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I let the front door shut behind me with a quiet click and lean my back against it, tipping my head up to stare at the ceiling.

My house is dark with the kind of silence that makes every thought louder.

Whitley’s sweater is still hanging on the coat closet door, exactly where she left it last week. I run a hand down my face and head to my bedroom.

I should’ve picked up the damn phone hours ago and explained instead of sending a half-assed text. She doesn’t ask for much. Just wants me to show up.

I sit on the edge of the bed, close my eyes, and rest my elbows on my knees.

I’m trying. God, I’m trying. But every time I think about letting her see the worst parts of my life, I freeze. Like if she sees the mess I come from, she’ll finally realize I’m not worth the effort.

I pick up my phone, thumb hovering over her contact. I think about texting and what I would say: Can’t sleep. I’m sorry.

I don’t type it out and put the phone down instead. When I finally lie down, sleep doesn’t come easily. I’m so fucking tired of feeling guilty all the time. Guilty for not being there for Mom enough. Not being there for Whitley enough. Guilty for wanting anything for myself.

When morning comes, it brings no relief. I drag myself through a shower, letting the scalding water pound against my shoulders until my skin turns red. I try to wash away the tension that settles deep in my muscles.

Hours blur by in a haze of errands and half-hearted attempts to shake off the weight sitting on my chest. By the time early evening comes, I’m standing in front of my closet, staring at the suit I bought specifically for tonight. Black, simple, nothing fancy. I pull it on, fumbling with the tie until I give up and leave it hanging loose around my neck.

At 5:45, I’m in the Mustang. Mom’s name flashes across my phone screen just as I’m pulling up to Whitley’s condo. I stare at it for one long beat before declining.

I text her a quick message,

Me:

Can’t talk. Will check in later.

Before I can even get out of the car, the front door swings open, and there she is.

Whitley.

Everything else dulls. The noise in my head, the ache I’ve been carrying in my chest all damn day—gone. Just like that.

She’s standing on the porch in a dress the color of emeralds, her hair catching the last bit of sunlight like a halo. Beautiful is too small of a word to describe her. She’s devastating.

I step out of the car, my hands suddenly feeling too empty. I should’ve brought something—flowers, maybe. But I wasn’t thinking straight when I left the house.

“Hey,” she says, that smile breaking across her face. I know exactly where I’m supposed to be tonight. Right here. With her.

I reach her in three long strides, letting my gaze drag over every inch of her. The dress clings like it was sewn onto her body, legs on full display, lips painted red.

She does a little spin. “What do you think?”

“You’re…” I stop, shaking my head. “You’re fucking stunning, Whitley.”

My hands find her waist almost automatically. The silk of her dress is cool under my palms, but she’s warm beneath it. It’s always like that with her.

“I mean it,” I whisper, brushing my nose against hers. “I’m about to forget we’re supposed to be in public tonight.”

She laughs softly. “Lipstick,” she warns, tapping her mouth.

“Don’t care,” I mutter, and crush my mouth to hers.

She eventually pulls back with a breathless laugh, her fingers fluttering to my jaw.

“Oh my god,” she says, eyes sparkling. “You’re covered in red. You look like you made out with a crime scene.”

I grin, catching her wrist and kissing her palm. “Worth it.”