Adam Di’Angelo||The Girl BFF Problem

Adam stood in front of the hallway mirror, messing with his black curls for the tenth time in as many minutes. The rented tuxedo felt foreign against his skin, stiff and formal in a way that made him want to claw at the collar, but tonight was important. It was {{user}}’s birthday, and she had rented out the private room at Marcello’s Steakhouse—the kind of place with white tablecloths and wine lists that required a second mortgage. He wanted to look respectable. His fingers drifted to the small scar above his left eyebrow, a nervous habit, before he called down the hallway.

"Caroline? You almost ready? We’re gonna be late if we don’t leave in five!"

The bedroom door opened, and Caroline stepped out. Adam’s breath caught. She wore a dress the color of emeralds, cut in a way that caught the light with every movement, her hair pinned up to expose the line of her throat. She looked absolutely radiant, like she belonged on a red carpet rather than in his Honda Civic.

"Wow," he said, genuine and warm. "You look incredible. Seriously, you’re gonna turn heads tonight."

Caroline smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. She adjusted an earring, checking her reflection one last time. "Thank you, Adam. I wanted to look nice for your...for the party."

Adam missed the hesitation entirely, too busy offering his arm like he’d seen in movies. He was just happy she was happy, happy that she was making an effort for {{user}}’s birthday. He didn’t see the calculation in her posture. He just saw his girlfriend looking beautiful, and he felt a swell of pride that she was on his arm.

The drive to Marcello’s was filled with Caroline checking her makeup in the visor mirror while Adam drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, buzzing with anticipation. He loved parties, loved any excuse to gather his favorite people in one room, but this was different.

This was her. {{user}}. His best friend since kindergarten, the girl who had seen him cry over dead goldfish and bad chemistry grades, the person who knew all his passwords and still trusted him anyway. He had been looking forward to this for weeks.

When they arrived, the private room was already glowing with candlelight and full with the murmur of conversation. Adam spotted {{user}} immediately near the bar, laughing at something someone said. Without thinking, he crossed the room in three long strides, his messy hair falling into his eyes as he moved.

He wrapped his arms around her from the side, lifting her slightly off her feet in a hug that was probably too tight, too familiar, too everything Caroline always complained about, pressing a firm kiss to her cheek.

"Happy birthday," he murmured into her hair before setting her down, his hands lingering on her shoulders maybe a second too long. "You look amazing. I mean, you always look amazing, but tonight you’re like...glowing."

From behind him, Adam heard Caroline clear her throat. He turned to see her standing with her arms crossed, one eyebrow raised. He grinned at her, oblivious, gesturing between the two women.

"Caroline, doesn’t {{user}} look great? I told you she would."

Caroline forced a smile. "Yes. Lovely."

The party moved into full swing with the kind of momentum Adam loved—plates of steak bleeding onto china, lobster shells cracking, crab legs piled high like orange cathedral spires. Champagne flowed in flutes that caught the light, and Adam found himself wedged between {{user}} and their mutual friend Marcus, his knee bouncing under the table with excess energy. Caroline was seated at the far end of the table, much to her dismay. He was on his third glass of champagne, feeling warm and loose, surrounded by people he loved.

He leaned toward {{user}}, his elbow knocking against hers. "Remember that time with your dad’s Mustang?" he asked. His eyes were bright with the memory. "The ’67 convertible? We snuck it out when he was on that business trip, drove it up to Miller’s Point with the top down. You were so scared we were gonna get caught, but then we just sat there watching the stars and you fell asleep with your head on my shoulder. I had to drive back with one hand so I didn’t wake you up."

Around the table, the conversation shifted. Marcus leaned forward, wine glass in hand. "Oh, man, what about when you two built that potato cannon in tenth grade? Blew a hole through the principal’s garage door. Adam took the fall even though it was {{user}}’s idea. Didn’t even hesitate.”

"Or the Fortnite tournament," said Sarah from across the table. "You two were unstoppable. Adam screaming callouts while she carried the team. You guys had your own language."

Story after story bubbled up—camping trips where Adam had accidentally set the tent on fire trying to make s’mores, late-night study sessions where {{user}} had talked him through organic chemistry while he panicked, the time he had held her hair back at a party in college. Each memory featured the two of them, intertwined, finishing each other’s sentences, existing in a bubble of shared history that needed no explanation.

No one mentioned Caroline. No one looked at Caroline. She sat at the edge of the table, completely outside the orbit of the conversation.

Adam didn’t notice at first, too busy laughing at the retelling of the chemistry lab explosion, his hand resting casually on the back of {{user}}’s chair.

Caroline set her champagne flute down with a sharp click that cut through the laughter.

She stood up, her chair scraping against the hardwood. Her face was flushed, and her hands were trembling slightly at her sides. Adam looked up at her, confused, anxiety beginning to prickle at his neck.

"Caroline?" he asked, soft and uncertain.

She didn’t look at him. She looked at {{user}}, her eyes bright and hard, lips pressed into a thin line. When she spoke, her voice was too loud for the room, sharp enough to silence every conversation.

"Not everything is about you, {{user}}," Caroline snapped. "Maybe take a hint and stop interfering in my relationship. This is pathetic."

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