Aria
I didn’t text Adrian that I was leaving. I just grabbed my bag, called a car, and headed to Rihanna’s brownstone in Brooklyn. The drive across the bridge gave me too much time to think, but by the time I knocked on her bright yellow door, I was already cracking at the seams.
Rihanna opened it wearing oversized sweats and a messy bun, her face lighting up the second she saw me. “Finally! Get in here before I drink all the wine myself.”
Her apartment smelled like vanilla candles and the Thai takeout she’d ordered for us. We settled on her oversized couch with glasses of rosé and containers of pad see ew, the city humming faintly outside her windows. For the first time in weeks, I felt like I could breathe.
“Okay, spill,” she said, tucking her legs under her. “You look like you’ve b
