Daphne & Leah & Tina
Leah’s door isn’t far. Daphne doesn’t know what she expects. Maybe a fight, maybe comfort, maybe just someone to remind her she isn’t alone.
Her knuckles rap twice. But when the door swings open, it isn’t Leah. It’s someone else. A girl in a black silk robe, lace underneath. No surprise on her face. Just a quiet, smug kind of curiosity.
Daphne blinks, thrown. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Leah, you’ve got company,” the girl calls over her shoulder.
“Well?” Daphne says, forcing a smile as Leah appears. “Aren’t you going to invite me in? Or at least introduce me to your new… friend?”
Leah’s gaze sweeps over her, quietly assessing, like she’s deciding whether the threat is worth her time. “Tina,” she says, giving nothing. “She just moved in.”
“Like a roommate?” Daphne says, eyeing her incredulously. “Now, why would Leah ‘Midwest Money’ Cross need a roommate? Cash tight these days, babes? Struggling to make rent?”
That’s it. Leah’s patience snaps. “Don’t you have someone’s husband to seduce?” Then she slams the door in her face.
Daphne flinches. She hadn’t expected warmth exactly, but maybe a flicker of their old shorthand. Some small gesture from Leah to say I still see you. But the silence says otherwise.
On the other side, Leah doesn’t move. She stands there, listening to Daphne’s soft exhale, then the slow retreat of footsteps across the courtyard.
Finally, she exhales too. Shakes it off, turning. At the far end of the apartment, Tina’s at the kitchen, stirring sauce like cooking in lingerie is just another Tuesday.
“Our neighbor’s a delight,” she remarks as Leah crosses the hardwood floor to meet her at the island, already tired of the whole damn subject.
“You don’t even know the half of it. Daphne never grew up. She just got older. Great at first impressions. But give it five minutes, and you remember why no one sticks around.”
Tina stirs the sauce, unfazed. “That was a great first impression? Sounds like quite the falling out.”
“She’s a pariah. Slept with her best friend’s husband, so.”
“Damn. Really?”
“Yep. You’d be smart to stay away.”
Tina laughs, a sly spark in her eye. “Well, good thing I’m single. Ready to eat?”
“Starving,” Leah replies, watching with cool detachment as Tina drains the pasta. “Just not in the mood for drama tonight.”
But whatever line she’d tried to draw had already blurred by the following evening. Now she’s slouched at a table at Icons with Tina and Daphne—irritated, drinking too fast, and wondering how the hell she let this happen.
Across the table, Daphne does what she always does with new people—dazzling them with exaggerated stories from her so-called glory days, name-dropping random celebrities and rock stars, spinning a fantasy version of a world she barely belongs to anymore.
Leah hears none of it. Her eyes are on Shane behind the bar, laughing at something Boots just said. He refills her drink, their hands grazing, too casual to call it flirting, but not casual enough to ignore.
He glances Leah’s way, throws her a nod and a smile. It’s either the most romantic gesture in the world, or something completely insignificant. She just hopes she’s not reading into it.
Ever since she dragged Shane into her feud with Wendy—used him, really, as nothing more than a pawn—he’d kept surprising her. He was supposed to be harmless. Easy to dismiss. She hadn’t expected depth. Or loyalty.
Everything changed the night Daphne nearly drowned. Saving her life had bound Leah and Shane in a way she still can’t name. And when the bottom fell out of her life, he showed up in the wreckage—no questions, no pity. Just steady, uncomplicated presence. Genuine friendship and support.
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Leah didn’t mean to catch feelings. But she did—and they were getting harder to ignore. She thinks he feels it too. She just doesn’t know what he’s waiting for.
Daphne’s laughter breaks her focus, instantly derailing her train of thought.
“Honestly, the hardest part about summer is juggling invitations. Like last year, I had to choose between Elton and David’s party in the South of France—not to humblebrag, but they’re dear family friends—or a week on Diane von Furstenberg’s yacht. It’s always a question of relevance, you know? Who actually wants you there versus who just needs to fill a seat.”
Leah bites back a sigh. A few hours ago, she’d been tucked inside her apartment with rare, sacred silence, a new manuscript in her lap, no one demanding anything. It was a memoir by a child star turned TikTok comedian. Her expectations were low, but the trainwreck potential had her intrigued, and she’d just made it past the title page when she heard the jingle of keys in the door.
And then: “Hey, babe, I’m home!”
Tina’s schedule is maddening. One minute she’s gone, the next she’s back—chipper, talkative, always in the way. Some nights she’s out. Others, she’s parked on the couch watching Bravo like she’s lived there forever.
