FIVE
It moved pretty quickly after that, and Tola took charge. She believed in what we were doing with her whole heart. That we could do good, have fun fixing relationships, free women from their selflessness, and get them to turn that energy inward. With a cherry on top, no doubt. I half expected her to add “world peace” to the list.
Eric wanted the chance to live out his acting fantasies and distract from his less-than-successful love life, so he was along for the ride, too.
And I . . . I was being useful. Helping people. A trait I’d been ashamed of was suddenly the key to everything Tola wanted us to do. They couldn’t do it without me. And I was enjoying that a little too much.
Tola had a very clear game plan: we’d test our “fixing up” out on lots of different types of relationship problems and see if there was anything we couldn’t handle. At the beginning, we wondered whether we’d find anyone else, but we needn’t have worried. Becky and Emily mentioned it to their friends, who had sisters, who had more friends, and by the time three months had passed we had a playbook, a questionnaire, and a booking system.
The men—yes, it was usually men—fell into distinct categories: 1) the unmotivated and 2) the unwilling to commit. They were miserable at their job, but they wouldn’t dedicate the time to discovering what it was they wanted. They wanted to start a business or write a book or record a song, but they would rather talk about it than do it. Sometimes the women wanted engagements, but more than anything it just seemed a lot of incredibly strong, motivated women were tired of dragging their partner forward and waiting for him to grow up. These were women who went to therapy and worked with career mentors and ran big companies whilst setting up side hustles. Women who invested in themselves. And still, they needed to look after their partner. They worried about his happiness, whether he was content, whether he was bonded with his kids, whether he was satisfied in his choices. They left endless Post-it notes and set alarms and wrote on calendars. They ran their shared lives with the efficiency and diligence of an army general. And still, they worried about being a nag. The worst thing a woman could be, after a spinster, of course.
There were a few honeytraps, women wondering if their husbands were cheating, but we decided early on those were not for us. They weren’t about growth. They were about revealing who someone really was, and I honestly didn’t like being the person to lure out the worst of someone and then serve it up like a gift. And we knew most of the time they wouldn’t believe us anyway.
Tola loved it, spent hours designing bright pink business cards and an aggressively shouty website. But we knew it had to be a secret—it was this women-only club, a sudden recognition whenever we spoke to anyone. Yes! they told us, that is what’s happening, that is what I’ve had to deal with! So we knew it couldn’t be an ordinary website. We needed a level of anonymity, protection.
It was Eric’s idea to hide the Fixer Upper in plain sight—a website designed to support busy women, with articles, counseling links, something basic and colorful with no hint of what we were really doing. You could only get to the booking platform if you clicked on a link for moon cups and filled out a form. Eric created an algorithm to scan for the words “tired,” “exhausted,” “fed up.” Tola’s new business cards simply said Unhappy? Fix it with a password for the website.
We barely needed them. Word of mouth was enough.
People are unique, sure, but their problems are not. There were patterns to identify and things that always seemed to work, and backups for if those strategies weren’t right. I filled notebooks with different “plays,” like I was an emotional con artist; and, though I’d never tell the others, I loved the pretense of it all. There were wigs and outfits to wear, and characters to become. Eric tried to do accents, but he was terrible at them, so we vetoed that immediately. We were creating chance encounters that changed people’s perspectives. And that felt pretty powerful, even if they were orchestrated.
My evenings were suddenly full, scheming with Tola, shopping with Eric. Staking out a bar, trying out that perfect opening line.
“You’re still thinking too small,” Tola would say. “We need to be helping women help themselves, not just their partners. We could do big things here, Aly!”
“I like small,” I would reply, “small is manageable. And this way we get to have fun with no risks. We just get to play.”
Then she’d get that serious look that she got when she was frustrated with me, one eyebrow curving into a deep groove at the top of her nose, but she wouldn’t say anything.
I knew she thought I was a chicken. She’d have huge ideas, big plans to launch the Fixer Upper as a lifestyle brand, a company, a twelve-step program, and I’d pop the bubble, always finding a problem. I’d bring her back down to earth. But eventually, people start resenting you being the anchor, even if you are keeping them steady. Tola wanted to set the world on fire, and I was dousing every spark before it could flame.
