. When the five of us hang out, I’m watched over like a child, talked to like a sweet, innocent newborn on the teat of life. Someday, they all hum merrily into their drinks, it’ll be your turn, patronizing me as they feed one another grapes. That last part is an exaggeration, but only slightly.

But today – the day I signed up for my first ever dating app because I admittedly may be having a hefty dry spell and a crisis about said dry spell – is my twenty-seventh birthday. The end of my ‘mid’ twenties, and the dawning of a new era of ‘full adulthood’.

So, in the words of Taylor Alison Swift, this is me trying… to get laid (Taylor’s Version).

My computer chimes with the sound of another message from my boss – but I ignore it while on my smoke break.

I don’t actually smoke, but in the interest of equality, I take a ten-minute break every few hours, as my co-workers might.

This break has been met with an onslaught of incoming notifications, and I’ve yet to put my phone down. Other than the threesome requests, I have a few comments on Instagram, a text from Emily about how excited she is for my surprise-it’s-not-a-surprise birthday dinner, and an email from Matt.

Yes, an email. I’m insistent there was a mix-up with Matt’s driver’s license, which I made him show me, and they incorrectly printed his birth year as 1995 instead of 1959. He emails almost exclusively. The guy actually texts with a single finger and signs his name on each message, so, honestly, email is less painful. That he can type out on his desktop computer at work.

Instead of opening the email, I click on the ‘you have a match’ notification. Ah, yes, the pretty brunette, Valerie. Twenty-nine, single, interested in women, Gemini. Her bio reads, ‘here for a good time, not a long time’, which makes me wonder if it’s a Walk to Remember situation or if she’s that cliché.

I message, ‘Stop making a fool out of me. Why don’t you come on over, Valerie?’ and pour one out – hypothetically, because my coffee is piping hot – for my girl Amy Winehouse. I screenshot it and send it to my group chat with Em and Chloe.

CHLOE: Make sure to ask if she has a good lawyer.

EMILY: Tell her you miss her ginger hair!

I love them.

LANE: What are you wearing tonight? How fancy do I have to be?

CHLOE: What’s tonight???

EMILY: She knows.

CHLOE: What?! Dang it! Ugh… I’m probably going to wear my yellow dress.

Emily sends a photo of her in a fuchsia two-piece pantsuit.

LANE: Gotcha. Effort required.

CHLOE: It’s your birthday, Lane. If you want to have a sweatpants party, then we can do that.

LANE: Hmm… Thoughts, Em?

Emily sends a GIF of a forced smile and a twitching eye.

LANE: Effort is fine. I have that vintage jumpsuit I’ve wanted to wear.

CHLOE: Ooh! I love that one!

LANE: I gotta get back to work. See you ladies tonight.

A few hours later, I finish my packaging design idea and send it off to my supervisor. A box that will house the newest, most rugged, most hardcore, most extreme, most badass, underwater, 360-degree, high-definition camera with a battery life longer than my will to live. I sign off and begin my grueling commute home, shutting my laptop and taking twelve steps from my dining table to the couch.

‘What a day, huh, Simone?’

Simone is the rabbit I bought to replace Emily when she moved out of our place and in with Amos. I was having a vulnerable moment when I opened Marketplace, and there she was. She and her three siblings. I feel like the siblings are worth mentioning to reflect that I had some self-control. I only got one!

‘I don’t want to be rude… but you’ve yet to wish me a happy birthday.’ I sit up, looking at the bunny condo that cost me more than a month’s rent. ‘Simone?’

Fuck. The cage’s door is open.

‘Simone!’ I look around frantically. She’s a little Houdini on the best of days, but she couldn’t have gotten far – typically she just burrows under a blanket or laundry pile.

My phone rings, and I answer without thinking. ‘Hello?’ I say, voice hysterical.

‘Hello?’ my sister responds in obvious confusion at my urgency. ‘Everything all right?’

‘Sorry, yes… I thought you were someone else.’

‘Who?’

‘Simone.’

‘Your rabbit?’

