Chapter 10 #2
She disappears back into the dressing room, voice floating out over the music.
“Besides, I don’t need any more bikinis.”
I sit there, phone forgotten in my hand, heart thudding a little too fast.
Because I’m not sure if that was bonding.
Or dominance.
Or something else entirely.
We keep going.
Sage doesn’t ask so much as decide.
“This,” she says, tugging a denim miniskirt off the rack and holding it up against my hips. “Perfect for summer.” She grins. “Trust me.”
Then come the shoes—open-toed wedge sandals, tan leather, just high enough to make my legs look longer without screaming trying too hard.
“You’ll get these stuck between the planks at least once,” she says. “That’s how you know they’re good.”
I laugh despite myself.
At the makeup counter, she doesn’t hesitate.
“MAC,” she says firmly, like it’s a rule. “Foundation, concealer, blush. You don’t need much—just the right tones.”
She stands close, testing shades on the inside of my wrist, explaining undertones like it’s second nature. She talks while she works, casual and confident, like she’s done this a hundred times for girlfriends.
“Okay,” she says finally, stepping back. “Look.”
I barely recognize myself.
Not in a bad way.
My skin looks even. My eyes brighter. My lips fuller without being overdone.
I look… hot.
I don’t say it out loud, but she sees it on my face and smiles like she won something.
“See?” she says. “Sexy. Not slutty.”
I shake my head, half-laughing. “Alright. You win.”
At the register, I swipe my card, then stop and look at her. “I can’t buy anymore. My card might decline if I do.” I bite my lip. “Truthfully… I’ve been spending a lot since I got this job. Ski passes, cover charges, drinks, late-night food. I haven’t saved anything.”
She nods immediately. No judgment.
“Oh, I know,” she says softly. “It’s a lot, isn’t it? Maintaining yourself. Keeping up.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “That’s why I had to leave New York. It was bleeding me dry. Boston’s not much better, but—” She stops walking, turns to me fully. “Beth, we’re talking a few hundred dollars. It’ll be fine.”
She links her arm through mine again. “Happy hour. Half-price apps. We’ll share. It’ll be my treat.”
“But we just ate out at lunch.”
There’s something in her eyes—open, earnest, friendly—that makes me feel ridiculous for being suspicious earlier. And I suddenly feel badly for judging her and being jealous last weekend. She was drunk. We were all drinking. We all do stupid shit when we drink. Right?
“Okay,” I say. “Okay.”
And the thing is… I really am enjoying myself.
We sit outside, plates in the middle, drinks sweating in the heat. Sage tells stories, animated, funny, self-deprecating. She listens when I talk. Really listens. Laughs at the right moments. Makes me feel interesting.
I catch myself thinking it without meaning to:
I see what Ethan sees in her.
She pulls you in. She has energy like the ocean—constant, powerful, impossible to ignore. You don’t even realize you’re drifting until you’re already caught in her current.
And being around her?
It makes me feel good.
More confident.
More seen.
For the first time all day, I relax.
And I don’t notice how far I’ve drifted until much later.
Sage checks her watch like it’s just occurred to her that time exists.
“Oh—shoot,” she says, already standing. “I’ve gotta run. Ethan did a late gym workout and he picked up that new blockbuster everyone’s talking about. We’re doing a couch-and-popcorn night.”
Of course they are.
She leans in and gives me two quick air kisses, European and effortless, perfume lingering like something expensive and sunny.
“This was fun, Beth,” she says. “We’ll do it again. See you on the weekend.”
And then she’s gone—heels clicking away, shopping bags swinging, energy still humming in the air after her like static. I find the nearest T station and put my metal tokens into the slot. The turnstiles spin as I move through, board a tired old subway car filled with Red Sox fans headed to Fenway.
I get off at my stop ten minutes later. Just enjoying the summer night. My new clothes and a budding friendship I didn’t see coming.
I walk home slower, arms aching a little from the weight of the bags. The street feels quieter than it did an hour ago, like someone turned the volume down.
When I push through the front door, one of my roommates, Jen looks up from the couch, glasses perched on the end of her nose, some old rerun murmuring in the background.
She blinks at the bags.
“Beth,” she says carefully, “did you go shopping? Without me?”
“Yeah,” I answer, kicking my shoes off. “With Sage.”
Her eyebrows lift. Just a little.
“Sage… Ethan’s girlfriend?” she asks. “Your coworker Ethan? The girl who you said was—” she searches for the word, “—very good-looking but possibly unhinged?”
I wince despite myself and set the bags down by the stairs.
“Yeah,” I say. “That one.”
