Chapter 5
Five
Heading to babysit for the weekend, be back Monday.
I stare at the words on the small notebook paper.
My stomach drops. She’s never left me a note before. Never gone to Nikko’s without telling me face-to-face. Which means she’s really angry at me.
Angry enough to tell me we’d always be in this together—then leave.
Angry enough to give me the silent treatment for days.
Angry enough to abandon me alone with my own thoughts for an entire weekend.
Not only did I have to spend the week at City Hall, Alex didn’t talk to me once, and avoided me at home as well.
First it was a note about Pilates. Then an art class. Wednesday she called in sick and went to the zoo. In February. Thursday she took another art class. Friday she left a note that she had a date.
She came home after I already fell asleep. And now this? First thing Saturday morning.
The only saving grace for the week was that Marcus is never actually in his office.
I crumple the note in a fist.
What the fuck was I thinking? That she’d somehow just... get over it? That I could keep deflecting and joking and avoiding and she’d keep forgiving me?
But I never showed up. Not in the way she needed. Not in the way she believed I could.
Now what?
“Fine!” I shout to the empty space. “I’m listening!”
I grip the note in my fist and walk in a circle. Once. Twice. My socks catching on the hardwood.
Nothing.
Only silence answers.
“Great. Cool. So now I’m the asshole talking to ghosts in an empty apartment.” I pace faster. “This is fine. This is very normal. Very well-adjusted behavior.”
The plants stare at me. All forty-seven of them hanging from the ceiling like a jury.
“Don’t look at me like that. Your mom left you with me, so technically this is her fault.”
I turn in another circle. Arms spread like I’m addressing an invisible audience.
“Dahlia? You there? No? Just me and Alex’s botanical children having a Saturday morning breakdown?”
Silence.
My arms drop.
“Cool. Love that for me. Love being the girl who shouts at ghosts and gets the silent treatment from both the living AND the dead.”
The loft feels massive without her. All those crystals on every surface catching light, throwing rainbows that feel accusatory. The tarot deck still sitting on the coffee table from last Thursday —the last time she tried to read my cards and I made a joke about it.
When was the last time I didn’t make a joke?
When was the last time I stopped performing fine long enough to let her see me break?
Fifteen years of friendship and I’ve spent every single one of them proving I’m okay. Because women who aren’t fine are burdens. Women who aren’t fine get left behind.
My chest aches. That specific ache that has nothing to do with muscles and everything to do with the fact that my person isn’t talking to me.
And it’s my fault.
I did this.
I made her feel unheard. Dismissed. Like her gifts—the intuition she’s spent her whole life developing, the way she knows things—didn’t matter. Like she didn’t matter.
Fifteen years. We’ve been best friends for fifteen years.
And I might have just destroyed it because I was too scared to believe in ghosts.
“Okay.” I say it to the empty loft. To Alex’s plants. To whoever the fuck might be listening. “Okay, I get it. I fucked up. I’m sorry. Is that what you want to hear? I’m SORRY.”
Nothing.
“What do I have to do? Light some sage? Draw a fucking summoning circle? Give me something here because I’m—”
My voice cracks.
I’m spiraling. Alone. In pajamas. On a Saturday morning. While my best friend is at her brother’s place probably telling him what a terrible person I am.
Which I am.
Which I deserve.
I need to apologize. Not to ghosts. Not to Dahlia. Not to the universe.
To Alex.
But first... a gift.
“Because that’s what emotionally stunted people do, right?” I announce to the plants. “When we can’t handle feelings, we throw money at the problem. Very healthy, Dylan. Very mature. Alex would be so proud of this personal growth.”
One of the ferns looks judgmental.
“Fuck it. I’m getting her a gift AND apologizing. That’s called multitasking.”
I grab my phone off the counter, my keys, my winter coat. I’m out of the loft in under three minutes, still in sweatpants and a hoodie, my hair in yesterday’s bun.
Alex would die if she saw me like this in public.
But Alex isn’t here.