SHUT THE DOOR,

HAVE A SEAT *

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It was entirely possible she was overreacting. The delicate nature of the ‘Serena’ situation aside, Wren Woodrow’s default setting was high-anxiety, and she walked almost every facet of her life on a tight wire of constant worry and over analysis. Even still, this exhausting amount of concern for Ford’s well-being (that earned her a lovely chat about phone use with management) was justified for two understandable reasons:

One- as his best friend and roommate, Wren witnessed first hand the emotional wreckage that was Ford and Serena. It was the type of relationship where two miserable people slogged along while dragging everyone else into their uncomfortable nexus of bullshit. Despite not having much in common outside of public screaming matches and orgasms, Serena Banks had dug her claws in deep, and it took five (excruciating) years and a month-long Tinder expose to finally put it to death. Two- Wren was utterly and stupidly in love with him. And sure, on the outside those two points appeared to massively influence each other, but Wren was always careful about maintaining a level, jealous head. Her friendship with Ford Baker was forged in the fires of art school undergrad; back when they were still wide-eyed and green enough to believe that their futures were paved with exhibitions at Art Basel and $20k commissions. Ford had always been a self-serious, walking stereotype- he was tall and thin, he kept his auburn hair shaggy, his diet comprised of mainly American Spirits and tequila (occasional burrito bowl notwithstanding), he had the pallor of a victorian shoe, he’d never met a dangly cross earring that he didn’t like, and he was of course, totally obsessed with sticking his dick in terminally ‘cool girls’. Shy and nerdy, Wren, was the complete opposite of his type, and they were strategically paired up by their ceramics professor in hopes that a semester would pass without the drama from Ford fucking his lab partners. To Wren, Ford was a god. To Ford, Wren was his reliable buddy; as long as he kept choosing to run through the gauntlet of Miami’s art-hoe population, she was content to swallow her feelings and let him.So she soldiered onward in the role of impartial ear as the years went by. Being the more responsible of the two, she immediately went and got a mind-numbing desk job after graduation in order to ground her best friend’s loftier ambitions. If Ford needed someone to talk him off a ledge then she made damn sure to be no more than a text and three steps down the hall away; and five years of living together while he had a serious girlfriend left her crying silently into her pillow most nights, but she was committed to his happiness above all things. When the breakup finally happened (“you’re fucking club promoters behind my back, Serena”), Wren wasn’t allowed one second of (private) celebration due to Ford’s immediate collapse into a sad, pathetic lump. He stopped painting, he stopped showering (unless forced), he stopped leaving the living room couch until she got him up, and then he promptly stopped leaving his bedroom. The sorry state of him caused her anxiety to go off the charts, and it was dangerously close to getting her fired. Angling the phone under her desk, Wren carefully typed while keeping an eye out for her supervisor. are you okay??? I swear to god Ford turn your phone on & answer me if you’re not already dead when I get home, you will b-

That was a preview of Shut the Door, Have a Seat. To read the rest purchase the book.

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