DARING AND DANGEROUS

SOUL FURNITURE

“You’re buying it.”

“No, you’re buying it!”

“b***h—no one needs a $400 throw pillow, I don’t care if it’s woven by angels.”

That was the vibe for the entire day. Blair and I were furniture shopping, which—if you’ve ever gone with your hot-mess bestie who has a rich girl budget but a bargain bin attitude—you know is basically cardio in heels. Which is what she was still wearing, by the way.

I, on the other hand, had finally convinced her to let me throw some leggings and sneakers on after brunch because I could already feel a blister forming on my pinky toe. But Blair? Blair was out here serving Real Housewives of Midtown while I looked like a sponsored ad for Dry Shampoo Nation.

Anyway.

We’d already hit four stores and argued in three of them. Not because we were actually fighting. Oh no—this was our version of bonding. Loudly debating over rugs, flirting with the employees for discounts, and absolutely judging anyone who tried to buy a glass coffee table. (Glass tables are for childless millionaires and cokeheads—don’t argue with me.)

Then we found it.

The Holy Grail. The reason for our entire existence today. The moment I saw it through the store window, I gasped like I was being proposed to.

Grey sectional. Teal-accented pillows. Marble coffee table that screamed “hot girl with trauma who pays her own bills.”

Right beside it? A coral-colored couch with warm pinewood end tables and a vibe that said “Blair was definitely here.”

I grabbed her arm. “Don’t say a word. Just look.”

She peeked in, blinked twice, and dramatically slapped her hand over her chest. “I need it. I need it. It’s me in couch form.”

“I’m aware. Now let’s go get our damn thrones.”

Inside, the sales lady (shoutout to Ruby, may she live forever) told us the price, and Blair nearly choked on her own designer perfume.

So I did what any emotionally repressed bestie with a fat inheritance and zero impulse control would do: I whipped out the black Amex and said, “We’ll take both. Delivery tomorrow.”

Blair’s jaw dropped.

“I—no—Rory. You cannot. That’s insane. I’ll pay you back—”

“Absolutely not. This is your housewarming gift. And don’t start crying or I’ll make you match the pillows.”

She stared at me for a full beat. Then narrowed her eyes. “You trying to emotionally manipulate me with free furniture?”

“Duh.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me.”

We hugged like the co-dependent, boundary-challenged soulmates we are.

And then Ruby (sweet angel of old-lady sass) winked and said, “You two remind me of me and my best friend when we first moved to the city. We shared everything. Even a man once.”

“Blair, don’t get any ideas.”

“Oh please. You don’t share well. I remember that time you threatened to bite a bartender.”

“In my defense, he said I looked like a nice girl.”

“Exactly. Rude.”

Ruby chuckled… Oh my son TJ and his friend Matt are going to have a GREAT time with you two…. They are pretty damn good-looking ladies, if I do say so myself… she said winking at us again…

Blair and I chuckled, every red blooded mama thinks their kids are good looking.

After finalizing delivery details—9 AM tomorrow.

"Shoutout to TJ and Matt the movers, may they be shirtless, and as good looking as Ms. Ruby claims" Blair said as we left the store practically high on adrenaline and laughing our asses off.

And that was the exact moment we both realized… we hadn’t eaten since brunch.

Cue the hangry descent into madness.

“I will literally fight a toddler for a slice of pizza right now,” Blair muttered as we flagged down a cab.

“Same. Except I think my stomach is eating itself from the inside out. We need carbs. Real carbs. Not ‘oh I’ll have a salad and steal your fries’ carbs.”

There’s something sacred about collapsing onto the floor with your best friend after a day of financial irresponsibility and emotional whiplash. Blair and I had just dropped an ungodly amount of money on couches that probably required a trust fund to maintain, and now? Now we were sprawled out in my living room, surrounded by delivery receipts, half-unwrapped decor, and two bottles of wine that were not going to survive the night.

“I still can’t believe you bought the couches,” Blair said, her voice slightly slurred as she poured us both another glass. “Like, actually bought them with real money.”

I took a sip of my wine and stretched my legs across her lap. “I told you trauma purchases. It’s retail therapy, except instead of shoes, I bought 2 seven-foot sectionals and the illusion of stability.”

She snorted. “And people say money can’t buy happiness.”

We both laughed, then sighed in unison like two women realizing the wine buzz was hitting just right. The Bold Type was paused on the TV behind us some overly dramatic girlboss scene mid-monologue—and our snacks consisted of a questionable charcuterie board we assembled out of string cheese, Ritz crackers, and leftover Chinese dumplings.

Honestly? Peak domestic chaos.

Blair was twirling her wine like she was on Real Housewives, pinky lifted and everything. “Okay. I know we don’t do feelings. Like, ever. But I need to say something, and I swear to God if you mock me I’ll smother you with a throw pillow.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Only if it’s the overpriced velvet one.”

She kicked me lightly. “Shut up. I’m being serious.”

That got my attention. I sat up slightly, watching her. Blair never got serious unless someone died or Sephora discontinued her favorite lip gloss.

She took a long breath. “I don’t want to be alone forever, Rory.”

The words hung there soft, a little fragile, like they weren’t used to being said out loud.

I blinked. “Damn. That wine really got you spiraling early tonight.”

She rolled her eyes, but the smirk didn’t reach her usual level of chaos. “I’m serious. I joke about hooking up, dating, whatever but deep down? I want something real. Like… someone I can trust enough to fall asleep next to without worrying they’ll ruin me.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. For a second, I just stared at her. My Blair. Loud, fiery, unbothered Blair—sounding like a girl who’d had her heart broken one too many times but still hadn’t stopped hoping.

“You’ll find him,” I said finally. “And when you do, I’ll interrogate him with the fury of a thousand courtroom dramas and a background check thicker than the Bible.”

That made her laugh, the sound lighter again. “You’re such a freak.”

“Yeah, well. One of us has to be emotionally unavailable and armed with red flags.”

She sipped her wine and leaned her head back against the couch, eyes flicking toward the ceiling like it held answers. “Do you ever wonder if maybe… we’re too much for people? Like, all the trauma and sass and defense mechanisms—we’re just too damn loud for the kind of quiet love normal people want?”

I didn’t answer. Because yes. All the damn time.

Instead, I leaned back too, our shoulders touching as we stared up in silence. The apartment smelled like takeout and cheap wine.

Blair sat up and grabbed the remote, her wine sloshing dangerously close to my throw blanket. “Okay, we are absolutely not ending this night on a depressive girlboss spiral. Trash TV it is. I’m talking dating shows, questionable decisions, and enough secondhand embarrassment to numb our feelings.”

I laughed. “You mean like watching people self-destruct for attention and free cocktails?”

She wiggled her brows. “Exactly. Our people.”

We both settled back into our spots, the glow of the screen flickering over half-unpacked boxes and a floor littered in snack shrapnel.

Tomorrow, the real chaos would begin. Couches arriving. Stranger men in our space. Probably more pizza. Definitely more unhinged commentary.

But tonight?

It was just us. Two women who’d survived some real s**t, drinking wine on the floor and letting hope sneak in around the edges.

And for once… we didn’t push it away.