It only takes a second for her manufactured smile to turn into a very real frown as she takes in my pajamas soaked with coffee and my messy, dark hair that I’m sure looks like a rat’s nest.

“In my defense,” I jump in before she can criticize me, “I spilled the coffee when you scared the shit out of me by banging unexpectedly on my door.”

Those red lips pull to the side as her hazel eyes narrow on me. “Why are you still in your pajamas?”

“Because I finished a draft of a book, which was a monumental thing. And then I cleaned my apartment, went grocery shopping, and showered every day this week, Mom.” I don’t mention that the last three things also felt monumental. Finishing my book and sending it to Trina gave me a lot of pride, but it has also left a void I’m not sure how to fill yet. Making myself do anything normal these past few days doesn’t give me the same dopamine hit that writing has. And while that does feel depression-adjacent, I’m not in a full-on depressive episode. I’m even still remembering to take my meds, which admittedly doesn’t always happen. I just wanted to take some time off. Hence the pajamas.

Trina peeks over my shoulder and into my apartment. “You cleaned?”

I roll my eyes like a petulant teenager and open the door wider so she can see. She doesn’t waste a minute, brushing past me and waltzing right into the kitchen. I do say waltzing almost literally; she’s wearing one of her brightly-colored, flowy skirts that kicks out around her ankles as she moves.

She inspects the kitchen for a few moments, even opening cabinets and my fridge. Apparently satisfied, she folds her arms over her ample chest and stares at me in silence.

“I wasn’t lying,” I grumble.

“Sometimes you lie,” she retorts.

I open my mouth to reply but then close it. She’s right. I know enough to know what looks bad, and I try to tell people what they want to hear to avoid their concern. It’s been a while since I’ve done that with Trina, but I can’t really blame her for not fully trusting me.

“Why are you here?” I ask instead.

She eyes me up and down. I uselessly try to smooth my satin sleep shirt into something more presentable under her scrutiny.

“I scheduled you an appointment at the salon, so I’m here to take you there.” She can barely hide her disdain.

“What? Why?” My hand floats to my hair, which feels dry and brittle to my touch. Grimacing, I add, “Don’t answer that.”