So we agreed to let her factor in a few repeat clients—people who needed more of a nudge. A chance encounter and then a surprise follow-up, a reminder of the things you’d discovered to help the message sink in. After all, a pub conversation can be fleeting. We were creating the illusion of fated interactions. The universe was sending you a message, so you better listen up.
But the truth was, the more we did this (and did it well), the angrier I became at myself. Every time another woman sent us a bottle of champagne or a thank-you card I wanted to bash my head against a wall. I could control everyone else’s life but my own.
But Tola didn’t see it that way.
Which was why seven months and twelve days after our first experiment, she strode over to my desk and threw a business card down on the table like she was straight out of a gangster movie.
“We have a new client.”
I blinked. “What?”
“The FU.” Tola grinned. She loved shortening “Fixer Upper” and watching me wince. I picked up the card and did a double take on the name, looking up at her.
“This is for real?”
She leaned against my desk and let her beautiful smile beam at full wattage. It was almost blinding. “It is one hundred percent legit. I spoke to her and her posse. It was mad.”
“How did she find us?” I blinked. “Surely she has people for this sort of thing?”
Tola grinned. “Babe, we are the people for this sort of thing. Her assistant heard about us from a friend and applied through the Moon Portal. I called to see if it was for real, and it is! Can you believe even the rich and famous need our skills?”
I looked at the spiky font, declaring Nicolette Wetherington-Smythe: content creator, producer, innovator, entrepreneur, and influencer.
“God, she’s a busy one.”
“She must have run out of room for ‘social climber,’ ‘contestant on absolutely any reality TV show that’ll take her,’ and ‘heiress to a kitty litter empire,’ ” Eric said, leaning on the divider for my desk area, chomping on an apple. “We’ve gotta do it, though, right? Just for the shits and giggles? What kind of beefcake is she dating? Last thing I read she was dating the captain of the England rugby team!”
“Nah.” Tola exhaled. “That was years ago. It used to be that posh Chelsea wanker off the TV show they were in? You know, on-again, off-again, drama for the sake of it? But I think this is like . . . a normal guy? Her assistant was pretty cagey. Said she wants to have a proper meeting if we’re going to go for it. She wants . . .” Tola dropped her voice and lifted her fingers into quote marks, “an intensive series of occurrences.”
Eric and I looked at each other, frowning in confusion.
“Is it me, or does that sound like some sort of horrible obstacle course?”
“Or a really scary summer camp.”
Tola placed both her hands on the desk, super dramatic, and paused to make sure she had our full attention. She was loving this.
“She wants full exclusivity for a month.”
“Jesus Christ, what’s wrong with the guy? Bathe him in holy water or something.”
Eric had a point, and I tilted my head at Tola, requesting more information, but she threw up her hands.
“I know nothing. Except that I really want to go to this meeting. Because when the rich and famous come calling and demanding ridiculous things, you at least know it’s going to be interesting. And that there’ll be expensive champagne.” She grinned and looked between the two of us like we were the rigid parents who could snatch away her dream of staying up till midnight. “So we’re going to do this, right? At least hear her out? I am so intrigued.”
“You guys go and report back.” Eric made an executive decision. “I get all flustered around celebrities.”
“You barely knew who she was.”
“It doesn’t matter. If they think they’re famous, I get tongue-tied. Plus, anytime I go to Fixer Upper meetings, they wait for me to say something and then go, ‘Oh, it’s so interesting to have a male perspective,’ ” he moaned, and Tola looked at me.
“Um, welcome to our world,” I snorted. “At least you get pockets.”
“Fine, me and Aly will meet the Kitty Litter Princess and see what kind of Peter Pan type she’s dating and decide if it’s worth the stress. Plan?”
“Plan,” I agreed, then paused. “Um, can I get back to work now?”
Tola rolled her eyes, and stalked off, throwing an “if you must” over her shoulder.
“Do you ever feel like we’re just along for the ride here?” Eric asked me with a little laugh, shaking his head.
“I’d feel more trusting in this scenario if there was some sort of makeover montage and Tola suddenly made me cool,” I replied.
“Maybe she’s harnessing our potential, just like we are with those guys. We were the real fixer uppers all along!” He made a dorky oh my god, what a reveal face and I laughed.
“Too scary to contemplate. Go! I’ll see you later!”
I had just enough time to watch Eric’s eyeline as it switched to over my left shoulder and his lip twitched. Oh, crap.
I turned in my seat, knowing exactly who I’d see.