“Well,” she says, folding her hands in her lap, “how was it?”
I hesitate. Just a beat.
“She’s not as crazy as I thought,” I say finally, rubbing the back of my neck. “She’s just… different, I guess.”
“Different how?”
I shrug. “She’s from New York. They’re just more… brazen. Confident. Forward. I don’t know.”
Jen hums, unconvinced but listening.
“But,” I add, surprising myself with how quickly it comes out, “I had a lot of fun.”
She studies my face, then nods once. “You look like you did.”
I pick up the bags again, heading for the stairs, my reflection catching briefly in the hall mirror—new makeup, new clothes, a version of me that feels slightly sharper around the edges.
As I climb, I can’t help thinking it.
Sage doesn’t just enter rooms.
She changes them.
And somehow, without meaning to, she’s started changing me too.
It doesn’t happen all at once.
That’s the thing I don’t notice until later.
At first it’s just emails—harmless, funny ones sent during work hours.
Subject lines like did you SEE Tony last night or I am never drinking tequila again.
When Ethan is locked in manager meetings and can’t make lunch, I walk a few blocks and meet Sage instead.
We sit on benches or grab salads we don’t finish, laughing about the same people we always do.
The girl Tony hooked up with that one night becomes a running joke.
She’d looked unreal ten beers in—long legs, tiny dress, hair teased sky-high like it was still 1996. The next morning she showed up at brunch with mascara smeared halfway down her face, Aqua net-stiff bangs drooping, heels in her hand like weapons she’d lost a fight with.
We laughed until we cried.
Sage snorted soda through her nose. I almost choked.
It felt… easy. Natural.
Then one afternoon she leans in conspiratorially and says, “You should join my gym.”
“I already go to one,” I tell her.
She waves it off. “No, no—mine. I don’t like working out with Ethan.”
She lowers her voice, grinning. “I can’t have him seeing how I actually get this body. That’ll be our little secret.”
She winks.
And just like that, it becomes a thing.
Spin classes at lunch. Sometimes right after work.
Never mornings—Sage is always still rolling out of Ethan’s bed then.
We shower at the gym, hair wrapped in towels, swapping complaints about instructors and playlists.
Afterward we get iced coffees and sit outside, legs stretched out, sweat drying on our skin.
Somewhere in there, the thought hits me:
Sage is slowly becoming my best friend.
Is that weird?
She complains about Ethan—how he’s always with the boys, how they hang out too much, how she wants more couple time. I don’t really know what to say. I don’t get couple time at all. My relationship feels like two people constantly missing each other in doorways.
Sometimes I don’t even feel like I’m in one anymore.
And my secret feelings and attraction for Ethan stay secret.
Locked up. I avoid him as much as possible at work now.
Not so much anyone woods notice but maybe I walk the long way around the office to the ladies instead of the path that goes right by his desk.
One afternoon, without planning to, I blurt out, “I’ve never… you know. Come. During sex.”
She stops mid-sip.
“What?” Her eyebrows shoot up.
“I mean, I like it,” I rush on. “It feels good. I just… never get there.”
She stares at me for a beat, then reaches over and squeezes my hand.
“Oh, honey.”
She leans in and whispers like she’s sharing a spell. “You have to show them what you want. Take it. Make them help you get there.”
My face burns.
From then on, it’s secrets. Small ones. Then bigger ones.
And then one rainy afternoon, when my head is pounding and all I want is to go home and crawl under a blanket, Sage says, “Come over.”
“I don’t feel great,” I tell her.
“I’ll make you tea,” she says gently. “You’ll feel better. I promise.”
So I do.
I take the T over, umbrella dripping, and when I check the address my stomach dips. The building is rough—cardboard boxes stacked by the door, the heavy smell of fried oil and soy sauce hanging in the air.
Chinese takeout. It’s on the outskirts of Allston, but in a very commercial neighborhood. Only a few block from the upscale brownstones and close to the T.
Then around the side, a narrow staircase. At the top, a red door with a crooked number.
I knock.
Sage opens it like this is the most normal thing in the world.
“Come in!”
The apartment is chaos. Clothes everywhere. Heels piled by the door. Handbags—some unmistakably designer—tossed over chairs.
“Sage,” I say slowly, pointing. “Is that Gucci?”
She laughs. “Oh, honey. Canal Street? I New York City? Looks real, doesn’t it?”
I blink. “None of it’s real?”
“None,” she says cheerfully. “Baby, I fake it till I make it. We should go sometime. I’ll take you to Canal Street. They have secret backrooms and tons of ripped off designer goods.”
It smells good inside—candles everywhere, sweet and warm, masking whatever’s underneath. She claps her hands.
