Shane looked at him. “If I tell you something, do you promise not to tell anyone? Or make fun of me?” Ilya felt an icy stab of dread in his stomach. He braced himself, and said, “Sure.” “I, uh...” Ilya waited for the words. I’m seeing someone. I’m engaged. I don’t need you anymore. “I hired a personal stylist.” For a moment, there was silence. Then Ilya burst out laughing. “Fuck off!” he said, delighted. “I shouldn’t have told you.” “No! I love it! Got tired of looking like shit?” “I didn’t—” Shane was trying to look angry, but Ilya could tell he was fighting a smile.