“Hey, Hunter, so how can I help you this morning?”
—
Nicolette Wetherington-Smythe was not someone accustomed to having to wait for what she wanted. So when she replied to Tola’s message with an invitation to the Royale for drinks that evening, I was intrigued to see how difficult one man could be that he needed our total attention for a whole month. I also wondered what kind of man would be worth putting in the work for, when it came to someone like Nicolette. She was beautiful in that way rich girls in reality shows were, painfully skinny and bronzed and always vaguely ethereal, like someone had brought a mannequin to life. So I wondered why, especially if she was dating someone nonfamous, she didn’t just go out there and get herself a new model.
Tola met me outside the office and looked at my work outfit in dismay.
“Don’t start with me.” I held my hand up to her, and then threw it out for the black cab coming up toward us. We jumped in, and when I gave the cabbie the address, only a few minutes away, he huffed. But we were not walking in heels down Oxford Street, I didn’t care how famous she was.
“It’s just so . . . black. What’s with the war on color, Aly? There is so much beauty to be worn in the world!”
“Black is professional, it’s slimming, it doesn’t show dirt. It’s always chic,” I said, before digging into my handbag for my lipstick. “Besides, look, color!”
I applied my signature orange-red using my phone camera and pressed my lips together in satisfaction.
“One of these days you’re gonna trust me enough to let me shop for you, and it’s going to change your life.” Tola sighed, but smiled to show she wasn’t serious. “So, do we need to do any prep?”
“Like what?” I felt my phone vibrate in my bag, and riffled around until I grabbed it. Mama. Of course. I sent her to voice mail, wincing as I did it, then rattled off a quick apology text, already worried about how she was going to react.
Tola was looking at me like I was about to mess this whole thing up. I put down my phone. “What kind of research do you want to do?” I repeated, showing I was listening.
“Like . . . read up about Nicolette?” She narrowed her eyes at me. “What is this? You love research!”
I nodded. “Sure, but we don’t know anything about the situation yet. This is the research part. We go, we listen, we ask questions, and, Tola, this part is very important: we do not commit to anything on the spot. Okay?”
She saluted. “No worries. You’re the boss.”
I don’t think I am, somehow.
Whenever I meet famous people I’m always shocked by how normal they look. How inconspicuous, in their ratty jeans and scuffed Converses. If Tola hadn’t made a beeline for Nicolette, I would have spent ages scanning the low-lit bar for the influencer, searching for someone who looked like they did behind a filter.
Nicolette sat in a one-shoulder top and ripped jeans with calfskin boots, her long blond hair flowing over her shoulder. Her only really distinctive feature was her eyebrows, full and permanently arched like she was waiting for you to tell her a joke. She smiled and waved as we arrived, and it was like a magnet, reeling us in.
“Hello, hello!” She grabbed our hands and air-kissed us both, before gesturing opposite her. “Sit! Sit! I am so excited to meet you guys! I have heard such things!”
I could almost see the italics in her speech, but she was much warmer than I’d expected.
“It’s so great to meet you, too, Nicolette—” I started, but she shrieked.
“Nicki! Please! You must call me Nicki!”
“Nicki.” I nodded, and she immediately jumped in.
“I ordered you cocktails.” She pushed two neon pink drinks across to us. “My boyfriend says you’ve got to let bartenders do their thing, but I like being the creator, telling them what to put in. It makes it a really personal experience. So this is my creation: the Love Drunk Flamingo!”
Tola reached for hers, and I took a sip, plastering a smile on my face. It tasted like someone had blended a Barbie doll with a My Little Pony. And then stuck a grapefruit on top.
“Refreshing!” I blinked, smacking my lips.
“I just think it’s nice when you arrive somewhere and have something waiting for you, don’t you?” Nicki grinned at me. “There’s so many decisions to make in life, I just love it when someone takes control.” Like a bartender . . . ?
“So.” I assumed my bright-eyed look of enthusiasm and that voice that craved the gossip. “Tell us about the Boy.”
I always phrased it like that, like we were teenagers sharing secrets over a bottle of Bacardi Breezer at a house party. Like they could mention all the things they loved about him before they finally got to the stubborn parts they wanted to change. Before they allowed themselves to admit that things weren’t quite right.
