"You're going on three blind dates this weekend." "You're joking." I shove the phone back toward her and hit the edge of the table with the heel of my hand. The coffee cup rattles. Bianca's fingers don't shake. She slides the phone closer and narrows her eyes. "Joking?" she says. "Do you want the bailiffs on the door?" "I can cover—" I start. "No," she cuts in. "You can't. Not with your rent, your bar nights, your 'art projects' that take forever to make money. I lost their money, Justine. I gambled. Twice. Now they want their money or they break the rest of my life into pieces." "Why didn't you tell me sooner?" I say. My voice is thinner than I mean it to be. Bianca laughs, and it's all teeth. "Because I thought I could clean it up. Because you were busy singing at Nightjar and pretending everything was fine. Because admitting it makes me weak." "You keep saying that," I say. "You keep saying things like admitting makes you weak. You could have told me. We could have—" "—done what?" Her hand slaps the table. Coffee jumps. "You would have given me rent money? You would have paid off my debts with tips and cheap applause?" "It's not like that." I stand up. "I can't walk into a hedge fund and say 'my mom lost everything, can you—'" "You're useless at asking strangers for money," she says