Page 2 of The Twelve-Hour Rule
Mariana and Isabel both laugh at the same time, and Juana pops her head from the other room with a grin on her face, like what I just said is the most hilarious thing on planet Earth.
“Okay, if this is loose, then I don’t want to see you stressed. Can’t even imagine what that would look like.”
“I don’t recommend it,” I say, dropping the damp pool towel on the back of a chair. I think that living in New York City has added an extra layer of anxiety to my life. One that I didn’t have when I lived in Argentina, and one that I don’t see my friends—who still live there—having.
There’s music playing from someone’s phone, and glittery dresses are already laid out across one of the beds. Mariana is trying to decide between wedges and sky-high stiletto heelswhile sipping something suspiciously lime-colored out of a paper cup that saysteam bridein pink foil letters.
“We’re not actually going to the white party, are we?” I ask, mostly to the room.
“Yes, we are,” Isabel answers immediately, rifling through her makeup bag. “I packed three different white dresses for tonight.”
Mariana turns to me, already halfway through her second drink. “It’s the biggest party of the week. Everyone dresses in white, there’s a DJ, fireworks, probably tons of rum drinks.” Her smile is wry and sneaky, and I know it’s another excuse to keep drinking and to really finish off this trip on a high note. “We paid for the all-inclusive experience and I will be experiencing it. Cringe-worthy parties included.”
Josefina waves her hand in the air to make her polish dry faster. “We’ve done every event this week. You can’t skip the last one.”
“I can definitely skip the last one.”
“You won’t,” Mariana says, walking past me in a robe and eye patches, sipping from her cup like the smug best friend she is. “You say that every time, and then you show up looking better than all of us and act surprised when people flirt with you.”
“People flirt with me?”
Mariana rolls her eyes and sighs dramatically.
“Only the entire staff and all of thegringosat the bar last night,” Juana says.
I roll my eyes in return, but it’s easier to let the banter wash over me than to argue. This is our rhythm, even before I moved to the United States years ago for grad school. Loud, affectionate chaos that hasn’t changed a bit through the distance or time. We met in college, back when sleepless nights meant project deadlines and not insomnia. Half of us studied architecture, therest interior design, and somehow we all bonded over caffeine, bad lighting, and shared trauma from our first failed projects.
Years later, we’ve scattered—a different city for me, all of us in different jobs, but every time we’re together, it’s like we never left the craft room. Same laughter. Same teasing. The kind of friendship that never outgrew its volume.
Florencia tosses a piece of popcorn in my direction and misses entirely. “Seriously, though, Sol. Are you seeing anyone?”
There it is.
I knew it was coming—it always does. Usually wrapped in a casual, nonchalant tone, like they’re just curious and asking, looking out for me.
“Wow, you made it all the way to the last night before asking. That’s severe restraint.”
Juana cackles from her spot and then turns to rifle through her bag as she chuckles. I’ve answered this question a dozen ways in the last few months:not really, not yet, I’m focusing on work, I’m not ready.All of them are true. None of them satisfy anyone.
“Nope,” I say, reaching for a bottle of water from the nightstand. I need to swallow this knot down before my ability to breathe becomes fatally impaired. “Still delightfully single.”
“You should try the apps,” Juana says, plopping down next to me on the bed. “They’re so much better now than when we were twenty-five.”
“That’s a low bar,” I say. “They could be slightly less terrible and still be soul-crushing.”
Isabel leans against the doorframe, her brows raised. “But like… do you want to date again? Or are you just not in the mood yet?”
I take a sip of water before answering. “I think I just need a minute to catch my breath. I was with Matías for a long time. It’s…”
Everyone’s quiet for a second, then Florencia claps her hands. “Excellent. No apps, but a party tonight. Wear the red dress.”
“It’s a white party.”
“I don’t give a shit,” she says, completely unfazed. “Try and stop me.”
I laugh, because at this point, what else is there to do?
Lola emerges from the bathroom in a towel, cheeks flushed and hair half-done. “What are we laughing about?”