“Oh, he’s so amazing, he’s—” she started, before stopping herself. “Oh, sorry, got a bit ahead of myself there. Just need you both to sign a teensy bit of paperwork first, you know how it is. The tabloids and all that.”
She slid over two fairly basic NDAs, which Tola and I scanned before signing. Though I wondered if offering us a drink beforehand might have invalidated them. It didn’t really matter, I had no interest in telling anyone who Nicki was dating. I just wanted to know what her problem was. And a tiny, stubborn part of me wanted to prove that I, Alyssa Aresti, could change a man who was too difficult even for a famous, beautiful heiress to conquer.
We slid the paperwork back, and she folded it away into her huge handbag.
“Wonderful! So, you want me to tell you about him?” Nicki asked, expecting a chorus of enthused yeses, but we simply nodded.
“We met in a restaurant a few years ago—he actually spilled a drink on me, and when I accused him of doing it on purpose, he told me to get over myself!” Nicki’s laugh was high-pitched, like someone gently rattling a tin cup. “I’d assumed he knew who I was, but he had no idea. But I like a bad boy and this gruff, not-out-to-impress-me thing was different to anyone else I knew at the time.” She rolled her eyes, as if realizing how ridiculous it was that everyone around her catered to her every whim. But I had a feeling she was rolling her eyes at something else.
“Of course, once I got to know him, I realized he wasn’t like that at all. He’s warm and friendly and gets on with everyone. We went out a few times and it was just . . . so normal. We didn’t go anywhere fancy. I mean, one night we went to Nando’s!” She put her hand to her chest as if the idea was outrageous. “And then gradually I started showing him my world. We went on some great trips and spent time in nicer places and he met some of the guys on my shows . . .”
And he liked it. Of course. How could you not, seeing the privilege and glamour that came with Nicki’s lifestyle? How easy it would be to get used to the free drinks and fancy holidays.
“And he understands, now, the life that I lead, what I’m accustomed to. We go on holidays, he plans dates, he gets what comes with dating someone like me. I’m not really a dinner at Nando’s girl, right? And he learned that. But . . . I get the feeling he doesn’t really believe in what I do.”
What do you actually do?
“What part of your career doesn’t he get?” Tola asked, perfectly phrased, and I wanted to squeeze her in relief.
“The influencer thing. He thinks . . .” Nicki took an unsteady breath. “He says it’s like I’m always performing to an invisible audience. That I’m never myself, I’m never okay to just leave the fans outside my personal life.”
“Ahh.” Tola nodded. “But that’s the job, is it? You’ve gotta be completely vulnerable, completely authentic. Share every sob and every triumph.”
Nicki pointed at her aggressively. “Exactly! Exactly! You get it, of course you get it! My fans are my bread and butter. They need to stay interested in me for me to get any work. My numbers, follows, and engagement need to be up there. He just doesn’t get that.”
“What does your boyfriend do for work, Nicki?” I asked.
You couldn’t expect everyone to understand digital marketing and the way the money worked. Especially if Nicki’s boyfriend was someone who had a more traditional career. We would just have to find a way to make him see the value. See the trade-off for those fancy holidays. It wouldn’t take a month.
“He’s an app developer.”
I almost spat Nicki’s Barbie monstrosity cocktail across the table.
“An app developer who doesn’t see the value of social media as a marketing platform for developing a brand?” Tola said, so scandalized I almost laughed.
“He’s a start-up entrepreneur, really innovative and creative. He sees the value of it, he just wants me to step back.” She tilted her head. “And I want him to step up.” Ah, and now we’re getting somewhere.
“In what way, Nicki?” I leaned forward, willing her to trust us, to use exactly the right words so I could identify her problem. Diagnose her relationship.
“Well, there’s the professional side. He’s been a start-up for a while and he hasn’t actually started up, you know? He’s too cautious. He’s been burned before and I get it, but the whole point of start-ups is that they move quickly. You get a backer and you get going, right?”
“Right.” I nodded. “But he’s taking his time. Have you funded his business?”
“No, he wouldn’t let me. He says it’s his thing, his responsibility. I would have, though, it’s really good. He’s literally a genius.”
She pronounced it the way posh people did—jeen-yus.
Okay, so it’s not the money. He’s got honor, wants to do it on his own terms. He just needs a little hand-holding?
My phone buzzed and I looked down at it, dismayed. Mama again. I sent it to voice mail and plastered a look of apology on my face, but Nicki didn’t even notice.
