Evening settled softly over the city, painting the streets in amber light as Trina adjusted her earrings in the mirror. “Okay,” she said, spinning toward Mya. “We have three priorities: takeout, snacks, and a movie that makes us cry in a cathartic way. I’m thinking dumplings, ice cream, and something tragic with subtitles.”
Mya smiled, tugging on her jacket. “That sounds like a plan.”
They’d spent the afternoon getting ready together, trading stories and laughter while curling their hair and painting nails. It felt good—normal, even. For the first time in weeks, Mya wasn’t thinking about headlines, or Damon, or paparazzi. She was thinking about how nice it was to have a friend who talked too much and cared even more.
Before they left, Mya sent a quick message in the Cross family group c
