Sophie Reynolds, my best friend of seven years, was standing beside that bed wearing snow boots, a cream beanie, and the kind of expression women get when they are calculating exactly how stupid a man can be before it becomes a medical condition.
“Lucas,” she said slowly, “where is the second bed?”
I looked at the listing on my phone.
“Technically,” I said, “it said two sleeping areas.”
She pointed through the doorway at the living room.
“That love seat under the moose painting is not a sleeping area. That is where chiropractors send people they hate.”
I should have laughed.
Usually, I would have.
Sophie had always been able to pull laughter out of me, even when my life felt like a foreclosure notice taped to a front door. But that night, with snow piling against the windows and one bed glowing under a cheap cabin lamp, my chest felt too tight.
Because Sophie was not just my best friend.