“I feel like I’m really focused on building my brand and he’s just . . . not. I’m dragging him along behind me, and I’m tired. I don’t have the time for that.”
Tola smiled and I had to give it to Nicki, she was doing exactly what Tola said. Putting herself first. And the papers might call her a selfish, spoiled princess, but I kind of loved it.
“He’s got a big meeting at the end of the month, pitching to investors, and I think he needs some help.”
I frowned. “I mean, that absolutely aligns with our mission, but why wouldn’t you use a business coach for that? Why use a relationship one?”
“Because I’ve got a big meeting at the end of the month, too . . .” She looked around, searching for the words as if they were hovering in the air next to the faux stained-glass windows or on the velvet lining of the booth. “I don’t have enough energy for the both of us.” Oh, honey.
I’d felt that, so many times before. Like you were carrying a friend with a twisted ankle across the marathon finish line. But the reality was that a lot of the time they hadn’t done the training and they weren’t wearing the right shoes and they would rather you’d pushed them along in a wheelbarrow right from the beginning rather than having to run at all.
Tola reached over and put her hand over Nicki’s, who looked up from beneath her lashes and exhaled shakily. It sounded like relief.
“I’m so glad you guys exist! I didn’t know what to do. And of course, with my profile, it’s important that I date someone who can be successful on their own, you know? Someone who’s willing to be part of it all but will also bring something of his own to the table.”
Trying to follow Nicki’s thought process was like chasing a butterfly around a sauna. I wondered how much editing they’d had to do on that TV show.
“So . . . it’s important that your boyfriend be successful?” I ventured.
“Oh, it’s so important. It’s social equity, you know? My agent was desperate for me to move on to another reality star, or maybe an up-and-coming singer, someone who would really boost my brand, introduce me to a whole new audience. But, it’s love, it can’t be helped.” She shrugged. “What can be helped is his anti–social media thing. If he’s successful and a bit more vocal about it by the end of the month . . .”
“His pitch to the investors will be better received?”
Nicki shrugged. “Sure. But it will also look good for my meeting. I’ve got a chance at something really big, but I need him by my side. Him at his sparkliest, most impressive, social media–friendly best.”
I felt Tola look at me out of the corner of my eye and tried not to grind my teeth. “Nicki, if we work together, it’s really important we know exactly what you want, so we can manage expectations. Can you tell us about this potential project you’re hoping to get?”
She looked at us with wide eyes, clearly loving every moment of the drama. “You can’t tell a soul.”
I made a zipping motion across my mouth.
“It’s a new show called Celebrity Wedding Wars.” She squealed and clapped her hands. “They have three celebs on, and they each go to the others’ weddings and judge them, and the best one wins money for charity. If I win, they’re talking about launching a wedding dress line with a respected designer. My own wedding dress designs, can you imagine?”
“I really, really can’t.”
“So you can see why I’d need you for the whole month! That’s a lot to do! A life overhaul and a proposal!” She laughed again, and the tinny noise made my molars twinge.
I was gobsmacked. Not only did she want her unmotivated, social media–phobe app-developer boyfriend to finally reach his start-up potential, she wanted him presented with influencer-level followers, a changed attitude, and a proposal by the end of the month? What was this woman on?
“Nicki, no offense, but have you considered just . . . getting rid of him and starting with a blank canvas?” I said, completely serious.
She just laughed.
“Oh, you’re hilarious.” She turned to Tola. “Isn’t she hilarious? I can’t—I love him.”
“But . . . nothing you’ve said about him matches what you want. You are asking us to change him into an entirely different person. In a month. Have you guys talked about marriage? How long have you been together?”
Nicki waved away my concerns like I was a doddering aunt. “About a year. And of course we have, we’ve been to so many of my friends’ weddings. It always comes up.”
“And . . . ?” Tola ventured, that serene smile now wiped off her face.
“He says when the time is right, it’ll be right. So that’s your job. To convince him the time is right. Perhaps he’ll be so thrilled with his success with the investors that it’ll be an immediate impulse anyway!”
“Is he expected to pick the ring, or would you like our help with that, too?” I said dryly, and Nicki chuckled.
“I’ve already picked it out. Goodness, you’d let a man pick the jewelry you have to wear for the rest of your life? You’re brave!”
