It feels unreal. Like the most familiar thing in the world, despite how long it’s been. I kiss the top of her head before resting my cheek there, holding on. We’re interrupted by three women in various stages of dress and readiness, sneaking out behind Shelby. Shelby releases me with a hiccup and waves them off. “Thank you so much, guys. See you later.”

A too-long beat and one of them slurs, “Love you, babe!” I decide to give them the benefit of the doubt and assume they’ve been waiting for me to show up, rather than ditching Shelby all at once.

I nudge my friend gently backward through her doorway. She takes the hint and pulls me the rest of the way before leaning against the door to shut it. I’m surprised to see her building doesn’t have a doorman or a gate or anything, but it’s clear this residence is new. Like, brand new.

“He dumped me, and the fucker kept our condo,” she explains. She leads me to the kitchen area. Her feet are bare, and I realize with a start she’s not wearing any pants, only an oversized tee. My old Detroit Tigers tee, in fact. Like seven years old, old. Where did she even get that? Never mind. I know where she got it.

Why wear pants when you look like Shelby? Tanned, toned legs for days. Pants would be a shame.

“This place belongs to my assistant. She moved in with her boyfriend.”

“It’s nice,” I say, not able to look anywhere but at her. She looks awesome.

Well, no. She looks like shit. Her navy-blue eyes are ringed in mascara and sleeplessness. Under her spray tan, her skin looks jaundiced. At twenty-two, she’s got more sharp edges and hollow angles than I remember her having at seventeen. Five years have passed since I left, ending my contract with the hit children’s show The World According to Jackson. Once upon a time, Shelby and I were costars, along with Shelby’s douche-canoe ex, Lyle Jessup.

I shake myself. Regardless of history, she looks like a goddamn daydream, edges and all. My daydream, to be exact.

But that’s not why I’m here. Obviously. She’s a friend and she needs me. Friends always jump on deathtraps and fly thousands of miles when other friends drunkenly text them after five years of radio silence.

“It’s not great digs. You don’t have to lie. I just needed a place to hide, and paparazzi are camped out at every hotel from here to Tahoe.”

I crack a small smile. “It’s better than living in a tent with no plumbing and five grown men only washing with melted snow every other day.”