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It’s gonna be fine.

It is.

The clang of the doorbell yanks me out of a half sleep. I jerk upright.Are you still watching?My TV asks. A splitting headache jabs my temple immediately.

With a groan, I bury my face in the couch cushions. My mouth tastes like stale fake cheese powder and my throat is so dry it hurts to swallow. It’s not the worst wakeup I’ve had, but these days it’s as bad as it gets. Who the fuck would be ringing my doorbell at this time of the morning, anyway?

Ding-ding-ding!

“Fuckoff,” I growl at the mystery person who won’t leave my doorbell alone. My phone buzzes from where I dropped it in a pile of clothes and I fish it out.

Slow as the Titanic, my memory comes online.

Oh, shit.Fitzie!

“Took you long enough, asshole,” Fitzie snaps when I open the door. And then, “Holy shit, you look terrible.”

“You look —”

He looks the same as always — vertically challenged, curly red hair, gloss on his pouty lips. He’s wearing electric blue leggings and an oversized sweater, with a bag that’s almost the size of him slung over his shoulder.

“You look amazing,” I choke, yanking him in. “C’mere.”

“Ugh, emotions!” But he hugs me back, which is a win. “Don’t fucking cry on me. I swear to god if you get snot on this sweatshirt I’m gonna fight you.”

“Shut up. I need this.” I squeeze him until he squeaks. “My yearly dose of Felix.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He pats my back begrudgingly.

When I manage to swallow back the sudden lump in my throat enough to face him, I let go.

Fitzie grabs my shoulders and leans in, nose flaring. “Ezra Pine, I say this with all the loving kindness of a best friend, butwhatis that godawful smell?”

I cringe. “Probably redbull.”

His gaze sharpens. “Let me inside right now. How bad is it? You’re not drinking, are you?”

“It’s fine! I’m fine. It’s not like that.” For once, it’s the truth. “I swear it’s only redbull.”

“So I won’t find your little depression nest on the couch?” he asks darkly.

“Well —”

Too late — Fitzie slides past me before I can protest and flicks on the light. I sigh. My apartment is a series of grim tableaus of a guy who hates cleaning and has way better things to do — like hang out at work and avoid his responsibilities.

Fitzie’s sharp eyes miss nothing. “Five day old bananas on the counter. Crusty dishes in the sink. Shoe dirt on the carpet. Ez, you’re hopeless.”

I slump into the wall. “Fuck, I know.”

“But you’re not spiraling. This is normal filth.” He drops his bag on the coffee table. “Disgusting, but normal.”

“I’m sorry! I meant to clean.”

I don’t miss the relief in his voice. Fitzie’s seen me at my absolute worst, before the court date when I wasn’t clean or dry yet and I was still reeling from Jasper’s betrayal. In those days itwas the coke keeping me up, not redbull — I wasn’t too bright, risking another conviction while on bail — and I chased it up with cheap beer and a heaping dose of self-pity.

The memory makes me shudder.

“You weren’t gonna clean, you enormous liar.” He huffs. “Don’t worry, I brought supplies — and you’ll help. I won’t sleep in filth.”