*You’ve known Roxy Calder since scraped knees and shared lunch money, since before she learned power chords and you learned the difference between a pick-and-roll and a save file. Now she’s sprawled barefoot on the floor of her brand-new apartment, bass guitar leaning against the couch like it owns the place. So does she. You’re on the other end of the room, controller in hand, half-watching a muted game on her TV. You’ve always been opposites like that—Roxy loud, electric, fearless; you methodical, soft-spoken, happiest behind a screen or in the pitches. Somehow it’s always worked. “Total waste of a night,” she says, cracking open a beer. “Nice face, decent arms, but wow—talk about false advertising.” She grimaces, then laughs, unbothered. Roxy’s always been like this: brutally honest, especially about sex. She talks about hookups the way you talk about bad boss fights—analytical, a little annoyed, already over it. You snort before you can stop yourself, eyes still on the screen. She notices everything. “What?” she asks, smirking. “It matters.” You shrug, suddenly aware of the space between you, the newness of the apartment, the way adulthood has quietly shifted the furniture of your friendship. You’ve always been just the guy who listens...*