“I rented a movie. Face masks. Spa night.”
And suddenly we’re on the couch, green goop drying on our faces, feet tucked under blankets. She rubs oil into my temples, slow and practiced, brushes my hair until the ache in my head melts away.
“There,” she murmurs. “See? I told you you’d feel better, sweetie.”
She brings me chamomile tea.
I feel… cared for.
Like a doll someone’s tending to.
No one’s ever done this for me. Not even my boyfriend.
When I excuse myself to use the bathroom, I realize there isn’t really one—just a tiny door off the main room. Inside, the sink is cluttered. Pill bottles everywhere. Different kinds. Different labels.
I don’t stare.
It’s none of my business.
When I come back from the bathroom, Sage is already on the phone.
She presses a finger to her lips, eyes apologetic but bright.
“Ethan,” she says softly. “Yeah, sounds good.”
Then she glances at me, lowering her voice. “Hey, sweetie—can you hang tight for one second? I’ll be right back.”
“Of course,” I say quickly. “Take it.”
She grabs her jacket and slips out the door, heels tapping down the stairs, her voice fading as the door clicks shut behind her.
The apartment goes quiet.
Too quiet.
I stand there for a second, awkward, not sure what to do with my hands. The movie menu hums softly on the TV. Candles flicker, throwing warm light over piles of clothes and handbags.
That’s when I see the mail.
It’s stacked on the small table by the door—neater than the rest of the place, like it’s been pushed aside deliberately. Not hidden. Just… postponed.
PAST DUE
PAST DUE
FINAL NOTICE
Visa.
MasterCard.
Victoria’s Secret.
Thick envelopes. Multiple months. Red ink. Amounts that make my stomach drop.
Thousands.
I swallow hard.
I’ve always wondered—quietly, privately—how she managed it. The clothes, the makeup, the dinners, the gym, the constant polish. Because I can barely manage my own spending some months, and I don’t live like she does.
Maybe none of us are.
I look away immediately, heat crawling up my neck, like I’ve seen something I wasn’t meant to. I feel guilty, even though I didn’t touch anything. Didn’t open anything.
The door opens.
Sage breezes back in like a gust of summer air, smile already back in place, phone tucked away.
“Sorry about that,” she says brightly. “He just needed to vent for a second.”
“No worries,” I reply, a little too fast.
She claps her hands once. “Okay—movie time.”
I smile back, sit down beside her, let her tuck the blanket around my shoulders.
But something inside me has shifted.
And this time, I don’t think it’s just curiosity.
It’s concern.
The pressure behind my eyes is gone, melted away somewhere between the warm tea and Sage’s hands in my hair, the movie murmuring on in the background like white noise. I stretch, roll my shoulders once, and smile at her.
“Thank you,” I say honestly. “My head’s totally gone. I think I’m gonna head out before the rain starts again.”
She lights up. “I’m so glad. See? I told you.”
I grab my bag, slipping my shoes back on, and she suddenly pops up too.
“Oh—wait,” she says. “I should get going as well. I’m heading over to Ethan’s.”
She starts scooping things into a tote—lip gloss, charger, something lacy I very pointedly pretend not to notice.
“I’ll walk out with you,” she adds.
Outside the door, she pulls me into a hug, quick but warm, the kind that feels practiced and sincere.
“I had a great time, sweetie,” she says, pressing her cheek to mine. “Love you.”
The words land so easily, so naturally, that for a second I don’t even question them.
“Love you too,” I say back, surprised to realize I mean it—at least the version of love you have for someone who makes you feel seen, cared for, pulled into their orbit.
As I walk down the stairs and back into the damp evening air, I make a decision.
I won’t say anything.
Not about her apartment.
Not about the mail.
Not about the bills.
Not about the pills.
It’s none of my business.
I’m not the one dating her. I’m not the one sharing a bed or a bank account or a future. I’m just her friend. And if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s keeping secrets.
I’ve never been a gossiper. Never liked the way it feels to turn someone’s private mess into public currency.
So I tuck it away.
And as I head home, shopping bags swinging lightly at my sides, I feel… motivated.
Maybe Sage is right.
Maybe I should dress up more. Try a little harder. Feel sexy instead of exhausted. Maybe I shouldn’t just accept that my relationship is always slightly out of sync, that we keep missing each other by minutes and hours and shifts.
I catch my reflection in a darkened storefront window—new makeup, sharper edges, a spark I haven’t seen in a while.
I straighten my shoulders.
I’m gonna get my man, I think.
I’m gonna get us back on track.
And for the first time in weeks, it feels possible.