If my phone rings one more time, I'm throwing it out the window.
Cynthia has called five times this week. Five. I didn't even know people still called each other anymore. And every time I see her name flash across the screen – Cynthia Davenport Klein – I feel this weird mix of nausea, guilt, and the faint memory of a tequila hangover from sophomore year.
I already regret agreeing to attend her wedding. Not that I've done anything about it – like, say, shopping for clothes, buying shoes, or brushing my hair. I'm banking on "someday on the weekend" to magically appear with a credit card fairy.
But Cynthia? Cynthia is not a someday-on-the-weekend kind of person.
She's a hunt-you-down-like-a-Netflix-true-crime-villain kind of person.
And so, naturally, on a rainy Thursday afternoon, I heard a knock on my door.
I froze mid-Cheez-It crunch. Nobody ever knocks here. Delivery guys leave food outside like they're feeding a dangerous zoo animal. My landlord only emails rent reminders in Comic Sans. So who—
"Delivery?" I mutter, pushing aside my laptop. (Translation: fanfiction draft + half-finished editing gig). I swung open the door – and nearly screamed.
Because standing there was none other than Cynthia herself, framed like some glossy magazine ad. She was luminous: hair like it had been individually blessed by angels, lips glossed to a dangerous shine, heels tall enough to qualify as medieval torture weapons. And the look on her face? Pure horror movie heroine discovering the basement smell.
"Oh my God," she whispered, clutching her pearl necklace. Literal pearls. "You live here?"
My first thought: I'm hallucinating from vitamin deficiency.
My second thought: Oh no. She found me.
I glanced around. One room, one chair, one bag, one laptop. My mattress is technically a futon. My fridge hums like it's dying. The carpet has a suspicious coffee stain shaped like South America.
"Surprise?" I said.
Her jaw dropped. "You've been in this city for years. YEARS. And you never told me!"
I shrugged. "I told you. I live… around."
Her eyes narrowed. "Around. Alaska, for seven years you've given me answers like 'I live in the fourth dimension' and 'an undisclosed Batcave location.'"
"Technically true."
"Technically insane!" She stepped inside without asking (classic Cynthia), heels clicking on the linoleum like they're insulted. She scanned the room, lips parting in slow disbelief. "The girl voted Most Likely to Succeed is living like a fugitive in a halfway house. Why?"
I crossed my arms. "Excuse me. Fugitives don't pay rent."
"You call this rent?" She pointed at the peeling wallpaper. "This is a cry for help. A murder documentary setup."
"Eh, murderers usually have better couches."
Cynthia pressed her fingers to her temple like she was negotiating with God. Then she straightened, glowing with the terrifying energy of a woman who once backstabbed me, saved me, and now apparently intended to barge into my life.
She was smiling like she had won.
"Do you want to know how I found you?"
No. I absolutely did not. But of course I nodded.
"Private investigator." She tapped her temple. "Well, two private investigators. Plus, I may have bribed a girl at the registrar's office. Then there was the guy at the co-working space – you should be more careful where you order Wi-Fi coffee."
My jaw dropped. "Did you have the CIA stalk me or something?!"
She grinned. "You were harder to pin down than my Dior sample shoes during Fashion Week."
"You can't just – " I stammered, genuinely rattled. "That's like… espionage."
"Please," she scoffed, tossing her perfect hair. "Espionage is when you do it for governments. When I do it, it's love."
I just gawked at her. "You have issues."
"And you," she shot back, glancing around my apartment, "have mildew."
I groaned, dragging a hand down my face. "Please, just – just leave it alone. You came, you saw, you can now return to your palace of silk pillows and golden bidets and leave me alone."
"That's it," she declared against my faint attempt. "There's going to be no leaving alone. I'm collecting you."
"Collecting me?"
"You're coming to my place." She clapped her hands once, like the matter was settled.
I threw up both arms. "Absolutely not. I don't do mansions. They're… echo-ey. And judgmental. And probably haunted by maids who worked themselves to death."
"Better than whatever died under your sink," she snapped.
I tried to shove her out and shut the door. She caught it with one manicured hand like Captain America catching a helicopter.
"Not leaving," I said flatly.
"Fine," she said, lowering her lashes like she was about to drop a nuclear strike. "Then I'll just tell everyone at the wedding how you live. I'll make it a speech. 'Once upon a time, our Alaska lived among mold spores and single socks, but I rescued her.' They'll love it."
My blood turned cold. "You wouldn't."
"I would. I absolutely would. Do you know how much champagne will be wasted on spitting laughter? No, darling. You're coming with me."
"That's blackmail."
"That's friendship."
We stared each other down. I swear she didn't blink for forty-five seconds. I tried the only defense I had left.
"I have work."
"You're a freelancer," she countered. "That means you can do it anywhere, and in your case, better anywhere. My Wi-Fi is faster than light."
"I have a lease."
She smirked. "One phone call, I'll buy this building, bulldoze it, and build a yoga studio named after you."
I sputtered. "You wouldn't dare!"
"Namaste, babe."
And that was it. She grabbed my bag – my whole life stuffed in one messenger bag – slung it over her shoulder, and, ignoring my protests, dragged me down the hall.
By the time she shoved me into the backseat of her sleek black car, I was limp with shock. The leather smelled like money. The seatbelts were cleaner than my sink.
I sat there, sulking, clutching my laptop like a kidnapped child. "I hate you."
"I love you too," she sang, starting the engine.
And just like that, I was on my way to a mansion.