Chapter 10
Ten
“It’s BYOB.” Alex reiterates for the third time, practically vibrating with suspicious energy.
She’s been like this all day. From the moment I woke up to a tarot card hitting me in the face to the breakfast tray that appeared at the foot of my bed like I’m a Victorian invalid.
It’s the first normal Sunday we’ve had since everything went sideways. Since I awakened my intuition on a walk home that nearly got me killed. Since Marcus showed up at our door. Since we almost lost each other.
Yes, I know I’m being dramatic.
Normal feels precious now. Fragile. Like something we have to actively choose instead of something that just happens.
Coffee, avocado toast, candied bacon with that brown sugar-cayenne glaze she knows I’d commit crimes for.
And she won’t tell me what we’re doing.
But my body isn’t screaming danger. That’s new information. The serpent at my spine—my constant companion since Wednesday’s walk home—stays quiet. Watchful but not alarmed. Alex’s energy reads safe. Excited. That bright, warm frequency I’ve learned to recognize as joy.
I’m getting better at this. Reading the room without trying. Feeling temperature shifts in energy. Trusting what my body reports.
It’s exhausting and amazing in equal measure.
“I feel like anything that is BYOB could be questionable.” I watch as she sets the wine carrier down and grabs my coat for me. Like I even had a choice in the matter about going or not.
Alex decided. Therefore I’m going.
If she’d just tell me what we’re doing.
“Only if that’s how you’re going to think about it.” She holds out my coat. Waits for me to put my arms through like I’m five years old and can’t dress myself. “It’ll be fun.”
I slide my arms in. She immediately starts fussing. Adjusting the collar. Smoothing the lapels. Fidgeting with the zipper.
“You’re stalling.”
“I’m not stalling.” She’s definitely stalling. “I’m helping.”
“You’re fidgeting.”
“I’m excited!” She fixes the collar again even though it’s already perfect. “It’s fun. You’ll love it.”
“What will I love?”
“The thing.” Very helpful, Alex. “The fun thing we’re doing.”
My eye catches the small resin dandelion sitting at her throat. She tightened the chain into a choker. It’s both delicate and perfect—those white seeds suspended forever in that moment before they scatter.
She hasn’t taken it off and swears she won’t.
My chest does something embarrassing. That warm, full feeling when someone forgives you for being terrible and loves you anyway.
She’s wearing my surrender to magic right against her throat. My proof that I finally believe in her way of knowing.
We almost lost this. Almost lost each other over my need to be right instead of her need to be heard.
And she forgave me anyway. Turned my apology into jewelry.
“You’re wearing it,” I say quietly.
“Of course I’m wearing it.” She touches it absently, like she’s forgotten it’s there. Like it’s just part of her now. “It’s my favorite thing anyone’s ever given me.”
“Alex—”
“Don’t get weird.” She grabs my shoulders, straightens my coat one more time. “Now. We’re bringing wine. It’ll be fun.” She adds a little whine to that last part. “For my birthday weekend. You know I celebrate all week before and after like a proper Aquarius-Pisces cusp princess.”
There it is. The trump card. The nuclear option.
And yeah. She gets whatever she wants.
“Fine.” I swat away her hands. Stop the fidgeting. “What are you bringing?”
“Rosé Moscato.” She tugs on her own coat. Grabs the wine carrier.
I hum in the back of my throat because rosé Moscato isn’t just wine we drink often. It’s the wine. The wine we drink when doing fun things together. Birthday dinners. Celebration nights. The good stuff.
Which makes this whole thing even more suspicious.
Very fucking suspicious.
“It’s Sunday, Alex.” I remind her as we walk out the door. Lock it behind us. “We’re skipping family dinner.”
“Yep.” She starts down the stairs. Practically bouncing.
“We never skip family dinner.”
“I already called!” She chirps over her shoulder. “Told them we had birthday plans we couldn’t move. Your mama said to take pictures.”
“Pictures of what?”
“You’ll see.” She grins back at me. “And I promised we’d be there next week with an update on your love life.” She makes air quotes around the last two words.
“My what now?”
“Your love life. You know. The one you don’t have.”
“There’s a reason I don’t have one.”
“Because you’re emotionally unavailable and your boss wants you to work with a serial killer?”
“Exactly. Those are excellent reasons.”
We reach the bottom of the stairs. Head out into the February afternoon. It’s not terrible out—maybe forty degrees, that weird Philly winter where you can’t tell if you need a real coat or just a hoodie.
“And I have Nikko’s car,” Alex adds, like this explains everything.
It doesn’t.
