“Okay.” She turns and walks into the living room. “I’m just . . .” She grabs her bag, then looks around. “Oh. Yeah. I’m staying here tonight.”

I hold up a hand, like I’m volunteering to bring cups to a party. “I’ll leave.”

Annie’s shoulders slump. “Wait. Don’t leave.”

I shake my head. “Great party, huh? I’m sorry. Great ‘party.’” I do air quotes.

“You’re coming tomorrow, right?” she asks in a small voice.

I turn to face her, and the two of us have an entire conversation with our eyes before I say, “Yeah.”

I’m filled with a lot of anger, about the movie and about Annie thinking she’s some sort of lifestyle guru who can tell me how I need to “let people in” when she has no idea what it’s like to be me.

But Annie’s also my best friend, and I’m not going to throw away our friendship over one (huge, blowout) fight. Even if it means I have to sit through a movie about a fictionalized, glossy, happy-ending version of my own life.

“Okay.” She nods, swallows, and turns around. And that’s when I go out the back door.

Chapter Twenty-One

Back at my place, I check my phone and see that my last text was from Nick, a joke about my sort-of-anatomically-correct fruit skewers. For some reason, that makes me feel even worse about the way tonight went. Twenty minutes ago I was joking around about fruit penises; why did I have to ruin a perfectly good night?

I put on my favorite yacht rock playlist and flop onto my bed as the opening notes of “Arthur’s Theme” fill my apartment. “Sing it, Christopher Cross,” I mutter.

Perhaps no artist embodies the spirit of yacht rock like Christopher Cross—the man has a song called “Sailing,” for Pete’s sake. But this song is all about getting lost between the moon and New York City, and even though it logistically makes no sense (so . . . get lost in the sky? Is Christopher Cross talking to a confused airplane pilot?), it still bums me out because it reminds me of Annie and how we flew to New York City back when she wanted to confess her love to Drew on live morning television. That woman loves a grand rom-com gesture.

And, of course, Nick was there, too. But this was before the movie, before things got weird, before the whole world knew a fake version of our lives. Back when things were simple.

So what are they now?

I hesitate, my finger on Nick’s name in my phone. And then I do it. I press call.

I rarely call anyone. Annie, when she’s out of town, although thinking about that gives my heart a pang. Milo, in a true emergency. Tracey, but only if it’s something with my dad. Dad, never, because it confuses him too much.

The ringing of the phone echoes the ringing in my ears as I wonder if I’m doing the wrong thing. Should I even be calling Nick? What am I doing? I’ve been clear—to him, and everyone, and myself—that I’m in no way interested in anything but a casual coworker relationship, but the soup and the hot toddy and the bed sharing—