85

THEA

My best friend is even more pretty than in the video calls.

Which is so freaking unfair, by the way, because I was kind of banking on the front camera humbling her just a little bit.

But no.

She steps out of the arrivals gate at JFK, sunglasses on her red head like a crown, oversized hoodie halfway off one shoulder, glowing like someone dipped her in honey and threw some filter dust on top.

Meanwhile, I’m standing there in wrinkled jeans, crocs, and a ponytail that’s holding on by prayer and bobby pins simply because my hair which I'd cut short repeatedly is just starting to outgrow after I decide to leave it.

Finn’s the first to spot her, obviously.

He yells “ Auntie Lyra? Auntie Lyraaaa!” like they’ve been besties since the womb and takes off running—ice cream cone in one hand, crumbs all over his shirt, face sticky enough to qualify for glue factory entry.

Lyra screams back, drops her duffel bag dramatically, and opens her arms wide like she’s in a rom-com. I swear, if there was slow-mo music playing, the whole airport would’ve started clapping.

They collide in a hug so chaotic that Lyra nearly trips backward and Finn ends up hanging off her like a baby koala, one leg around her waist and one hand still gripping his melting cone like it's the last treasure on earth.

“My baby boy!” Lyra squeals, smothering him with kisses. “You look so big! Are you eating your vegetables or just eating vibes?”

Finn giggles and answers around a mouthful of mochi, “Just chocolates.”

I don’t even know where he got that from.

Wait, no—I do. Her. From the endless hours of video calls.

She finally turns to me, arms out again, and I barely catch her before she tries to do that jumping hug thing she always threatens during our calls.

We squeeze tight. Too tight.

It’s one of those hugs that presses months of calls, memes, tik. tok videos, tears, and “I wish you were here” into five loud seconds of reality.

I used to think meeting her for the first time would feel awkward. But now, being with her makes everything feel natural.

“You’re real,” I whisper against her shoulder.

“I better be,” she says. “Or else this is a very detailed hallucination, and your subconscious owes me royalties.”

We break apart and get to the car, tossing her embarrassingly huge suitcases into the boot. I try not to laugh at the neon pink ‘NOT YOUR BAG’ tags she slapped on every one of them.

Finn, meanwhile, refuses to let go of her. He stays stuck to her side like a stubborn magnet, stealing her snacks and asking approximately five hundred questions per minute:

“Did you bring me more robots?”

“What does Tokyo smell like?”

“Can you speak Japanese again?”

“Can we go to Disneyland?”

“Do they eat spaghetti there?”

To which she answers:

“Yes.”

“Fish and money.”

“A little bit.”

“Let’s kidnap your mom and go.”

“No but they should.”

By the time we’re on the road, it’s already turned into a stand-up comedy session. Lyra’s flopped sideways in the passenger seat with her shoes off and one sock missing, sipping some green tea from a thermos like she’s been a suburban mom her whole life.

“America smells different,” she says dramatically.

“Like what?” I ask from the driver's seat.

She shrugs. “Like… expired cheese. It's been so long since I came here.”

I nearly drive us into a pole.

We talk. We don’t stop. Not for traffic lights, not for Finn’s attempts to interrupt us with dinosaur facts which I'm grateful for because he'd suddenly regained his spark with Lyra's presence. We didn't even stop for the guy in the next lane checking Lyra out (she blew him a kiss, by the way).

We talk about everything and nothing.

Old messages. That one time she almost got scammed by a fake sugar daddy on Twi. tter but ended up giving him financial advice. The latest celebrity drama. My love life—or lack of it. Ezra. Her latest one night stand, who she can not put a name to.

At some point she asks, “So are we still hating Sebastian or has he levelled up to full Voldemort?”

“Voldemort but make it deadbeat dad edition,” I reply without missing a beat.

“Perfect. I’ll add him to the blacklist again. Right next to my period and people who say ‘calm down’.”

Finn gasps dramatically from the backseat. “Mommy, she said period.”

We both laugh until our sides hurt.

It’s surreal. It’s perfect.

Like nothing changed.

Like we’ve always been in the same country. The same time zone. The same life.

But mostly, it just feels like I can finally breathe.

And maybe—for the first time in weeks—I want to.

By the time we pull into the driveway, Finn’s half-asleep with a mouthful of Pocky and Lyra looks like she’s been in a four-hour therapy session—which, to be fair, she kind of has.

We unload her bags—well, I unload while she hums and skips around like she’s not jet-lagged in three different time zones—and just as I’m about to shove the key into the lock, my phone starts ringing.

I pause watching as the screen lights up.

Malik.

Lyra is mid-rant about airplane food behind me, but I go still. Like really still. Like suspiciously still.

My eyes flick to the screen, then to Lyra, then back to the screen.

He’s calling again.

Twice in one day.

Bold.

I inhale slowly and silence the call. 

Except Lyra’s watching me.

Of course she is.

“Who’s that?” she asks, trying to peer over my shoulder like the nosy best friend she was born to be.

“Nobody,” I say too quickly.

Too fake.

She lifts a brow.

“Nobody is calling you at 6 PM with that face on?” she teases. “Girl, blink twice if it’s your grumpy-ass V boss.”

“No,” I mutter, fumbling with the keys and stabbing the wrong one into the lock. “Not him.”

Lyra’s voice gets softer. Curious. “Then who?”

I finally get the door open and push it wide. I look over my shoulder, voice low and I whisper, 

“Another person.”

Lyra squints at me like I just told her I joined a cult. “Another person?” she repeats. “Why do you sound like you're about to confess to murder?”

I don’t answer.

Because I haven’t told her about Malik yet.

Not even the casual “Oh, by the way, I’ve been texting the guy Ezra told me to avoid” kind of update.

Mostly because I don’t know what it is yet. Or what I want it to be. Or what it means that I text him back sometimes just to hear someone laugh at my dumb jokes.

So I do what any emotionally unavailable adult does when things get too real—

“I’ll tell you later,” I mumble. “When Finn sleeps.”

Lyra doesn’t press.

Just hums knowingly and rolls her suitcase inside with a grin. “Well damn,” she says under her breath. “If I knew the tea was this hot, I would’ve booked a first-class ticket.”

I shoot her a look. She smirks, her green eyes crinkling at the sides.

And just like that, I know tonight is going to be long.

And brutally honest.

God help me.