‘No, Simone Biles! Yes, the rabbit! She’s missing.’

I hear a soft sigh and a shuffle that sounds like Liz moving the phone to her other ear. Shit. She’s annoyed. I forgot to call her back yesterday. Or today.

‘Happy birthday, Lane,’ she says haughtily.

‘Oh! You remembered!’ I tease, attempting to lighten the mood. ‘Happy birthday, Pudge.’

‘I asked you to stop calling me Pudge. We’re too old for it. Especially now.’

Pudge was the nickname my father gave her because she couldn’t pronounce fudge. A silly little thing, but it stuck.

‘Do not remind me how old we are.’ I stand and lift a blanket off the floor. No Simone underneath.

‘Mom call you yet?’ she asks.

‘Yeah, this morning before work.’

‘Good.’

I don’t love that my twin sister is making sure our mother called me on our birthday to check that she shouldn’t feel guilty for being the favorite and undoubtedly getting the same deposit into her bank account this morning. I look at the doors to each bedroom and the bathroom, all shut. Simone has to be here somewhere. Unless she could fit through the vents? Shit. Can she?

‘Can rabbits do that thing cats do and fit through small spaces?’ I ask.

‘I don’t own a cat,’ Liz says, matter-of-factly.

‘I’m wondering if Simone escaped through the vents,’ I explain.

‘Oh, I hope not. Your building will kick you out if the forced air starts smelling like decomposing rabbit.’

‘Elizabeth!’ I gasp.

‘What? Sorry…’ She huffs.

‘My rabbit ran away on my birthday.’ I slump into the chair. ‘I’ve never been lower.’

‘Really? Are you sure about that?’ she asks flatly.

‘Ow,’ I whisper.

Liz can’t help it. She’s always been… a bitch curt. My mother loved to say that we were left brain and right brain personified. Liz is the pragmatic, logical, detached one. I’m the impractical, creative, emotional one. Together we’d make one fully formed being.

I never settled into the idea of being half of anything. My brain felt whole – just different from Liz’s. But hers is similar to my mother’s, and I’m more like my father. My parents were a great team as the left and right melded together, so I know it was with endearment that my mother considered us twins the same. But when Dad died, it made the family’s score uneven. Lonely on the right.

Suddenly, qualities that I had been celebrated for – spontaneity, imagination, empathy – began to make me feel alien in my own family. That, and my feverish desire to get away from my own personal haunted mansion, had me applying to arts college far from home. When I arrived here, I found creatives again. I found acceptance. I found my people.

But now they’ve both found their other halves, and I suddenly don’t feel whole again.

Then there’s Matt. Sweet, handsome, kind Matt who flew through the stages of a crush to too risky in the span of one brief New Year’s Eve kiss.

Turns out our first real encounter, when I was drunk, complaining about my life and listing off my many failures, was not the sexy type of impression that would score me a date or a shag, regardless of my own intentions.

He started calling me ‘kid’ shortly after our kiss and has even noogied me once. The universal gesture of the friend zone. It’s very disappointing to Chloe and Warren, who are enthusiastically hoping we get together, but I’m glad for it.

Matt isn’t the type of guy you hook up with – he’s practically got ‘commitment’ written across his forehead in permanent marker. Between his caretaking tendencies following years of helping to raise his ridiculous number of siblings and his general dad-like physique, he’s begging to make someone a wife and mother. Which is the opposite of where my life is headed. So, a friendship is best – and it’s a good one.

A few weeks after that fateful New Year’s Eve, I learned that Matt grew up on Vancouver Island almost entirely off the grid. I decided to take it upon myself to introduce him to all the music, television, movie, and pop culture references he’d missed out on.

I’ll be scrolling on my phone and see a reminder of some fantastic, cinematic masterpiece late one night – previous films such as The Breakfast Club and The Lizzie McGuire Movie – and I’ll immediately send him a text. He’ll agree the situation needs to be remedied, and, based on my level of intensity, we’ll choose a time for him to come over with pizza. Often the next day.