“You are being suspicious,” I say again, following her to the street where Nikko’s sedan is parked. Navy blue. Surprisingly clean for a car that belongs to a man with a toddler.
“I’m being mysterious.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“It’s really not.”
“It really is.”
She unlocks the car. We climb in. The interior still smells like Eleni’s baby powder and the faint scent of whatever Greek food Nikko had for lunch three days ago.
“Did you learn anything last week about Dahlia?” I ask as she starts the engine.
Her mood sours for a brief moment. The smile dims. “No. I was busy being mad at you.”
“Sorry about that.”
“Don’t be sorry. Be better.” But she’s already smiling again. Can’t stay mad. Not at me. Not after everything. “I’ll be right back at it this week though. I miss you in the office.”
“Me too.” I slump in the passenger seat as she pulls out. “City Hall is so fucking quiet, Alex. I’m working too fast and having to slow down because I’m bored. There’s only so much administrative law compliance review a person can do before their brain leaks out their ears.”
“Sexy.”
“The sexiest. Real thrilling stuff. Please ensure all municipal code violations are properly documented in triplicate.” I make my voice monotone. Dead inside. “It’s a dream.”
“At least Marcus isn’t there.”
“Right.” The only positive in my entire day. “He’s been at Draven & Associates more often. Dom keeps calling him in for meetings. I swear he’s doing it on purpose to keep him away from me. Which means I get to sit in my quiet office at City Hall and contemplate the meaninglessness of existence.”
“That’s the spirit.”
She turns onto 2nd Street. We’re heading south. Away from Fishtown. Toward... somewhere. I have no idea where.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“I told you. Painting.”
I sit up straighter. Excitement bubbling. “Oh! Like one of those painting-with-a-twist places! The ones where everyone gets wine drunk and paints the same sunset while an instructor tells you exactly what to do!”
I’ve wanted to do one of those for years. Alex and I have talked about it. Added it to our bucket list. Never got around to it because life kept happening.
“Yeah.” She draws the word out. That suspicious tone back.
My excitement dims immediately. “Why’d you say it like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like yeahhhhh instead of yes. What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing.” She’s lying. I can hear it in her voice. In the way she’s gripping the steering wheel just a little too tight. “It’s just painting. With wine. Very fun. Very normal.”
“Alex.”
“Dylan.”
“You’re being weird.”
“I’m always weird.”
“Weirder than usual.”
“Is that possible?”
“Apparently yes, because you’re doing it right now.”
She takes a turn toward Callowhill. The artsy warehouse district. More industrial. Converted lofts and studios where people with too much money pay too much rent to make pottery they’ll never finish.
“It is just painting, right?” I ask, suddenly suspicious for entirely new reasons. “Like we’re not doing anything illegal?”
“Why would painting be illegal?”
“I don’t know! You’re being weird! For all I know you’re taking me to rob a bank and the painting thing is a cover story!”
She laughs. Actually throws her head back and laughs. “Oh my god, your anxiety is showing.”
“My anxiety has been showing since Wednesday when a serial killer ambushed me outside our apartment building with flowers!”
That I left at the neighbor’s door.
“Fair point.” She pulls into a parking spot outside a brick warehouse. Three stories. Industrial windows. A sign that says “Artist Collective - Studios for Rent.”
Very art. Very Philly. Very suspicious.
“But I promise,” she continues, turning off the engine. “No crimes today. Just art. And wine. And fun.”
“And what else?”
“And birthday celebration!” She grabs the wine carrier. Opens her door. “Now come on. Trust me.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because you keep not doing it.”
I follow her toward the building. Industrial stairwell. Exposed brick. The kind of aesthetic that screams we’re artists and we’re cooler than you.
“Which floor?” I ask.
“Third.”
Of course it is. Can’t be on the first floor. That would be too easy.
We climb. Alex is practically vibrating with excited energy. Taking the stairs two at a time. I follow at a more reasonable pace because some of us had candied bacon for breakfast and feel like our blood sugar might be crashing.
“How did you even find this place?” I ask.
“Yelp.”
“You Yelped a painting class.”
“I Yelped several painting classes.” She’s climbing faster now. That nervous energy radiating off her. “This one had the best reviews.”
“Best reviews for what?”
“Painting.” She throws it over her shoulder. Too casual. Too quick.
We reach the third floor. A hallway with several doors. Art studios, probably. I can hear music from one. Voices from another.
Alex leads me to a door at the end of the hall. There’s a sign. Professional. Clean.
Figure Drawing Studio - Session in Progress
I stop walking.
Figure drawing.
Figure drawing.
