Madison Dixon crawled under my skin years ago, and I’ve ignored it. She’s my friend. It’s better for her that way. It’s better for both of us that way. That’s what I’ve told myself. But I’ve always known there was something about her. Every time I’d hear her talking about another date gone wrong—and there have been a ton of fucked up dates—I always felt relief. That’s not how a friend should feel. I should want her to find someone. To be happy.
