Zara’s car wove through the downtown traffic, a silver shark in a sea of minivans. We had spent the last two hours engaged in Zara's favorite sport: extreme window shopping.
She finally pulled over in front of Velvet & Vine, a boutique that smelled like old money and pretension. Inside, the air conditioning was frigid, and the racks were sparse—the hallmark of a place where a single t-shirt cost more than my monthly allowance.
Zara dove into the racks of silk and chiffon with the focus of a tactical commander. Lacking her enthusiasm and feeling the familiar throb of my bank account crying, I retreated to a moss-green velvet sofa in the corner.
I was scrolling through my phone, trying to ignore the sales assistant’s judgmental stare, when a shadow fell over me.
"Luna?"
The voice was co
