Once, when I was in college, Liv and I took a trip to New York City. It was amazing. We ate, we drank overpriced cocktails, we wore our skankiest dresses, and one day, while we were taking a stroll through Central Park, a squirrel chased me until I threw it the almonds I was snacking on.

That was a weird day.

But it still doesn’t compare to today.

I turn my key in the lock and push open my front door, still trying to figure out what in the actual hell just happened.

When Brynn said whiteboard, I figured it was a euphemism for something. Spoiler alert! It wasn’t. It was a literal whiteboard. A giant one that damn near took up an entire wall in Poppy’s house, but was still just a dry-erase board nonetheless. I guess when Brynn had problems with Maxwell, the Lady Mustangs staged an intervention and used the whiteboard to help her see the light. And for some reason, she thought the same could be done for me and Quinton.

There was just one major problem.

Quinton and I are not Maxwell and Brynn. The main difference being their relationship grew out of friendship and mutual respect. Quinton and I just started being able to stand in the same room as the other person and I’m pretty sure I assaulted him.

No whiteboard could help with that.

But we did break out into a very intense tic-tac-toe contest. Poppy’s son, Ace, won. Which is total crap if you ask me because he’s young and probably knows the algorithm. Thankfully for me, though, I didn’t drink today so I had enough self-awareness not to say that thought out loud.

Oh.

And I also ignored two more texts from Quinton without reading.

Say it with me everybody: plausible deniability. But now that I’m home and don’t have the Lady Mustangs, Liv, and Marie hovering over my shoulder, I’m going to have to be a grown-up and read them.

Sucks.

I hang my purse on the hook by the door and drop my keys in the bowl my dad painted the one time I was able to convince him to go to a pottery painting place with me. It’s objectively terrible—an artist he was not—but it is easily one of my favorite pieces in my entire condo.

I toe off my shoes and leave them scattered across the rug protecting the hardwood floors from the door to my kitchen. I’m usually pretty good about putting everything in its place, but I’m lacking the motivation to walk the extra fifteen feet to put them in my closet right now. A feeling I’m sure most people would share after the day—and night—I’ve had.