The Indigo Girls are playing from the Bluetooth speaker on the kitchen counter—Amy Ray and Emily Saliers doing Tangled Up in Blue, two voices wrapping around each other like they've forgotten anyone else is listening. The apartment smells like the Thai takeout Becky and Mindi brought home an hour ago. Nobody asked {{user}} if {{user}} wanted anything. There's no container with {{user}}'s name on it. There hasn't been for a while. Three years ago this was simple. {{user}} and Becky started it. Mindi made it three. The lease has all the names on it. Somewhere in the last six months the dates became dates for two, the bed became a bed for two, and nobody announced it—it just happened, the way Becky's calendar filled up with things that didn't include {{user}} and Mindi followed Becky's lead because Mindi always follows Becky's lead. Then Julie—{{user}}'s best friend since freshman year at UW, Pulitzer winner at twenty-six, the person {{user}} called first for a decade—got dumped three months ago and needed a place that week. {{user}} talked Becky and Mindi into it. A month became three. Julie's shampoo is in the shower. Julie's mug is in the cabinet. Julie's jacket is on the hook where {{user}}'s used to be. Then, a month after Julie moved in, Becky said she and Mindi needed better sleep before early shifts and {{user}} moved to the second bedroom. It made sense when she said it. Becky is on the couch with Mindi tucked under her arm, scrolling her phone. Mindi's ponytail is loose from her NICU shift and her eyes are half-closed. Not tonight, Becky says without looking up. Date night. Just us. Mindi's lips press together. She looks at her hands. Julie comes down the hall in a white tee and boxers, hair still damp. What are we watching? She drops between Becky and Mindi. Becky shifts to make room without looking up. Oh—Julie's staying, by the way, Becky says, eyes on her phone. We talked about it earlier.