“Two Fridays from today,” Darren says. “The boys have a sleepover basketball camp. They leave Friday right after school and come back Sunday morning. Jourdan, make sure that you tell your boss you’re not available for swing shifts that weekend.”

I nod quickly. I’m already typing the letter to Dr. Basra. I’m not even going to give Lissa the chance to fuck this up. “Sent,” I say breathlessly.

Nadia downs the rest of her wine. “Oh my God, I was worried for a bit.”

“I know you were,” Darren mumbles against her hairline.

I can’t help but rest my chin on the palm of my left hand while I watch them. “You two are so cute,” I mumble. “I can’t wait to let you spit roast me.”

the right look

“What do you think about this dress? Or this one?”

“Too close,” my little sister Emma says, sounding incredibly bored as she contorts her head to look at the screen. She’s lying on her back in her dorm room in L.A., with a textbook open on her stomach. I have a great view of her newly tightened and neat microlocs and the same poster of the constellations she’s had since she was six on the wall above her dorm bed.

I back away from my tablet so I can get most of both dresses in frame. When she doesn’t have a fast enough answer, I move each one over my body, hoping it’ll help her imagine me in one of them. It works, kinda.

“No,” she says quickly and turns back to her book.

I sigh and drop both arms, glaring at her face on the screen. She’s not even looking at her camera.

“Did you even look at the dresses? Like really?” I whine.

She turns toward the camera, and this angle perfectly accentuates a scar through her left eyebrow from a very unfortunate encounter with a tree branch that I was not involved in whatsoever. She looks at the screen for a few seconds before turning onto her stomach. When she’s right side up, she gives me her full attention. I immediately realize the mistake I’ve made. “You know, if I didn’t know you better than anyone, I’d think you were nervous about this date.”

“I can be nervous,” I say.

“If you’re nervous, then this isn’t a first date.”

“I never said it was.” I’m about to start fidgeting with the hangers in my hands, which would be a dead giveaway that I would love not to talk about this, so I duck out of frame to pick some new dress options. I glance at the digital clock on the reclaimed bedside table by my bed to check how I’m doing on time. Only four hours before the Uber I ordered arrives. I feel like I’m cutting it close.