The worst part? She always seems to arrive just minutes after Leah gets home from work. Leah never really gets the place to herself. And when she does, it doesn’t last. Tina’s presence is everywhere. Her leftovers in the fridge, herbal teas crammed into cupboards, makeup scattered across the sink. The rhythm of someone else’s life edging out her own.
“Let’s go out,” Tina said breezily, like she wasn’t interrupting.
“I’d love to, but,” Leah gestured to the pages in front of her, like she didn’t have a choice, “work.”
“Reading? That’s not work. C’mon, babe, I just want to check out the neighborhood.”
She had every intention of saying no. But then, through the window, she saw Shane crossing the courtyard on his way out. Of course, he was going to Icons.
So, Leah went too.
By the time they arrived, overglossed and underdressed, Tina had already clocked him. “Hot bartender,” she said, more amused than curious.
“That’s not the bartender,” Leah replied, not bothering to hide the possessive edge in her voice. “That’s Shane. He owns the place. Lives in our building.”
“Seriously? So why haven’t you introduced me yet?”
“Because he’s not available, Tina. Anyway, you’d have to get in line. And it’s a long one.”
Then, along came Boots, appearing out of the blue with her standard frosty hello. “Looks like that bruise Wendy left healed nicely,” she said, as if the words didn’t mean anything.
Leah volleyed something back—some line about Boots being Wendy’s next casualty now that she’d joined the NDA fold—but the confidence felt performative. Like she was trying too hard.
And then she arrived. It still amazed Leah—after Shane fired her, after she’d torched every bridge and destroyed every last friendship—that Daphne had the gall to show her face here.
Leah braced for the fallout. For Boots to throw a drink. For Shane to kick her out. But instead, she stepped in and pulled Daphne away—for her own sake more than Daphne’s. She couldn’t stomach another meltdown. Or maybe, despite everything, some part of her still cared. Felt responsible.
“Yeah, no thanks,” Daphne barks, still rambling as Leah blinks back into the moment, “who even goes to St. Barths in July? But hey, enjoy the discounted rates and one-hundred-degree humidity. I’ll be in Saint-Tropez with Rita Ora, aka Mrs. Taika Waititi. Oh, Leah, did I tell you about the DJ set I might’ve lined up?”
She doesn’t respond. She’s watching Boots drain her drink, stand, and lean in to whisper something in Shane’s ear. A parting kiss lands on his cheek, then Boots’s lips saying goodbye. Then she’s gone, and that’s Leah’s cue.
Daphne watches as she grabs her bag and cuts straight to the bar—toward Shane.
“Looks like someone’s got a thing for the hot bartender,” Tina says, her gaze trailing Leah with idle amusement, like she’s watching the start of a show she doesn’t yet care about.
“Shane?” Daphne scoffs, one brow lifting. “Please.”
“They a thing?”
“Leah wishes.”
Tina lazily stirs the straw in her drink, eyes fixed on Leah leaning across the bar, smiling too wide, laughing too loud at something Shane just said.
“So, you’re her coworker or something?” Daphne asks, barely curious.
“No,” Tina says. “I’m her roommate. I met you yesterday, remember?”
“Right. It’s so weird. Leah’s like me, you know? She’s privileged.”
“Privileged?”
“Yeah. Trust fund kid. What’s she doing with a roommate unless… you two are, like, lesbians?”
“She never mentioned a trust fund,” Tina replies, her eyes drifting back toward Leah and Shane. “She hasn’t even Venmo’d me back for the Target haul I did last week.”
“It’s a tactic.” Daphne smirks, like she’s letting Tina in on a secret. “Rich girls play broke. That’s how we stay rich—let everyone else pick up the check.”
Then Daphne digs into her clutch: a half-empty pack of cigarettes, something tiny in a vial she holds up like a party favor.
“Want some?”
Tina eyes it. “GHB?”
“Maybe.”
“Hard pass.” Tina plucks a cigarette from the pack, helping herself. “But I’ll take one of these.”
Two minutes later, they’re outside, smoke curling under the streetlights’ glow.
“You know,” Daphne says, blowing a lazy stream from her lips, “you seem pretty cool for some rando off Craigslist.”
Tina just tilts her head, a knowing half-smile tugging at her mouth. “I was wondering when you’d catch on.”
“We should go out sometime. I get in everywhere.”
Tina takes a final drag, exhales through her teeth, flicks the butt to the curb.
“Thought you’d never ask.”