We watch the movie with bowls of snacks, pizza boxes, or even a pillow as a buffer between us – because we do not need a repeat of the accidental hand brush incident of last year. Then he leaves at a respectable hour.

‘Lane? You still there?’ Liz asks through the phone.

Shit. ‘Hey! Sorry. Looking for Simone. Uh what are your birthday plans?’ I ask, continuing my impersonation of Elmer Fudd on the hunt for a rabbit.

‘Phillip is taking me out for dinner.’

Elizabeth and Phillip – never not funny. I stifle a laugh, but it comes out as a soft snort from the back of my throat.

‘Don’t,’ Elizabeth warns.

‘I didn’t say anything!’ I protest.

‘Your fascination with the British royal family is bizarre.’

‘Sorry… your majesty.’ I grin into the phone, lifting a chair to check under the dining table. What the fuck, Simone? You have a swanky bunny condo! Two stories! Why would you leave?

‘Well, I’ll let you go. I’m going to call you tomorrow.’

‘Could… we text?’ I hesitate to ask, but damn, I’m tired of this calling every day thing. What started as a New Year’s resolution has turned into a massive, self-inflicted pain in my ass. We don’t talk about anything real, mostly bouncing between small talk and passive-aggressive remarks about each other’s lifestyle. I miss her, sure, but it’s not fun. And there are way better uses of our time than forcing a relationship, right?

‘I guess, but I thought telling you over the phone that I was engaged would be more appropriate.’

I drop the pillow I was looking under. ‘Pardon?’ I glitch. ‘Who’s what now?’

‘Well, tonight Phillip is taking me to my favorite restaurant. Last month he asked for my ring size, and Mom asked me to go get my nails done with her.’

‘Well, damn…’ I blink rapidly. ‘Congrats in advance?’

‘We’ll probably get married in the next few months. No use waiting. It will be at his parents’ estate, so late spring is ideal weather-wise.’ She’s completely calm, her voice level, while I can’t pick my jaw up off the floor.

‘Few – few months? Liz, are you sure? You’ve been together less than a year.’

‘Nine months. Surely enough time to grow a new human is enough time to decide to marry one.’

She’s got me there. ‘Okay… yeah. You’re not growing a human, though, right?’

‘Not yet.’

God, my mother will be unstable. A grandchild. A Hargreaves, nonetheless. The only family my mother considers richer, superior, and more well connected than her parents – who, though dead, she still tries to impress. And now my sister is marrying their eldest son. Truly, they are like royalty.

‘All right, well, yeah, call me tomorrow then,’ I mumble.

‘Will do. Happy birthday, Lane.’

‘Happy birthday, Liz.’ She’s right. She’s too old to be called Pudge now. We’re too old.

When she hangs up, I stare at my phone until something moves in the corner of my eye, capturing my attention.

‘Simone, you little asshole, get back in your cage!’ I dive for her, catching her by her back foot mid-hop.

We struggle momentarily, but I manage to get hold of her without injuring either of us. ‘I should have gotten your sister. Betcha she wouldn’t pull this crap.’ I stop dead in my tracks, horrified. ‘No… that was cruel. You’re great. Your sister is different but not better. I’m sorry.’

Damn. We truly do become our mothers eventually.

I nuzzle Simone as I lower her into the cage and check the time. I have a little under an hour to get ready before Emily comes to pick me up. Actually, she said she’d be picking me up after everyone else, but I’m not sure who everyone is. Chloe, Warren, Amos, and Emily for sure but…

LANE: Who all is hanging out tonight?

EMILY: Everyone.

LANE: Just wondering if we’ll all fit in your car.

EMILY: Change of plan, Warren’s driving the six of us in their van.

lane: Cool!

EMILY: So, yes, Matt is coming ;)

LANE: Not what I was asking, but that’s great!

I immediately sprint to the shower.

An hour later, I finish my makeup while practicing my affirmations and take my 75 mg of sertraline, prescribed by a random, well-mannered doctor at the local walk-in clinic. I keep my pills in my makeup bag and my affirmations on a Post-it on my mirror.

I can always come home, but going out is fun. I’m safe wherever I choose to be.