As in drawing figures.
As in drawing human figures.
As in drawing naked human figures.
“Alex.”
“Yes?” She turns to me. Too innocent. That look she gets when she knows exactly what she’s done and is waiting for me to catch up.
“Figure drawing.”
“Yep!” Still too bright. Too cheerful.
“As in... drawing figures.”
“That’s generally what the words mean, yes.”
“As in naked figures.”
She grins. Big. Shameless. “Surprise!”
“Absolutely not.”
“Come on!”
“No. Nope. Not happening.”
“Dylan—”
“I am not drawing a naked person!”
“Why not?”
“Because I—” I gesture wildly. At her. At the door. At the entire concept. “I don’t know how! I’ll be terrible at it! Everyone will see how terrible I am and judge me!”
“Everyone will be too focused on their own terrible drawings to notice yours.”
“That doesn’t make it better!”
“It’s my birthday weekend.” She pulls out the big guns.
The nuclear option. The ultimate trump card.
“And you almost lost me last week. And Marcus literally stalked you to our building with flowers and I had to watch through the window while a serial killer hunted my best friend. Dom’s threatening your career.
We’re investigating murders. Life is short and terrifying and I watched you almost die on Wednesday and I want to drink wine and draw a hot naked person with my best friend because we should do fun weird things while we still can. Is that too much to ask?”
Almost lost me.
The words land somewhere behind my ribs. That empty bus seat beside me. Her bedroom door closed while I stood in the hallway trying to figure out how to apologize. The three days of silence that felt like drowning.
Not death lost either.
Worse. A friendship breakup.
My throat tightens but I push through it. Because she’s right. We almost destroyed this. Almost lost the one relationship that matters more than anything else in my life.
She’s right. She knows she’s right. I know she’s right.
We almost destroyed our friendship over ghosts and fear and me being too stubborn to listen.
And now she wants to drink wine and draw naked people and laugh and be ridiculous together.
How can I say no to that?
And here’s the thing—I’m about to be terrible at something. In public. In front of strangers. The old Dylan would’ve found excuses. Would’ve performed confidence while dying inside. Would’ve refused to be vulnerable, to be seen failing, to be anything less than competent.
But Alex is asking. Alex, who forgave me. Alex, who’s wearing my surrender around her neck. Alex, who needs this joy after everything we’ve survived this week.
I can be bad at drawing for her. I can be awkward and uncomfortable and publicly terrible. I can choose her over my armor.
I can stop performing and just... be.
“I hate you,” I say.
“You love me.”
“I’m reconsidering.”
“No you’re not.”
“I might be.”
“You’re not.”
At that exact moment—that perfect, comedic, universe-has-impeccable-timing moment—the studio door opens.
And a guy walks out.
Not just any guy.
A hot guy.
Six-foot-something. Dark hair that falls just right. Cheekbones that could cut glass. Strong jaw. Eyes that are probably some ridiculous color like green or gray. Wearing a robe. Just a robe. White terry cloth. Heading toward what I assume is the model’s dressing room.
Alex and I freeze.
Watch him pass.
He nods at us. Casual. Friendly. “Ladies.”
“Hi,” I say.
Very smooth, Dylan. Very cool. Definitely not staring at how that robe is tied just loose enough to be interesting.
He disappears around a corner.
Silence.
Alex turns to me slowly. That grin. The one that means she’s won. Like she’s just pulled off the greatest surprise in the history of surprises.
“That’s him,” she whispers. Barely containing her glee. “That’s who we’re drawing.”
I look at the studio door.
At Alex.
At where Hot Guy just disappeared.
I look at Alex’s face. That pure joy. That certainty that this will be fun because we’re together. Marcus threatened us. Dom’s trying to control us. We’re investigating murders. And she wants this ridiculous, embarrassing, perfect thing.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I’m in. But only because I love you.”
“That’s the only reason that matters.” She squeals. Actually squeals like we’re sixteen and someone just asked us to prom. Grabs my hand and drags me toward the door.
“This is going to be amazing!”
“This is going to be a disaster.”
“Same thing!” She pushes open the door. The smell of paint and turpentine hits us. “Now come on. Let’s go draw a naked man.”
“I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
“You can’t believe you’re doing this for free.” She winks. “Technically we’re paying for the privilege.”
“That makes it worse!”
“That makes it hilarious!”
And she pulls me inside.
The door closes behind us.
And I’m committed now. No turning back.
Just me, my best friend, rosé Moscato, and a naked stranger I’m about to draw very badly.
Life is so fucking weird sometimes.
But at least we’re doing it together.