Page 70 of The Girlfriend Zone

I stand in the middle of the apartment, which now looks less like a home and more like a battlefield of boxed-up chaos. The couch with the broken spring is scheduled for donation—it’ll probably end up in a college rental, right next to a Ping-Pong-slash-beer-pong table. The bed will be history tomorrow, too, since Maeve didn’t need any furniture after moving in with Asher.

This apartment was only ever supposed to be temporary. A stepping stone. Still, as I stand here, taking it all in, a strange ache pierces my chest. This was my space. The place where I rebuilt myself after life fell apart.

I glance at my camera bag and decide to memorialize it. One last picture.

I snap photos of the couch Josie called “The Kid” after the villain fromThe Giving Tree,the window where BigBird and Ms. Peck curl up together (post-coitally, I’m sure), and even the bathroom with its annoyingly short shower and its toilet that faces the wall. This apartment isn’t much, but it’s mine. It gave me space to grow, to hustle, to prove to myself that I could make it on my own without my father’s support.

My phone buzzes in my hand just as I lower the camera. When I glance at the screen, my stomach does a weird little flip.

Miles: How’s the move going?

It’s thoughtful of him to check in, so I write back.

Leighton: It’s going great. Or it will be once I call a Lyft in a few minutes.

Miles: Glad to hear that. Do you need anything? A pizza at your new place? Artichoke pasta? Housewarming gifts come in many forms, you know.

I smile, a warm flush spreading through me. Both sound amazing, and I’m about to say so—and politely decline—when my phone trills in my hand.

He’s calling.

I stare at the screen, his name glowing there. My thumb hovers over the answer button for a second toolong. Something tells me that picking up this call will change the rhythm of my carefully choreographed evening.

And maybe—just maybe—I’m not as annoyed by that idea as I should be.

I swipe to answer.

“Hey. Ready for your Lyft?”

I furrow my brow. “I haven’t requested it yet. I’m about to.”

“No, you’re not.”

“What?”

“I’m your Lyft. I’m outside.”

I’m speechless for a long beat. My first instinct is to say thanks but no thanks. But I tamp that down.

Because he showed up for me.

Instead, I say, “I’ll be right there.”

“You’re joking,” Miles says as he cruises across the city toward the Mission District, still stuck on the names of my roomies.

“Not even a little bit,” I say.

He takes a beat, shaking his head. “They can’t actually be named Indigo and Ezra.”

“Believe it,” I say, smiling at his disbelief.

“How is that even possible? Those names scream,I spend all day tending sourdough starters.No, wait—with names like that, I bet they run a sourdough-starter daycare.”

“Where they babysit sourdough starters when their owners go out of town?” I ask, getting into it.

“You know that’s their side hustle, Leighton.”

I laugh as the city lights streak by. “Honestly, I could see that. Maybe I should suggest it to them? But that would mean they’re around more often, and my hope is that they stay busy at the bike shop.”

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