An environment I can’t control is a memory in the making.

I added a new one, just for tonight and not on paper.

I will not flirt with Matt, no matter how tipsy I get. Even if he wears that gray button-up. Even if he does that thing where he flicks his wrist a few times to get his watch back in its place.

These reminders are necessary. I’m well aware of the many reasons Matt and I wouldn’t work, but I’m also a raging flirt. I’ll flirt with a lamppost if it flickers the right way. But with Matt, when it does slip out, there’s an awkwardness afterward. Like I’ve stripped naked and run into a public fountain. No one dared me to, and I’ve made it weird. So I try my best not to flirt with him at all… but shit, does he make it difficult sometimes.

I zip myself into the tight black velvet jumpsuit and let my electric pink hair out of the rubber band I used in lieu of a hair tie this morning. With a little fluff, it actually falls quite nicely, the longest point tickling my collarbone. The good hair day is extremely lucky because I’m almost out of time to get ready.

My body is small in stature and height, but I’ve come to accept it in a neutral sense. I celebrate that I don’t have to wear a bra if I don’t want to, and being a size small makes thrift-shopping a lot easier, but often I still have to shove the cruel words of my high school classmates down when I take in my lack of hips, breasts, or ass.

Little boy, twig, flat, skeleton – they weren’t very original, but the labels stuck.

It’s probably why I always lean toward wearing baggier, darker clothing that hides me well and have a healthy splattering of patch-work style tattoos all over that are mostly seen by only me. But no baggy clothes this evening. Tonight, this jumpsuit is doing wonders for my self-esteem. I look hot.

My phone chimes with a message from Chloe that they’re waiting out front. I allow myself one last glance in the mirror and give a thumbs-up to my reflection.

You can do this, I tell her. It’s going to be a great night.

I point at her sternly. Don’t flirt with Matt.

TWO

Emily is a celebrator at heart and a total cheer-leader for her people – she also has a tendency to go overboard. Chloe matches that energy – when she has the energy. Having a toddler at home while being self-employed and in a near constant state of flustered means that she’s as thoughtful as she is forgetful. So, powered by perhaps a bit of pity and a whole lot of enthusiasm, they’ve put together a beautiful evening.

The back room of the trendy, dimly lit bar is decor-ated with silver and purple decorations surrounding a pair of black balloons in the shapes of a 2 and a 7 that are almost as big as me. The room has whitewashed stone walls and warm chandelier lighting, and a large oak table in the center creates an intimate, charming atmosphere.

‘Oh my god!’ I say, probably for the fortieth time as I brush my hand over the decorations. ‘You guys…’ I whine, pouting my lip as I feel tears spring loose. ‘This makes me feel so special. Thank you.’

‘You are special, Laney.’ Chloe gives me a hug, squeezing a little too tight.

‘Happy birthday, babe.’ Emily wraps her arms around both Chloe and me and shimmies us side to side.

Warren, Amos, and Matt find our private room after parking down the street and grabbing us the first round of drinks. Warren hands Chloe a pink cocktail, kisses her cheek, then immediately pulls out his phone. Chloe gives him a teasing smirk, whispering something about trusting the babysitter and assists him in putting the phone away. Amos performs a similar exchange, except he grabs Emily’s ass after handing her a martini. She looks at him with a flirtatious smile that makes me blush. I turn away to see Matt standing in the doorway with two drinks.

‘One… er… sex on the beach.’ Matt extends the fruity cocktail my way with a cheeky grin.

‘Thanks.’ I take it and only allow myself two seconds to appreciate that he did wear his infamous gray button-up.

‘Happy birthday, kid.’ He raises an arm around my back, patting my shoulder with his hand. Matt’s not a particularly tall guy, I’d guess five-eleven, but to my five-foot-nothing – that’s huge. Everything about him is strong. His wide frame, his broad shoulders, his working hands with veins that must be a nurse’s wet dream.

I take a sip of my drink. It’s stronger than I anticipated, the alcohol burning the back of my throat on its way down. I sputter a cough. ‘That is stiff.’ I look up to Matt’s face, wincing.

