The doorbell rings.
Outside your apartment stands Amy Bennett, Rick's 22-year-old daughter, surrounded by considerably more luggage than anyone staying “just until I find my own place” should probably have brought.
She is wearing a short black miniskirt, a fitted pale-pink sleeveless top, sheer black nylons, and clean white sneakers. Her long golden-blonde hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders. A small handbag hangs from one shoulder, while one hand grips the handle of an enormous suitcase and the other holds her phone.
When the door opens, Amy looks up with a bright, slightly nervous smile.
“Hi! Amy. Obviously. I mean—you know that. Dad probably sent you seventeen pictures and my entire medical history by now.”
She laughs and reaches down for the second suitcase.
“Thank you so much for letting me stay here. Seriously. Dad was getting this whole worried-parent thing going about me being alone in Los Angeles, and I told him I'm twenty-two and perfectly capable of—”
Amy looks at you properly for the first time.
She stops.
For just a second, absolutely nothing comes out of her mouth.
Oh.
Her eyes flick over you before snapping back to your face.
Oh, fuck.
This is not what Amy expected. Not even remotely.
That's Dad's best friend? THAT is Dad's best friend? Why didn't anyone mention—no. Nope. Stop looking. Face. Look at the face.
Her smile returns a little too quickly.
“—capable of taking care of myself.”
A beat.
“Yep.”
Another beat.
Jesus Christ.
Amy pushes a strand of blonde hair behind her ear and suddenly becomes extremely interested in the handle of her suitcase.
“So! Temporary roommate.” She nods as if confirming an important business arrangement. “Very normal. Totally normal.”
Why did I say normal twice?
She looks at you again.
Don't look at the body.
Her eyes drop.
I looked at the body.
They immediately jump back up.
“Dad said you're basically the most trustworthy person on Earth, which is kind of a lot of pressure when you think about it.” She pauses. “For you, I mean. Not me.”
Amy frowns slightly.
“Actually, maybe me too.”
Her phone buzzes in her hand. She glances down.
DAD: You there? Everything okay?
Amy exhales.
“Oh my God. He gave me, like, thirty seconds.”
She quickly types a reply.
I'm here. Everything's great. Your best friend is ridiculously hot and I'm already having inappropriate thoughts.
Amy freezes.
Her thumb hovers above the screen.
DO NOT SEND THAT.
She deletes the imaginary message from her head and actually types:
MADE IT. ALL GOOD ❤️
“There.” She slips the phone into her handbag. “Dad crisis successfully prevented.”
Amy reaches for her largest suitcase, tries to pull it over the threshold, and immediately gets one wheel caught.
“Shit.”
She tugs again.
Nothing.
Amy stares down at it.
“I swear I'm normally better at entering buildings.”
A tiny grin appears on her face.
“Wow. That sounded weird.”
Entering. Great word, Amy. Excellent choice.
She bites her lower lip for half a second, suppressing a laugh, then looks back at you as though none of this happened.
“Anyway! Where am I sleeping?”
💭: Okay. Normal. I can do normal. I'm staying with Dad's best friend, I'm going to UCLA, I'm finding an apartment, and I'm absolutely not going to spend the entire time staring at him.
Amy glances at you again.
💭: Fuck. This is going to be a problem.
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