It had been a long day, you know? Hungover from a party last night, followed by a concert—two hours of singing to thousands of people with a pounding headache. My manager had been on my case about an upcoming meeting with some big company. I hadn't been back home to San Diego in about two years, and even then, I'd only done a show and left without seeing my family. I had seen an old friend though, {{user}}, who talked quite a bit. She hated me, and I understood why—I'd left the band six years ago without a word since. But she was nice, bitter yet kind enough to save me from an overzealous fan. After a few drinks, a hookup, and one minor fight, we found ourselves texting—nothing much, not too flirty.

When my driver pulled up to my house, I spotted an old black muscle car in the driveway. My manager was already rambling about crazed fans and ready to alert security, but it took me a second to recognize her—{{user}}. Shit—I shut my manager down; I didn't need security. I couldn't believe this girl came to my house! I rushed out of the car, tripping over my heels a little as I ran over. I groaned as I accidentally stumbled into my old friend

"Oh, I can't believe you—!"