My apartment door flies open in front of me, my keys chiming against the door.

“Oh my god—”

Whitney, my roommate, strikes a pose, head tilted back, arms locked out in the door frame. “Are. You. Ready.”

“Whit—”

“For the weeeeeeeeekeeeeennnnnnd!” She stretches the word out like an announcer at a rowdy sporting event, framing it with bright red lipstick, then points at me. “Are you?”

“It’s Thursday.” I adjust my tote bag on my shoulder. It’s impossible not to smile at her. “You know this.”

“Touché. But at the stroke of midnight, the weekend is here.”

“No, Friday is here. Are you going to let me in?”

Whitney gives me an exaggerated pout and slinks away from the door. She’s wearing her favorite black pants. They’re her favorite because, as she says, they go from day to night with a swish of the hips. “You’re no fun.”

I swim up out of the daydream I’ve been tending since the moment Dayton walked out of my office. In the daydream, when he disappears from view, I chase after him. Beg for a few minutes of his time. We end up in a cozy Italian restaurant two blocks down. Somehow a hotel becomes involved. If Whitney hadn’t thrown open the door, I might have gotten all the way to the room, to the bed, to the hot pink vibrator she got me as a joke for my birthday senior year. I found out later it’s a high-quality piece. Definitely not a joke.

I drop my keys on the little table in the entryway and unwind my scarf from my neck. “I’m extremely fun. When it’s appropriate.”

Whitney turns around, shaking her head. “Fun is always appropriate. We only have—”

“—one life to live,” I finish for her. Coat on hook. Scarf on hook. Purse on hook. Everything in its place. “I know.”

“And yet you look like you’re headed for a pair of flannel pajamas and a book.”

She’s so right that it’s a little offensive. I smile rapturously. “What could be better on a Thursday night?”

Whitney’s eyes light up. “Drinks.”

“No.”

“Drinks at Vino Veritas.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “That’s not fair, and you know it.”

Whitney folds her hands in front of her. “Come on, Sunny, it’s an exciting day!”

“Why? Did something happen at work?”

Her smile is worth a gigawatt at least. “Technically, it was at work.”

I gasp. “Did you get an audition?”

“Not just an audition.” Whitney does spirit fingers. “A second audition. I got a callback!”

Then it’s all jumping and shrieking in the entryway, right up until Whit hustles me into my coat and scarf and down to our favorite wine bar.

* * *

“We have celebrated,” I tell her ninety minutes later. We’re tucked into a table by the front window and neither of us cares about the view onto 9th Avenue. “Let’s get the bill.”

“Not a chance,” says Whitney, motioning for the waiter. “One last drink. Two glasses of your sweetest moscato,” she says to him extravagantly. We’ve already shared a bottle and some of the prettiest appetizers you’ll find in the city. I’m pleasantly buzzed but there it is in the back of my mind—the call of work. Getting up early. Getting to bed at a decent hour. It’s the right thing to do. I have to be at my best for the veterans.

It’s all true. It’s also true that the wine has made my heart feel steady for the first time since Dayton looked at me across that waiting room.

“Tell me your news. There has to be news.” Whitney leans across the table, eyes shining, her voice bright over the rumble and roll of the conversation in the bar.

“Just another day in the office.”

“Liar. Your face is beet red.”

“I’ve had half a bottle of wine.”

“Sunny.”

That delirious joy shot through with dread blooms in my chest. “I shouldn’t say anything. All of my meetings are confidential.” My voice wobbles a bit on confidential and Whitney pounces.

“What happened?” She grabs my hand on the surface of the table. “Tell me right now.”

I bite my lip. I shouldn’t say anything. I’m not supposed to disclose anything about the veterans to anyone else, and I’m sure this is outside the rules. But I’m humming with the sight of him. If I don’t release some of this pressure, how am I going to sleep tonight? The scale tips in Whitney’s favor. Damn it.

“I ran into…an old friend.” It’s ridiculously inadequate, calling him that, but that’s the only way around this. I’m not breaking the rules if I’m only mentioning that I saw a childhood buddy.

Whitney gasps. “Who?”

He’s dangerous. My brother’s words from a million years ago rocket through my mind. His voice rising at home the next day. The freeze that’s grown between us ever since. “Dayton.”

Whit rolls her eyes and drops my hands. “That’s a city in Ohio. Are you that drunk?”

“Dayton Nash.” I say it louder and her eyes go wide. Something clicks in her mind, her eyebrows shooting up toward her hairline. “My brother’s—”

“—best friend,” she says, and covers her mouth with her hand. “Oh, my god.”

“Ex best friend,” I say automatically, because that’s what it is now, isn’t it?

She tilts her head down, looking up at me from beneath her lashes. “You always had a crush on him, didn’t you? I bet he was hot. I bet he’s still hot. I bet your heart went boom when he walked through the door.” Whit’s mouth drops open. “Did you sleep with him?”

“Oh, my god.”

“You did, didn’t you?”

“No,” I shriek. “I did not sleep with him in my office!”

“Two glasses of moscato,” says the waiter from five inches away. He can’t disguise the laughter in his voice.

Perfect.