Page 70 of Lethal in Pink

My shoulders lock up before I can catch the impulse. I grab my straw and take a long, slow pull, buying eight full seconds of cold sweetness while my brain tries to assemble a defense.

“What do you mean?” I say, keeping my voice flat as I swirl the yellow pearls through the pale, creamy swirl at the bottom of the plastic cup.

Penelope points a wooden chopstick directly at my face. “Don’t act dense, bitch. You have kept in touch with him all fucking summer. You don’t keep in touch with anyone but me, and I’m your best friend. Spill.”

I stare down at my cup, watching a yellow boba pearl float up through the coconut cream and ice.

“It’s nothing,” I lie, my voice dropping an octave. “We just…talk.”

“You don’t just talk,” Pen counters, leaning across the narrow table, her breezy influencer tone dropping entirely. “You have a three-hour cap on men, bitch. You give them fake contact info, sleep with them once, and clear the room so you can get back to your dad’s case files. I’ve watched you do that since we were kids playing with dolls. So why has Jae Kim been on your phone every single week of summer break?”

The mention of my dad’s files puts a knot straight back in my gut. Everything in my life is built on a single, non-negotiable track: finish the degree, smash the bar exam, and pull my father out of the state correctional facility in Chino. I don't have room for variables. I don't have room for a guy whose voice loops in my head while I’m on the treadmill.

“Because he’s annoying,” I say softly, the lie sounding weak even to me.

Penelope just watches me. She doesn't push. She doesn't laugh. She just sits back, resting her chin on her palm, with the patience of someone who’s known me long enough to see right through it.

My spine goes slack against the wooden booth. My grip on the plastic cup loosens, setting it down with a soft click against the wet paper napkin.

“He’s got me twisted up,” I admit to the table, the words scraping out raw. “Literally. I can’t focus on a single fucking brief without my brain defaulting back to him.”

The woman in the adjacent booth pauses with a wine glass halfway to her mouth, her eyes darting over to us.

I grab the mismatched tequila shot the server dropped off earlier and slam it back in one burn-heavy swallow. The agave hits my throat like fire, and I stare at the fogged window like it insulted me.

Penelope’s chest hitches. Then she loses it—a low, wheezing laugh that shakes her shoulders until she has to press her forehead against the edge of the table.

“Amiyah,” she wheezes, wiping her eye with her wrist. “The woman who tore a moot court prosecutor to pieces last month. Totally spun out over a vet med student who wears oversized hoodies.”

“I will throw your phone into the mapo tofu,” I mutter, my face burning straight down to my collarbone.

“You won’t, because you need me,” Pen says, dropping a piece of crispy beef onto my plate. “Eat. You’re short-circuiting because you actually like a guy.”

An hour later, we’re moving through the heat of East LA. We hit a taco truck parked under a humming halogen streetlamp off Olympic, standing on the oil-stained pavement while birria fat drips onto our fingers. Pen films fifteen seconds of the flat-top grill hissing, her voice crisp and magnetic for the camera, before shutting it off to eat.

Two blocks down, at a night-market cart, we buy tanghulu. The hardened sugar coating snaps loud under my teeth, cold strawberry juice cutting through the grease of the tacos.

By midnight, we’re leaning against a concrete pillar outside a shop in Los Feliz, holding our second boba of the night while the street traffic thins out.

Penelope bumps her shoulder hard against mine. “What’s on your mind, girl? I can practically hear your brain working from here.”

“If I lose my edge now, it costs time,” I say, watching a city bus air-brake at the corner. “I need the firm offer by spring. I need my dad’s appeal filed the second my bar results hit. I can’t be distracted.”

“Liking a guy isn't a crime, Amiyah,” Pen says, her voice dropping the sarcasm entirely. “We’ve been in each other’s pockets since we were twelve years old. You’ve been carrying the weight of your family for years—you’re allowed to let someone close to you without acting like it’s going to ruin your life.”

I don't answer.

I just bite down on a mango pearl and let the evening air cool the back of my neck.

Our last stop is a ramen counter wedged into a stucco wall—no seats, just a ledge of raw concrete under a red paper lantern swinging from an iron hook.

Steam rolls off our tonkotsu bowls, carrying the heavy scent of garlic and pork bone broth into the cool air. The tote bag between our feet is loaded with greasy paper boxes, cold skewer sticks, and empty cups—the accumulated weight of four hours on our feet.

Penelope films the red lantern glowing against the dark wall, whispering a quick sign-off into her phone before sliding it into her jacket pocket for good.

The SUV pulls up four minutes later—a sleek black Tahoe with tinted windows smelling faintly of leather and vanilla air freshener. We climb into the spacious leather back seat, wedging the heavy tote bag of leftovers between our knees, and watch the city turn into long yellow streaks through the glass.

I lean my head back against the leather headrest, watching the streetlights flash across the ceiling.