I’d never been a romantic, but I thought again of my grandparents. The way they danced together at the end of the night, the way his eyes softened as he looked at her across a room. The hand she put on his cheek sometimes when she was passing by. Love.
Listening to Nicki was like pouring a bucket of warm piss over every beautiful romantic gesture I’d ever seen. This is what happens when influencers get endless attention and have no limit on resources. This is narcissism at its most extreme.
I looked at Tola, who gave me a hopeless sort of smile. Well, we’d come, we’d drank the awful drink and heard the famous lady with her crazy plan. It would be a fun story to tell. Plus, I loved the Royale, it was like standing on the deck of the Titanic, all the art deco features and fancy little tables. Maybe Tola and I could get dinner and laugh about how ridiculous this all was . . .
“Nicki, I’ve got to be honest, I don’t know that we could pull this off,” Tola said gently.
“Oh, you’re just being modest!” Nicki flapped her hands as if dispelling our arguments. “I’d do it myself if I had the time, but I’ve just got so much else on. My last boyfriend proposed and he wasn’t that into the idea either at first.” The reality TV guy?
“But he understood the benefit to both your brands, right?” Tola nudged. “He was part of that world.”
Nicki sighed, clearly irritated. “Look, just meet him? That’s what you do, right, you meet him to assess the damage? And then if you really think it’s hopeless then that’s fine.”
Tola and I hovered, not saying yes or no, so Nicki took it as an affirmative and nodded, picking up her phone. “Good. Also we should talk fees.”
“Fees?”
We’d really only been covering our bar tabs so far, like a hobby that produced champagne. That’s why I’d been confident that this wouldn’t turn into a full-time business, wouldn’t get in the way of my career. The Fixer Upper was three friends playing dress-up and having fun helping people. This felt . . . like a full-on legal nightmare.
“For your time, darling, if you took the project on? I understand it’s obviously a lot of work, what with the business coaching and the social goals and the romance stuff, it’s like a full-on life coach for a month.”
“Well, yes, we’d have to go away and crunch some numbers, based on how many hours . . .” Tola started, but Nicki fluttered her hands again.
“Well, I had a think about an average month’s work, and then the travel and everything, so I thought ten thousand would be fair, what do you think? Though, obviously, if there are extra services along the way, I get that.”
She looked at us, wide-eyed and unblinking, and Tola squeezed my knee under the table, as if telling me not to screw this up. Ten grand to gradually wear down a guy’s personality for a month? Ten grand.
I took a breath. “Nicki, you do understand we can’t guarantee a proposal, right?”
She smiled like a Cheshire cat. “Of course, darling. Legally, that would be a nightmare. We could always set up a slightly more . . . encouraging payment structure? Like five thousand for the month of coaching and the rest as a bonus if he proposes?”
I tried not to freak out. Why was this so different to the other women moaning about their boyfriends not committing? Why did it feel so much worse this time? I couldn’t tell if it was the money or that I felt sorry for the poor guy.
I looked to Tola in panic, and she patted my hand.
“Nicki—”
“Just meet him, okay? Don’t be so negative!” She grinned again, that wide, perfect smile that somehow seemed to take up too much of her face, like she’d transformed into a piranha after masquerading as a dolphin. And then her gaze shifted into the distance. “Perfect timing!”
Nicki stood up and waved behind us, and I knew exactly what she’d done. She’d hired people to manipulate her boyfriend, and she’d manipulated us into meeting him. Of course. This was a woman who got shit done. I’d admire her if I wasn’t so irritated.
I widened my eyes at Tola, who raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. We weren’t taking on this crazy job anyway, so it didn’t matter. We’d say hello, make our apologies, and leave to laugh about this somewhere more affordable. Tola nodded, as if she knew exactly what I was thinking.
And then I saw him.
The man walking across the bar to Nicki was tall, his dark hair was pushed back almost artfully, and his blue eyes zeroed in on her. He had a lazy smile on his face. One I’d have recognized anywhere.
He wore a dark suit with an open-necked white shirt, and I knew without looking that he’d have a silver St. Christopher around his neck and that one of his front teeth was a fake. I knew it the same way I knew he was afraid of horses and had broken his ankle when he was thirteen and that he pressed his thumb and forefinger together when he was thinking.
Dylan James.
He had been my whole childhood, my best friend, my first love. And I hadn’t seen him in fifteen years.