‘Gimme.’ He takes the glass without a second thought and throws back a sip. ‘Damn… it is.’ He tsks. ‘Guys love to say women are lightweights, but I’d like to see a man drink three of those, then walk home in heels.’

‘Totally,’ I agree mindlessly, looking at the smudge his lips left behind on my glass that overlaps with my lipstick stain, just a little.

He chases my drink with his own, something honey-colored in a short glass. ‘I watched another one of your movie suggestions last night,’ Matt says.

‘Which one?’

His brow furrows, and then he reaches for his back pocket. He palms his drink while untucking some sort of paper from his wallet. ‘Dead Poets Society,’ he reads, then lowers the paper. ‘It was great. Probably my favorite of your suggestions so far.’

I snatch the paper from him and try to make sense of what I’m holding. Reading it over, it becomes obvious. There is a list of all the movies I’ve referenced or we’ve watched together since we became friends squished together at the top of the page. The bottom half is a chart of sorts. He’s filled in the date, the title, his rating – he drew actual stars – and his favorite quote or scene.

‘Matt, have you been taking notes?’ I feel myself losing all sense of self-preservation. Cartoon hearts attempt to fight their way out of my eyes.

‘I take my homework assignments seriously.’ He snatches his notes back with a wink. ‘I also learned how to spotify to keep all the songs in one place.’ He folds the paper delicately and tucks it back into his wallet.

‘I sort of want assignments too,’ I say reflexively. Our friendship suddenly seems totally off-balance. Sure, I suggested he watch the movies and listen to the songs, but I didn’t think he’d actually do it. Certainly not all of them, at least. Not when I didn’t make him come over to watch. This is hours of dedicated time.

He pockets his wallet and crosses his arms in front of his chest before flicking his watch into place. Striptease, why don’t you.

‘What could I possibly teach you?’ He laughs, a smile creasing his cheeks.

‘How to build an engine,’ I offer, leaning to one side.

He nods with pursed lips. ‘Do you have a need for an engine?’

‘Not at the moment, but you never know.’ I bat my eyelashes before catching myself. ‘How to grow a garden?’ I suggest, extending an open palm between us.

‘Lane, you don’t even have a balcony.’ He shakes his head while looking over my shoulder at the cozy room.

‘True,’ I mumble, bringing my hand to my chin and tapping as I think.

‘What about… books?’ he asks, his attention directed back to me. ‘Dickens?’

I feign shock and offense. ‘Pardon me, sir? Dick-what?’

He rolls his eyes. ‘Austen?’

‘Texas?’ I shake my head internally at the stupid series of jokes I’ve now attempted. Still, Matt seems to find me amusing – his smile growing lopsided and sincere. ‘But yeah… I could definitely read some of your favorites. Seems more than fair. Where do I start?’

‘Well, what haven’t you read already?’

‘I think what I have read would be a shorter list… as in, none. I read Twilight in high school, though. Oh! And Twilight fanfiction. Lots of that. There was this one where Bella gets her period and—’

‘I’ll bring a few over. I’ll have to think about it,’ Matt interrupts, probably for the best.

‘Not a fan of Twilight?’ I glare playfully, baiting him.

‘What? Nah, books are books. And it helps narrow down the type you may be interested in. Gothy, angsty stuff. Romance, maybe.’

I want to pry as to what books that might be, but I’m interrupted by Emily grabbing my arm and hip-bumping me.

‘You want to split the Brie starter?’ she asks, wagging her eyebrows suggestively.

I hum my agreement. ‘Chloe?’ I call to get her attention from across the room. ‘Do you have a Lactaid?’

Chloe thrusts her drink at Warren without so much as looking at him before she begins rifling through her bag. She pulls out Sesame Street Band-Aids, two different pill bottles, a children’s thermometer, a pack of baby wipes, and a package of tissues and places them all on the table one by one before her eyes light up. ‘Yes!’ She tosses the little packet to me with shocking accuracy.

