Oh god.

Oh god oh god oh god.

Kumiko Yamanaka stood in the elevator of the Cooper Garment Lofts with her back pressed against the cold metal wall and her heart doing something that probably violated several laws of human biology. The number above the door changed from 2 to 3. Chloe stood on her left, scrolling through her phone with one thumb like a person whose entire world had not just tilted forty-five degrees on its axis. Jordan stood on her right, holding four shopping bags in each hand with the casual ease of someone whose biceps had apparently been forged in a government laboratory.

This is happening.

The words repeated in Kumiko’s skull with the relentless persistence of a notification she could not dismiss. They had replaced all other cognitive functions. Her ability to form sentences, gone. Her knowledge of computer assembly, gone. The lyrics to every anime opening she had memorized since age twelve, gone. Everything had been evacuated to make room for the single, all-consuming thought that Chloe Kim had looked at her through the open door of a Honda Civic and said "we need to talk" with a nod that meant yes, I meant what I said at the gas station, and yes, this is real, and yes, you should probably start breathing again before you pass out in a parking structure.

Kumiko had not started breathing again. Not properly. She was managing small, shallow sips of air that kept her conscious but did nothing for the roaring in her ears or the heat spreading from her collarbones to the tips of her fingers.

The elevator dinged.

Fourth floor.

Jordan stepped out first, the bags rustling against his legs as he walked. The hallway smelled like lemon cleaner and the faint cedar note that Kumiko had begun associating exclusively with Jordan’s apartment, a scent that now triggered a Pavlovian response in her chest that she refused to examine too closely. He stopped outside Unit 403 and waited while Chloe fished her keys from the pocket of her leggings. The pink cat keychain caught the fluorescent light.

"First load," Jordan said. "I’ll grab the rest from the car."

Chloe unlocked the door and pushed it open. The apartment exhaled cool air that smelled like Chloe’s candle, the one she kept on the coffee table that was probably a cheap candle in an expensive jar. Kumiko knew this because Kumiko noticed things about her friends with a thoroughness that her therapist described as "attentive" and her high school roommate described as "a lot."

Jordan set the bags down inside the doorway with a grunt and turned back toward the elevator. "Be right back."

The door closed behind him. His footsteps faded. The elevator dinged again, distant and metallic.

Kumiko stood in the entryway of Chloe’s apartment and stared at the grey sectional where, approximately thirty-six hours ago, she had watched Jordan’s bare chest descend the loft stairs and experienced what could only be described as a religious event.

Chloe walked into the kitchen and began filling the electric kettle.

"Tea?"

"Huh?"

"Do you want tea, Kumi."

"Yes. Please. Tea. Yes."

Kumiko’s voice came out approximately one octave higher than normal. She cleared her throat. It did not help. She cleared it again. Still nothing. Her vocal cords had apparently decided to unionize and were refusing to operate at standard frequency until their demands were met, demands which presumably included a detailed explanation of what was about to happen in this apartment.

Chloe measured loose leaf chamomile into two cups without looking up. "You can sit down. You look like you’re about to run a marathon."

Kumiko looked down at her body. Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides. Her shoulders had migrated approximately three inches upward toward her ears. Her right foot was positioned behind her left in a stance that her middle school karate instructor would have recognized as a defensive retreat posture. She looked, she realized, exactly like someone preparing to sprint out the front door and not stop until she reached the Pacific Ocean.

She forced herself to walk to the sectional.

She sat.

She placed her hands on her knees.

She picked them up.

She put them back.

She crossed her legs. Uncrossed them. Crossed them the other direction. Pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around her shins. This felt too vulnerable. She uncurled and sat normally. What was normal? How did a normal person sit on a couch? Kumiko had been sitting on couches for eighteen years and suddenly could not remember the correct protocol.

The electric kettle began its low hum from the kitchen. Chloe leaned against the counter with her arms crossed, watching Kumiko with an expression that contained both amusement and something else. Something careful.

"You’re freaking out," Chloe said.

"I am not freaking out."

"Your left eye is twitching."

Kumiko slapped her palm over her left eye. It was, in fact, twitching. A rapid, involuntary spasm of the lower eyelid that she associated with exam weeks and catastrophic romantic developments, which were apparently the same thing now.

"That’s a medical condition."

"It’s stress."

"It could be both."

The elevator dinged again, muffled through the walls. Jordan’s footsteps in the hallway. The sound of him shifting bags to free a hand for the door. Kumiko’s stomach did a full rotation.

Jordan entered carrying another collection of bags, these ones heavier and branded with the Micro Center logo. He set them down beside the first pile, creating a small mountain of packaging near the kitchen island. "Two more trips. The monitor box is awkward."

He disappeared again.

Kumiko watched the door close and immediately turned to Chloe. Her mouth opened. Several sentences collided in her throat, creating a verbal pileup that resulted in a sound like "ChloewhatareyougoingtosaywhenhegetsbackbecauseIneedtoknowbeforehetalkstomeor—"

"Breathe."

Kumiko inhaled. It sounded like a vacuum cleaner engaging.

"We’re going to set up the streaming stuff," Chloe said. "And then we’re going to talk. All three of us. About what I asked you in the car."

"The thing."

"The thing."