She hangs over the back of the couch, purple coffee cup in one hand. The whole apartment smells like cinnamon and espresso. “Spill,” she demands, then takes a noisy sip of her coffee. I roll my eyes and trudge past her toward my room. “Let me shower first.” She’s already up off the couch and following on my heels. “Spill,” she says again. “Audrey, seriously, I have an imprint on my hip from sleeping on the zipper of my skirt all night. Could I have a minute?” I push my way into my bedroom and, much to my chagrin, she follows me inside. Thank God I took down all my sketches already. “Spill. Spill. Spill.” “Audrey, would you--” “Spill.” “I’m really getting--” “Less cranking, more spilling.” “Fine,” I sigh as I yank off my top and throw it at her.
