Nova stays with me like this for another beat, patting me while I crouch on the bathroom floor like we’re two drunk college girls recovering from a raucous night out. She doesn’t seem to care that the stall smells vaguely of lemon disinfectant and puke—and if she does, she’s isn’t mentioning it.
Then, with a grunt, she rises to her feet and extends both hands to me.
“Come. Let’s get you up. I’m not letting you melt into a puddle of filth.”
I let her pull me up.
My legs wobble like I’ve just run a marathon in heels. Which is funny, because all I’ve done is sit, drink one sad cocktail, and spiral.
She brushes imaginary lint from my shoulders and then fishes a mint from her purse, pressing it into my palm. “Here. In case the server tries to offer you dessert and you accidentally hurl again.”
I manage a weak laugh. “You’re such a giver.”
“That’s what Luca says!”
I groan at her cheese.
Nova bites down on her bottom lip after she puts her car into park in front of my new apartment. “Maybe I should come up with you—just for tonight. I don’t like the idea of you being alone.”
I shake my head.
The thought of having company right now—of having anyone in my space—feels suffocating.
I need to think. Take this test.
“I’ll be fine,” I insist, forcing a smile. “Seriously. I want to sleep.”
She opens her mouth to argue, then snaps it shut, clearly debating whether to push. Finally, she sighs. “Text me as soon as you…you know. Do the thing.”
“I will.”
By the time I unlock the door to my apartment, the Target bag is crinkling in one of my sweaty fists as I toss my keys onto the console table and toe off my shoes, stepping into the soft glow of the living room.
It’s quiet.Too quiet.
Lonely.
I miss Turner…
Watching a movie doesn’t help; there is nothing I want to watch. No books I want to read. Nothing interesting to scroll on my phone.
When it buzzes I don’t even have to look to know it’s Nova checking in on me. I answer and immediately prop it against the Nespresso, tilting the screen just enough so she can see my face but not my state of emotional wreckage.
She’s already in pajamas, hair piled in a top knot, holding a spoon and what looks like a tub of brownie batter.
“I thought you’d be on the toilet already,” she announces. “I grabbed you a face mask, chocolate, and a tiny candle that smells like hope in a jar, too, just in case.” Pause.“You’re welcome.”
I tilt my head toward the ceiling. The Target bag sits across the room on the counter, out of reach but not out of sight. Taunting me.
“Why are you so good to me?”
“So… you going to pee or are we just going to vibe next to the toaster all night?”
She’s right.
No time like the present.
Still. I let the silence stretch on a few more seconds, eventually forcing myself off the couch. My legs feel heavier than they should as I cross the room, fingers closing around the box like it might burn me.
