The bed is warm when I wake up, although my legs are uncovered and bare. I don't have to open my eyes to know that Gina is hogging the covers again. I roll onto my side, facing away from her, and sigh.

Awake. I do not want to be awake.

I try not to rustle the covers or shake the mattress as I stretch slowly. It's still early; I don't want to wake Gina up before she has to be. She needs the sleep, especially after how worn-out she seemed from her first day of work.

I roll over and catch a sharp whiff of her new perfume. She started wearing it about a month ago, but I'm still not quite used to it. She smells like lavender, and some other new scent that I can't quite place—something sharp and floral. It smells good on her, but the newness of it makes me anxious, and I refuse to think about why.

Yeah.... I think I'll just think about Rosalind instead.

I roll back onto my side and, eyes closed, wrap my arms around my torso, my right hand on the opposite shoulder, the other wrapped around my stomach. Yep. That's what I want to think of first thing in the morning. Rosalind. Not Gina, and certainly not her multitudinous past slip-ups.

It's kind of fun. I have to wonder—what is Rosalind like when she first wakes up? I can picture her being one of two ways: either breathtakingly perfect, or breathtakingly imperfect. One of those women who wake up like they do in the movies, with seemingly flawless hair and skin.

Either that, or she's one of the ones who wakes up with a nest of messy hair and eyes caked with shmutz and insanely funky breath, yet somehow manages to remain absolutely breathtakingly beautiful.

I saw some of Rosalind's pajamas yesterday, and holy shit, I am broke. I don't think I've ever felt such expensive fabric in a pair of pajamas. They're something I knew had to exist, but had never seen in person. I wanna sleep in PJs like that—right now, I'm in pants I got from Target like, what, twelve years ago now?

But thoughts of Rosalind and expensive clothes turn my thoughts right back to yesterday, of Rosalind and her laundry room and her stupid, cursed, un-un-unlucky panties. Of the shocked expression on her face when that solemn tear tore through the room. Of the heat burning up my cheeks like wildflame. Of the mole on her left shoulder blade, and of the taut muscles and smooth skin of her back, and of that sweet, easy smile she cast my way.

Seriously, don't worry your pretty little head about it.

Honestly, I am so surprised she didn't fire me yesterday. I would have. Seriously. Bye-bye fucking Birdie.

Should I do something to make it up to her? I most definitely cannot afford to fix or replace her dress for her, and I'm fairly certain that Gina's full wrath would be on me if I were to offer to let her take it out of my paycheck. And with my net worth of "barely over thirty dollars," I'm a little unsure of just how I should be approaching making this up to her.

Hmm. Coffee? Coffee could be doable.

I do the math quickly in my head—a cheap-ish cup of coffee would be like ... a seventh of my liquid net worth right now? Better than having to pay for that dress, I'm sure.

But, fuck. What kind of coffee does Rosalind like? Does she like a bold, sultry dark roast, or does she love being able to taste the floral intricacies of a light roast on her—oh my god, nope. I most definitely have a problem.

Next to me, Gina shifts in her sleep, mumbling something incoherent under her breath. Her back is to me, but her loose, dark waves are fanned out across her pillow.

Gina has a silk pillowcase; mine is cheap cotton, the same one I ended up with freshman year of college. She tends to have a more expensive taste than I do—she has one of those little skin care fridges, for crying out loud—but I think it pays off for her.

I really do count myself lucky to be with her, seriously. Gina is beautiful. Clear, smooth skin; bright eyes and smile; this infectious, laughing energy about her. She just sucks you right in. I don't know if I've ever met someone nearly as charismatic as her. And she's smart, too. Definitely smarter than me. Seriously, she is way out of my league. I look like a male comedian next to her.

Hopefully—hopefully—this job will be what I need to get back in her good graces. Her parents are well-off, and they're generous, but they hate me. They think I'm lazy as hell, that I don't contribute, that I make Gina unhappy. All of which are largely untrue. But things have been admittedly tense between us lately, and I hate this strange strain between us.

I'll start bringing money home, Gina will be able to spend her sabbatical attempting to break into the film industry because it's been her dream since she was eleven, and I'll start finding alternative routes into the writing world.

It's a win for everyone.

I get out of bed as quietly as possible, pulling on a loose pair of high-rise pants beneath my oversized sleep shirt. My hair is in two short pigtail braids, which I yank out and untangle as I make my way to the kitchen. I never make breakfast for the two of us—we always wake up at different times, leaving us on our own for breakfast.

The countertop is chilly, cheap, ancient granite that's been scratched after years of misuse. I crack enough eggs for an omelette we can split, still rubbing sleep out of my eyes as I add onions from me and Gina's Ziploc bag of pre-diced onions. I'm a terrible cook, but I can at least make a functioning omelette.

