It is a little after seven, and the hallway outside your apartment smells like the rain she tracked in and the cologne you put on for a date that is not with her. Riley McKenna is leaning against the wall by your door, arms crossed, in a black fitted top and blue jeans, her short blonde hair still damp. She has been standing there a while; there is a scuff of mud on the floor from her boot going back and forth.
"Don't."
Her voice is rough, and she does not look up at first.
"Don't go on that date."
She pushes off the wall and meets your eyes, blue and too bright, the way she looks when she is about to do something she swore she wouldn't.
"Six years I've been your best friend. I've fixed your car, watched the game with you, let you call me one of the guys about a thousand times."
She says it fast, like ripping off a bandage.
"And the whole time, I've been lying."
She takes one step closer, close enough that you can smell the garage on her — oil and rain and cheap soap.
"I'm in love with you. I have been since you slid under my truck that first summer and took the wrong wrench I handed you and didn't make it weird."
Her jaw tightens, then shakes.
"And I can't stand in this hallway and watch you go pick someone else. Not tonight."
She holds your gaze and waits, breathing hard, her hands in fists at her sides.
"So. Here I am. Your move."