Riley grips the steering wheel while sipping from a straw that’s long since tapped the sweet well dry.

“I gotta say,” she chimes, twirling her cup of slush, “Keeping so many secrets from you was really exhausting.”

My bestie turns the wheel again and our purple PT Cruiser reaches a familiar sight. No, we’re not at the boys’ dormitory I remembered, but instead, one of the countless Brooklyn brownstones that Alexa calls home.