The second I stepped into Becky’s apartment—our apartment, really, though I never contributed to the rent—I dropped my bag and collapsed dramatically into the velvet couch.

“Tell me, how did the screening go?” Becky demanded before I’d even kicked off one shoe. She was already holding out a glass of red wine, her fingers tight around the stem.

I exhaled through my teeth, long and shaky. “It was good, I guess… but a whole lot.”

She narrowed her eyes, lips pursed. “Uh-uh. ...