Page 45 of Friends to WHAT?!

“Did he have any suggestions for the boards?” Leora asks, munching on a fry in Sterne’s usual booth at Blackwood Brew. Sterne doesn’t occupy the space with us this time, and I find that it feels a lot smaller without him here. There’s no buffer—no second-best friend to pat me on the back when I need encouragement or watch my daughter on the video monitor when I get distracted staring at the woman across from me instead.

Ah, right. The video monitor.

I turn my eyes to the black-and-white screen and squint, checking for the telltale movement of Amia’s chest to let me know she’s still breathing. It’s there, deep and slow, and I relax back into the leather-clad bench. “Warren actually did have one suggestion,” I answer Leora slowly, unsure if I really want to share Warren’s suggestion for ways I could improve my life now that a certain purple-haired ethereal being is in it.

Leora’s eyebrows rise. “And?”

“And…” No. I do not really want to share Warren’s not-safe-for-work suggestion for ways I could improve my life now thata certain purple-haired ethereal being is in it. “His suggestion is already something I’m working on,” I settle for. It’s not alie, exactly. I am working on it in the sense that I plan to one day express my love to Leora in such a way that she understands it and, potentially, even returns it, thus leading to eventual marriage and the bedroom activities such a joining implies.

Leora slumps. “Oh,” she says. Then, she shrugs. “Whatever. I’m losing steam on this project, anyway. You’re doing all the work yourself, and you’ve hardly needed me at all. It might as well be namedWOLFE’S GROWTH ARC: A BLACKWOOD PROJECT.”

I poke at her frown. “Don’t look so disappointed,” I say wryly. “I’m sure I’ll have plenty of regressions moving forward.”

She perks up, emerald eyes sparking. “You think? Really?”

My lip twitches. “Definitely,” I assure her. “I am a boy, after all.”

She cheers at this reminder. “Of course. Sorry. I got distracted by your…” She waves her hand, indicating my…? “And I forgot that you’re just a sad little pathetic boy.”

“Beholden to your whims,” I add. “A sad little pathetic boy beholden to your whims.”

Her eyes crinkle at the edges, highlighting shining green gemstones she’s somehow attached to her skin along the line of her eyelashes. “And not Poem’s,” she says.

“And never Poem’s,” I concur.

Leora seems happy enough with this reminder, and returns to her fries with a gusto.

I eye the journal peeking out of her big, white tote bag on the table next to her plate. The tote boasts many patches, pins, and charms, all of which appear to be attached via amateur sewing endeavors and rusty safety pins. It’s cute, and chaotic, and whimsical. Very Leora.

I desperately want her to pull that journal out of it.

Rather than ask for her to do just that, I lift my pint to my mouth and take a long drag.

Leora hums, shifting on her bench as she munches on another fry.

I clear my throat.

Leora raises an eyebrow at me.

I blink.

She munches.

I,finally, catch on.

“Would you mind if we moved on to the performance review portion of the evening?” I ask, politely.

She shrugs a slender shoulder. “I wouldn’t mind at all.” Then she doesn’t move.

Right. Okay. Like that, then.

I get the journal out myself, break every boundary known to man byopening her personal journalto the back page, then flip backward until I find her latest entry, which includes five glued-in papers depicting the whiteboards in my office. I have to flip a few times before I get to the end of the whiteboard photos, and I very intentionally donotread the passage before them, even though I see my name. Multiple times. Right there, on the page, in her pretty, swooping handwriting.

I push her plate of fries to the side and set the journal in their place.

Leora watches me, half-lidded eyes pleased.

My skin warms under her gaze. “We’re going to do my performance review now,” I inform her.