“Dazed orgasm eyes?” I repeat, laughing. “What the hell is that?”

“It’s kind of how people look when they’re stoned, only it’s an orgasm high. Or low.”

I toss a throw pillow at her. “You’re insane, you know that?”

“Maybe. But I’m right, aren’t I?”

With a sigh, I stand and quickly change into yoga pants and a faded T-shirt.

“Fine. Yes. We had sex. Are you happy now?”

“I already knew you did. I know you, Piper.”

I pile some pillows against the headboard and settle myself next to her. I’d like to say I’m surprised she’s cornered me like this, but I’m not. This is the type of friend Ditra is. Sometimes that’s good, and sometimes it’s annoying as hell.

“You’ve been avoiding me for weeks. Remember our weekly dinner? When’s the last time that happened?”

“I’m sorry… I’ve just been really distracted.”

“No shit. I understand how exciting it is to fall in love, but I’m worried about you. You’ve never just cut me off from your life before.”

“I haven’t cut you off,” I protest, hating she feels that way. “I just needed to get my head together about things before I wanted to talk about it; that’s all.”

“I left you about a hundred messages.”

“I know.”

“I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s going on. I’ll sleep here if I have to. I fed your cat and cleaned his litter box, so don’t think you can use that as an excuse to go off and avoid talking to me.”

Shaking my head at her, I realize I don’t even know what to say. I know she wants giddy girl talk like we used to have when we were sixteen. She wants me to reveal every detail about Evan and what we do together. In a lot of ways, I want to because I’m happy and excited and I want to tell her how amazing he is. But I can’t do that without also telling her about some of my worries and fears, and those are the things she will hone in on and analyze the hell out of and want me to analyze right along with her. I’m not ready to analyze. And then, of course, there’s Evan’s living situation.

“Piper? Talk to me. You’re gnawing on your lip like a rabid dog. That means you’re confused.”

“I’m not confused… Okay, maybe I am a little bit.”

“Would you just talk to me? I’m your best friend. I know I’m a pain in the ass, but I love you. You know that, right?”

I smile at her. “Of course I do. And I love you, too.”

She climbs off the bed. “I’m going to go make us some tea. When I get back, let’s talk, okay? You’re just going to spit it all out.”

“All right. While you’re doing that, I’m going to use the bathroom and wash up a little.”

Thankfully, she doesn’t make any comments about me wanting to clean myself up, and ten minutes later, we’re back in my bedroom. Archie prances around the bed and puts his butt in our faces.

“Is it that guy who was at the bar that night? What was his name? Red? Blue?”

I grin at her as I sip some of the warm, sweet tea. “Blue. His real name is Evan.”

“I was surprised. He’s not the type of guy you usually go for. Don’t get me wrong, he’s wicked hot. I mean… those eyes and the hair and the tats. Holy shit.”

“Trust me. I know.”

“Where’d you two meet?”

“At the park by my office. I go there every day during my lunch break to read.”

“Oh. Does he work near there, too?”

“You could say that….”

“Is he a full-time musician?”

“Yes, in a way.”

Her eyebrows rise. “Why are you being so vague? Is he some kind of porn star? If he is, I’m down with that. They make a shit ton of money.”

“Ditra! He’s not a porn star. Jesus! He plays guitar in the park.”

“Like a concert?”

“Yeah, sort of like that.”

She frowns with confusion. “Every day?”

I finally give in. “He’s a street musician.”

She looks at me expectantly, waiting for more of an explanation, and when I don’t give it to her, I see the gradual realization cross her face.

“He plays in the park for money,” she says.

I nod.

“So people give him tips as they listen and walk by. He’s not getting a paycheck.”

“Right.”

“So he doesn’t quite have a real job.”

I shake my head and place my empty teacup on my nightstand. “No. Not really.”

“Are you giving him money?”

“God, no. Nothing like that.”

“He’s not living out of his car, is he?”

She must notice me wince, because her face and shoulders fall as she stares at me.

“Tell me he’s not, Piper,” she begs.

“He doesn’t even have a car,” I finally say. “He’s homeless.” There. I said it. Now she knows. “I know what you’re going to say. But I love him. I honestly, truly love him. He makes me happy and he makes me feel beautiful, and he’s smart and funny and so talented. I don’t care about where he does or doesn’t live. It doesn’t matter to me.”