Or maybe . . .

EVE: It’s a friendship thing. Are you free this evening? For a friendship thing?

Or maybe that. Maybe that.

* * *

Eve was, not to put too fine a point on things, bricking it.

She stood, arms outstretched, in the center of the sitting room (as if her body could hide the “surprise” directly behind her) and waited for Jacob to come. He hadn’t texted her back, but she could hear him shifting around next door, could hear the springs of his bed creaking as he got up.

Her phone buzzed in her hand, and she looked quickly at the screen. She had five unread messages from Flo—Pinterest links and theme ideas and various other party-related things that, for some reason, made Eve’s stomach drop. She didn’t want to think about why, so she ignored Flo completely and checked the sisterly group chat instead.

You can’t ignore Florence forever. You can’t ignore your future forever.

No, not forever. Just . . . for now. While she was here, waiting for Jacob. Just for now.

DANI: Who’s up for a phone call tonight? I just finished a horrifically limited essay about the future of feminism and require a palate cleanser.

CHLOE: This is Red. Chloe says she can’t talk right now because she’s playing comp. But I reckon she’ll be done in fifteen.

Eve tapped out her own answer in a rush as she heard Jacob’s bedroom door open.

EVE: Can’t, about to have a meeting w my boss.

DANI: At eight o’clock in the evening?!

EVE: Could last all night, he’s a sticker for details.

And she was looking forward to hearing him nitpick.

A gentle knock sounded at the door. Eve threw her phone onto the nearby weight bench and called, “Come in.”

The door swung open to reveal Jacob in the jeans and shirt he considered casual, his expression uncertain. But there was a relaxation about his mouth, a smile about his eyes, that had developed over the last few days of cooking and bickering and scrubbing bathrooms together. She liked that relaxation. She liked that smile.

Because they were friends, obviously. As she was about to prove.

“Ta-dah,” she said, giving him jazz hands as he looked around the room she’d rearranged. “Friend stuff.”

Jacob didn’t reply. He just . . . stared, in that very sharp and precise way he had, his gaze flicking about the space to catalog it all. She wondered what he saw.

Well—she knew what he saw: his various exercise apparatus pushed to the edge of the space, and the cursed sofa bed she’d been sleeping on—or rather, tortured by—dragged until it sat in front of the window. The curtains spread wide open, revealing the hot, drunken retreat of the sun, which lit up the mountains of pillows she’d stolen from the storeroom. Because Jacob, she remembered from their first strange night—the night he didn’t remember at all—liked nests.

So she’d made him a nest. Not to sleep in, obviously. No, they were just going to sit here and watch the sun set and listen to music because she’d noticed that every song she sang, he seemed to know, and she wanted to test him and show him things he might like and maybe learn new songs she might like. And there were snacks, too, because every friendship date needed snacks.