‘Let’s cheese it up!’ I throw back the pill and down my drink with a sputtering cough before looping my arm through Em’s and walking to the bar to order together.

* * *

Somewhere between the piece of seven-layer chocolate cake with one candle in it, the fumbling walk to the karaoke place down the street, and Amos’s fierce rendition of ‘Somebody to Love,’ I’ve decided this is the best night of my life.

‘Who’s next?’ Amos shouts into the microphone, sweat dripping off his chin as he uses the corner of his untucked shirt to wipe his brow, revealing the eight-pack that Emily has described well. She walks over with a hanky and kisses him sweetly as she dabs his face dry.

I raise an eyebrow at Warren, who’s doing his best to disappear into the booth seating. His chest falls with a sigh, offering a look that says if I ask him point-blank, he’ll do it. But he’s begging me not to.

I contemplate how badly I want to hear his notorious rendition of ‘It’s All Coming Back to Me Now’ that Chloe describes as the best seven minutes of their honeymoon – much to his annoyance. I let him off easy and turn to Matt instead.

‘Mattheus!’ I sing out, gesturing to him with jazz hands.

He looks around enthusiastically, like he’s on a game show, pointing to himself. ‘Me?’ he mouths.

I nod like I’m Simon Cowell giving him the chance of a lifetime. He stands and takes the microphone from Amos. ‘What’s the song, birthday girl?’ He smiles at me, beaming like a damn spotlight.

I scroll through the tablet’s list of songs, quickly realizing that most of them are love ballads. Or at least love-adjacent. I stammer, scroll some more, and feel my brain begin to shut down. ‘Performer’s choice.’ I hand him the tablet. He won’t know many of them anyway.

Matt makes quick work of selecting his song, places the tablet down, and grabs the second microphone that has remained in its holster on the stage. ‘C’mon.’ He holds it out to me just as the beginning notes of ‘Ain’t No Mountain High Enough’ begin playing.

Lord have mercy.

‘Listen, baby,’ he sings to me, taking my hand in his and spinning me around. I giggle as I’m moved about like a collection of helium balloons tied around his wrist.

We’re both awful singers. He can’t hold a note without losing his breath, and I can’t match pitch to save my life. But it’s possibly the most fun I’ve ever had.

With one hand on his microphone and one clasped around mine, he glides us around the small platform. He tugs me to and fro until I’m laughing so hard I’m half out of breath trying to sing. All the while, he keeps his eyes locked on me, wearing a mischievous grin.

I’m two drinks too deep to stop myself from getting lost in the moment and the giddy feelings rising in my chest.

Dangerous, my brain hums. Live a little, I retort.

When the song ends, we bow, and I look out to see Chloe and Warren exchanging wide-eyed, hopeful glances. I glare at them, promptly plucking my hand away from Matt’s and wiping it down the seam of my thigh, as if I could remove the memory itself.

‘Duets!’ I exclaim. ‘We all must do duets!’ I throw Warren a quick that’s-what-you-get smirk while handing him my microphone and claiming his seat.

I curl into myself, downing the last of my drink.

Matt’s not a fling type of guy, I remind myself. And god, what a guaranteed way to ruin our friendship sleeping with him would be.

I want to, though. I’m drunk and woman enough to admit it. I really want to.

My heart rate is approaching the speed of a hummingbird’s wings, so I attempt to think of anything but Matt naked on top of me.

The smell of burning hair, feedback from a speaker, people who keep pigeons as pets, stale-coffee morning breath.

Matt, apparently unaware and entirely unaffected by our proximity, falls into the seat next to me as Chloe makes her way to the stage, joining her husband.

‘You’re the One That I Want’ from Grease plays as Chloe spins circles around Warren, doing a near-perfect Sandy. I can’t help but smile as Warren’s grin grows wider until he’s also doing his best Danny Zuko.

I feel Matt’s eyes on my profile, so I break the silence. ‘They’re so cute it’s disgusting.’

‘I like it.’ He shrugs, settling back into the booth.

‘Of course you do. You’ve got no shortage of romance in your life. I’m bitter.’

