Page 14

14

MADISON

T he apartment smells like garlic and tomatoes, the rich aroma of simmering sauce filling the air as I stir the pot, my sweatshirt sleeves shoved up to my elbows.

A half-empty bottle of wine sits on the counter, our glasses next to it, the deep red liquid catching the glow from the kitchen lights.

It's our tradition—Sunday night dinners before the chaos of the new week.

Lyla stands beside me, twirling a wooden spoon, a lazy smile on her face as she watches the pasta boil. Her curls are piled on top of her head in a messy bun, a few loose strands framing her face.

I’ve always been jealous of how effortless she is. Even her hair is stunning while mine can’t decide if it’s curly or straight, meeting in the middle in waves.

"Okay, I'm just saying—he totally looked like he wanted to fight Carter at the coffee shop," she says, nudging my shoulder with hers.

I groan, rolling my eyes. "We are not talking about Jaxon tonight."

She grins, a mischievous gleam in her eyes that I know all too well. "Oh, come on. He's been gone all weekend for the away game, and you're telling me you haven't been thinking about him? Is that why you've refused to turn on the game or even check the score?"

I pointedly ignore the way my stomach twists at the mention of him, the way my heart did a stupid little flip every time someone in class talked about the game. I've avoided watching, avoided checking scores, because I know the second I see his name pop up, I'll start feeling things I can't feel.

"I've been thinking about how nice it is to have a weekend without the guys dragging us to some party." I grab my wine glass and take a sip, lifting a brow at her. "You should be grateful. Isn't this better than watching you try to out-drink Carter again?"

Lyla scoffs, crossing her arms. "First of all, I did out-drink him, and you know it. Second of all, I am grateful." She takes the wooden spoon from the pasta pot and points it at me, water dripping onto the counter. "But you can't avoid him forever."

I huff out a breath, stirring the sauce again. "Watch me."

She rolls her eyes but lets it go, moving to drain the pasta. I watch her as she works, her movements efficient despite her obvious exhaustion. Lyla's always been like that—pushing through, never slowing down, even when anyone else would have collapsed hours ago.

"How was your shift?" I ask, realizing I hadn't even asked yet. Sometimes, I get so caught up in my own mess, I forget to check on her. "You look beat."

“Same old, same old. Last year of college just leaves a lot up in the air, ya know? So many decisions to make.” She clears her throat. "But I don't want to talk about that during our girls night. Pass the sauce."

This is what she does—deflects, changes the subject when things get a little too real. I recognize it because I do the same thing. Maybe that's why we've always understood each other so well. We both have our walls, our ways of keeping the painful stuff in its own little box.

I plate up the garlic bread while she mixes the pasta with the sauce. The quiet hum of the TV in the background plays some random rom-com we put on earlier, filling the comfortable silence as we move around the kitchen.

Once we're settled at the table, bowls of spaghetti in front of us, Lyla leans her chin on her hand, studying me. Her eyes, that unique shade of emerald-green, are tired but still observant. "Alright, fine. No Jaxon talk. Let's talk about you instead."

I hesitate, twirling my fork in my pasta. "What about me?"

She takes a sip of her wine, the liquid leaving a temporary stain on her lips before she wipes it away. "Have you figured out what you want to do after school?"

The question makes me pause, my stomach tightening as I stare at my plate.

I don't have an answer.

I should have one. Graduation is coming up fast, and everyone else seems to have their plans lined up—jobs, internships, grad school.

But me?

I have nothing.

My fingers tighten around my fork.

"I don't know."

Lyla tilts her head, setting down her glass. "Okay, but if you could do anything—like, forget expectations, forget what makes sense—what would you want?"

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

Because before…before everything, I had an answer. I used to picture a future filled with warmth and laughter. A husband, kids, a home that felt safe, using my music degree to teach at a local school when my babies were a bit older. I always imagined myself with a family of my own, with the kind of love that stays. The love of a lifetime.

But now?

Now, I can't see anything past the next couple steps in front of me.

I take a shaky breath, forcing a shrug. "I don't know," I say again, voice quieter this time. "I used to have an idea, but…now, I can't really picture anything for myself. "

Lyla's expression softens, her brows pulling together. "Maddy…"

I shake my head, forcing a small smile. "It's fine. I just—I guess I stopped dreaming about the future a long time ago."

She watches me for a moment, her fork suspended midair, pasta forgotten.

Finally, she sets it down with a soft clink against the bowl.

"I get it, you know," she says finally, her voice low.

"After my mom died, I couldn't see past the next day. Sometimes, not even that far." She fiddles with her napkin, folding and unfolding the corner. "That's why I took that gap year before college. I couldn't imagine a future where I was happy or successful or...anything."

She reaches across the table, her fingers squeezing mine. "You'll find your something, Maddy. Maybe it's not what you planned, but it'll be yours."

I look down at our hands, at her chipped nail polish and the small scar on her thumb from when she tried to cut an avocado after too many margaritas last summer.

Lyla, who has seen me at my absolute worst and stayed anyway.

Lyla, who pushes me when I need it and holds me up when I can't stand on my own.

"You know you're still allowed to be happy, right? To have dreams?" she asks, voice gentle but firm. "That didn't die in that car, Maddy."

Something in my chest clenches.

I swallow hard, forcing another smile. "Yeah." I nod, even though I don't believe it.

"I know."

Lyla doesn't look convinced. Her eyes narrow slightly, seeing through me the way she always does, but she doesn't press.

Instead, she lifts her wine glass, her smile turning teasing again.

"Well, here's to figuring it out, one existential crisis at a time."

I let out a breath and clink my glass against hers before taking a sip.

But deep down, all I can think about is how hard it is to imagine a future when you've spent years convincing yourself you don't deserve one .

We finish our dinner, the conversation shifting to lighter topics—Lyla's latest dating app disaster, the ridiculous assignment my music theory professor gave, the new cafe that opened near campus. By the time we clear the plates, my shoulders feel a little less heavy.

Later, as we're washing dishes side by side, Lyla bumps her hip against mine. "You know I'm always here, right? For whatever you need."

I look at her, this fierce, loyal, sometimes reckless girl who has been my anchor through the storm.

"I know," I say softly.

"Same goes for you, you know. “

Lyla nods, her eyes meeting mine, understanding passing between us without words. Then, she flicks water at my face, breaking the moment. "Enough heavy stuff. I've got an early shift tomorrow, and if I don't get at least six hours of sleep, I might actually murder someone."

I laugh, shaking my head. "Go. I'll finish up here."

She dries her hands on a dish towel, then pulls me into a quick hug. "Love you!”

"Love you too," I reply, the words easy and true.

After she disappears into her room, I finish cleaning up, the apartment quieter now but still comfortable. The rom-com ended, the TV screen showing the menu, casting a soft blue glow across the living room.