Page 10 of Shadows of Obsession

Chapter 7

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Luna

My phone buzzes just as I'm scrolling through Netflix, trying to pick something to watch on this Friday night.

“What's up, Roxy?” I answer, already smiling.

“You. Me. Mexican food. You in?” Her voice bubbles with energy, and I can picture her perfectly - still at her desk, not a hair out of place, designer outfit pristine, waiting for me to cave.

“Well, since you asked so nicely…” I laugh, her enthusiasm impossible to resist.

I throw on some jeans, a cozy sweater, and my trusty black boots. Before heading out, I pause at my perfume collection. What feels right tonight?

After a moment's deliberation, I reach for Givenchy L'interdit Rouge. Something about this scent always makes me feel like I could walk into a boardroom and own it.

Roxy texts me the address - some little taco joint downtown. I feel a tiny flutter of excitement as I head out, which is rare these days. Usually, I dodge social plans like bullets, but Roxy's different. She's one of the few who knows my whole story. She gets why I've become a hermit, and more importantly, she stuck around during my darkest days. If you'd told me a stalker would be the thing to sort my friend list into 'real' and 'gone' within months, I would've laughed. Funny how life works.

Can't really blame the ones who left - who wants to deal with someone jumping at shadows? Nobody. So now it's just Roxy, trying her best to pry me off my couch before I actually merge with it.

I pop in my earbuds, start up an audiobook, and make my way to the train. At least the restaurant's right by the station - small mercies.

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Los Amantesglows in neon against the night sky as I approach, Gloria Estefan's voice floating out onto the street. The scent hits me before I even reach the door - garlic, cumin, and spicy peppers dancing in the air.

Roxy shows up looking like she's auditioning for 'How to Get Proposed to in One Night.' We end up stuck at a table smack in the middle of the chaos, but beggars can't be choosers.

"So, heard about the buyout. Excited?" She's busy studying the sauces like they hold the secrets of the universe, her honey-colored eyes narrowing in concentration.

"Less excited, more slightly less broke," I try to joke.

It feels weird, this laughing thing. Sounds simple, right? But when you've spent months crying yourself to sleep and fighting panic attacks, something as basic as genuine laughter feels like discovering a new color. Like maybe normal isn't just something that happens to other people anymore.

"So I take it you're treating tonight?" she asks while taking a sip of her strawberry margarita.

"Count on it. Thanks for getting me out of the house, Roxy," I say, squeezing her hand.

Neither of us is sentimental, but Roxy knows that if she needed to bury someone at 3 a.m., I'd only ask if I should bring two shovels.

It's funny how desperation changes you. When you're alone, backed into a corner without friends or support, the smallest hint of kindness feels like winning the lottery. Roxy was my lottery ticket. She showed up for everything - every police report, every terrifying encounter with my stalker. She'd crash at my place, promising over and over that this nightmare would end.

Sometimes it still feels weird, waking up without a phone screaming with missed calls.

Don't get too comfortable, whispers that paranoid voice that never quite shuts up.

"Someone's gotta drag you out of your cave," Roxy grins, "and I know good tacos are your weakness."

God, everyone needs a Roxy in their life.

The night flows with her endless stories about event planning disasters - she always has the best mishaps to share. I could never handle her job. The pressure of being responsible for someone's perfect day? No thanks. Sure, my work matters too, but at least I can test my code a hundred times before it goes near a patient. Roxy? She gets one shot, start to finish.

Twenty years of friendship, and it still amazes me how different we are yet somehow perfectly in sync. I know every quirk in her vocabulary, every breakup speech she's ever given, every pair of shoes that she swears will get her a rich husband.

Me? I'm your classic computer nerd - green eyes peering through round glasses, cinnamon-blonde curls that refuse to behave, and hips that have a life of their own. Then there's Roxy - looking like she walked off a Milan runway. She's got this angelic face, with brown eyes that turn honey gold when she'sfired up. Always wearing those long gold earrings to 'fix' what she calls her 'moon face,' and perpetually dressed to kill.

Maybe that's what makes our friendship work so well - we're like opposite sides of the same coin. Though I'll admit, it's slightly unfair how she can demolish a burger and it vanishes into thin air, while I just have to look at one and my jeans get tighter.

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