Every once in a while, I’ll do this stupid thing where I make a generalized statement about Matt’s love life to see if he’ll correct me. It’s the least embarrassing way to bring it up, but he never dignifies it with a response. It’s fucking infuriating.

‘Still no luck with the apps?’ he asks.

‘Bit the bullet today and finally joined one. Not going well.’

‘No?’ He leans, raising his arm to rest along the back of the booth. His hand hovers above the back of my neck, and it distracts me momentarily. ‘How?’

‘Well, I’ve gotten some messages,’ I reply, looking at his wrist over my shoulder before forcing myself to look away.

‘So what’s the issue?’ he asks.

‘It’s been mostly couples looking for a third.’

‘Ah.’ He brushes his nose with his knuckle, and I notice a piece of his hair has broken free from his bun and rests alongside his cheek. I resist – with everything in me – twirling it around my finger.

‘Are you seeing anyone?’ I ask boldly – and unexpectedly. I need to drink some water. Or eat some bread. Bread absorbs the alcohol in your stomach, right? I think I’ve read that somewhere.

If I wasn’t watching him so carefully, I might not have noticed his expression fall. The happy lines on either side of his eyes soften, and the upturned corner of his lip dips too.

‘Nothing serious,’ he says, unbothered.

As in he’s sleeping around? As in he’s not looking for commitment? As in… ‘And that’s what you… prefer?’ What the fuck am I doing?

‘I’m not sure.’ He leans back, scratching his jaw. ‘If I worked less, maybe I’d look to settle down.’ He smiles softly, lifting his shoulders.

‘You don’t work that much. I mean, you’re here right now.’ I point around us, as if he’s unaware that he isn’t elbow deep in an engine.

Chloe and Warren pass their mics to Amos and Emily, and a new song starts up. A ballad I don’t recognize and can’t seem to focus on.

Matt presses his lips together and tilts his head. His eyes narrow on me until I fidget in my seat.

‘What?’ I laugh nervously under his stare.

‘I made you something,’ he says, voice hushed.

‘For my birthday?’ I ask.

That snaps the tension. He licks his lips as they transform into a smirk. ‘No, for Hanukkah.’ He laughs, then it fades to a shy sort of smile. ‘But yeah, for your birthday.’ He raises off the bench slightly, reaches into his back pocket, and pulls out a tiny wooden object. ‘Here.’ He lays it in my open palm, his fingers brushing my wrist far too lightly.

I look at it for a moment before my eyes translate what it is, though I’m still not entirely sure. A simple carving of wood in the shape of a peg doll. It’s smooth as I rub my thumb over it. I glance up at him through my eyelashes.

‘My dad made these for my siblings and me. They’re called worry dolls. Or maybe he made that up, I don’t know.’ He rubs the back of his neck and chuckles slowly. ‘It’s, uh, yeah. For worrying. Or, stopping it, I guess.’

‘You made this for me?’ I ask softly.

He nods.

‘Like you carved it from wood?’

He nods again.

‘So when I’m anxious…’ My voice trails off.

‘You take it out, and – well, I used to sort of fiddle with mine. Run my fingers over it, squeeze it in my palm.’ I mimic his instructions as he explains.

‘Do you still have yours?’ I ask.

‘Yeah, it’s on a shelf somewhere at my place.’

‘This is such a you gift.’ The words tumble out of me.

‘Cheap? Boring? Peculiar?’ He crosses one leg over his knee, which is bouncing.

‘No.’ I find his eyes and hold his stare. ‘Thoughtful, careful, beautiful.’

His leg stills. He blinks more than a few times, then swallows heavily. ‘Well, I’m glad you like it.’

‘Thank you.’ I tuck it into my bag. ‘I really do.’

Amos and Emily finish their song. We all decide to call it a night when Chloe announces that they need to go relieve their sitter.

It’s a contentedly silent car ride home, followed by a chorus of thank-yous and love yous as I exit the car and make my way upstairs. I drag my balloons behind me and place them in the center of my living room. In the middle of my empty, silent apartment.