How are you this dysfunctional? Gina's voice rings out in the back of my head. Marcie, you were there for like, three fucking hours. This isn't funny. You're lucky she—

Just thinking about last night's argument makes me wince.

Was definitely not the greatest look, but oh well. Gina wasn't remotely tickled or amused by the whole Great Panties Debacle, which I guess I should have expected.

The ensuing argument stung a little more than usual, because normally, Gina calls me out on things I know I can fix. Know I should be fixing. But this time, when I'm trying to do better—do better for her—and she attacks me on an honest-to-god mistake? A comedy of egregious fucking errors?

Whatever. She's just stressed. We both are.

I'm darting between our bathroom and the kitchen while I try to get ready for work. Last week's button-up and sweater combo doesn't smell nearly as bad as I'd feared, so I toss it on and spritz myself with body spray, then race into the kitchen to fry some of Gina's favorite turkey bacon, before running back to the bathroom to conceal my many acne spots and brush a single shade of nutmeg brown on my eyelids, following it up with mascara.

I squint at my reflection in the mirror for a second, at my mid-length brown bob that refuses to be consistently messy or consistently straight; at my deep-set, hooded bug eyes; my thin, strangely pointed lips.

Yeah, this isn't getting any better today.

I've narrowly avoided burning the turkey bacon when I see Gina trudge into the kitchen, tiredly rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. She stops when she notices me. "Are you ... making breakfast?" she asks slowly, still squinting through the sleepiness. "Marcie?"

"Um, yes!" I turn off the stove top and use the silicone tongs to awkwardly saw through the omelette, then toss it onto two of our fancy HomeGoods plates. I can't stand the turkey bacon, so it all ends up on the plate I slide across the island to her.

I wipe my hands on the front of my pants, then kick myself because these are work pants, for work today, but oh well. They're fine. I turn to grab silverware for us, but instead of the "thank you" I was expecting, I hear Gina suck in a deep breath and say, "Marcie. Um, Marcie, stop. This—this isn't working."

I drop my fork.

It's like I can't turn around fast enough. "I—what?"

"You can't just—" She takes another deep breath, her eyes closing for just a moment. "You can't just make me breakfast anytime we have a fight, or just, do something to get me off your back. All you want is for me to stop being mad at you, but ... I need you to want me not to get mad."

"Gina, I—"

"Or," she continues, cutting me off without even realizing it, "or, like, maybe to stop wanting to be a fuckup, Marcie."

My chest pangs. "You think I'm a fuckup?"

"I mean." She stops, stares at me, blinks. And then she squints again, her brow furrowing up. "Don't you?"

I look down at the slightly soggy omelettes in front of me. Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry. "I just wanted to make breakfast for you."

When I look up, I legitimately cannot read Gina's expression. "I'm.... Okay, I'm not sorry, per se, Marcie. We both knew this was coming."

Did we? I want to ask, because no, I don't think I knew.

"But I'm sorry that it's happening this way. I hope we can still be friends."

Friends. The word hits me like a ton of fucking bricks. Evil, conniving, bitchy-ass bitch bricks. The most painful, gut-wrenching, stupidest bricks in the world.

"So...." I manage to look up at her. I don't know if my eyes have ever "welled" with tears before, but I'm pretty sure this is welling. "So we're done?" I have to choke out the last word. It hurts to say.

The look Gina gives me is a look that feels less sympathetic and a lot more condescending. "I just need space to breathe, Marcie. I mean, having you for a girlfriend was always way too stressful. I can't do it anymore, y'know?"

Y'know? Y'know, Marcie? "I don't know, Gina."

She bites her lip. Fuck. I remember thinking that was sexy, that it used to drive me fucking crazy. Now, it just makes me feel like I'm going to puke. "We both know that you only took this job because you had to, Marcie."

I've never hated hearing someone say my name before. This is a first for me.

"You couldn't be bothered to help contribute until you had to, and even then, this job? You only took it because it's with your fucking idol."

My hands are hot, but the rest of me is cold. This is a very uncomfy feeling. "Are you kidding me, Gina? This job has the best pay out of—"

She sighs, closing her eyes again. Like she's the exasperated one. "Don't bother denying it, Marcie. It's fine, seriously. I'm glad you have a job now. It'll make it easier for you to save up and get a new place."

"A new—" Fuck. Is she going to kick me out?

"You can stay here till you get back on your feet," she offers, pityingly. She bats her big brown eyes at me like I should be touched by her Disney-fucking-princess-like gesture. And "back on your feet"? Who even says that?

"Okay, Gina, I—" My phone's alarm cuts me off from inside my pants pocket. FUCK. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck, I have work. Oh my god. Fuuuuck.

"I have to go," I manage to get out, snatching my old green tote bag from off the counter and all but stumbling out of the apartment.

I don't bother locking the door behind me.