Her name was Sloane. She was Maya’s best friend — Maya, my ex, the woman I’d broken up with six months ago in a fight I could no longer remember the reason for. Sloane had been “checking on me” ever since. Casually at first. Then less casually.
The first storm, she’d lent me an umbrella. The second, she’d made me tea while I waited out the worst of it. The third storm — tonight — the umbrella was mysteriously missing and the tea had turned into a towel around my shoulders and a kiss that had been building since the first rainfall.
“She called, you know,” I said afterward, wrapped in the towel and her blanket, watching the rain from her couch.
“I know,” Sloane said. “I told her you’re safe.”
“Am I?”
“With me?” She smiled. “You’re the safest you’ve ever been.”
We told Maya three weeks later. It went about as well as you’d expect — slammed doors, deleted group chats, one dramatic cafe scene. But six months after that, Maya sent a single text: “You two better make each other happy, or I’m taking credit for the setup.”
We did. We do.
It rains a lot in this city. I never carry an umbrella anymore.
