Marry my best friend
I croaked.
Within half an hour, Maya’s kitchen looked like a chaotic apothecary: ginger tea steaming in mugs, Sophie’s infamous “hangover smoothie” (bananas, spinach, coconut water, and some mystery powder she swore by), and a delivery of greasy fries and breakfast sandwiches Aria had ordered in her moment of weakness.
We all piled onto the couch with blankets, N*****x set to some ridiculous rom-com none of us cared about.
“Confess,” Maya said, nudging me with her foot. “Who was Mystery Guy?”