Erin nodded, relief settling in her chest like a warm stone. “You didn’t deserve the way I ended things.”
“No,” Tilly agreed, plain and simple. “But I’m glad you said it.”
They didn’t hug. They didn’t need to. Something steadier settled between them. Not friendship yet. Not forgiveness. Just clean ground.
As Erin stood to leave, Tilly spoke again.
“She’s good for you,” they said quietly. “I can tell.”
Erin felt herself soften. “Yeah,” she whispered. “I think she is.”
Tilly looked away and then back. “Then don’t screw it up.”
“I’m trying not to,” Erin said, a small, rueful smile forming.
“Good.”
When she turned to go, Tilly added one last, softer note.
“Good night, Erin.”
Erin paused, meeting their eyes. “Good night.”
She walked home with a feeling she hadn’t expected. Not healed. Not fixed. But honest for the first time in years.
Twenty Eight
Jamie hadn’t planned to text Erin again so soon, but the glow from their last exchange was still warm in her chest when she caught herself typing anyway. Thursday afternoon, she hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen, then sent it before she could overthink.
You ever let yourself off-duty long enough for a drink?
The dots appeared, vanished, appeared again. Jamie almost shoved the phone under a pillow before the reply finally lit up the screen.
Depends who’s asking.
Her pulse kicked up.
A reporter who promises not to bring her notebook.
Another pause, just long enough to make her chew at her bottom lip. Then:
There’s a place on Tremont. Good whiskey, no cameras.
Jamie smiled at the ceiling, nerves and excitement twined together.
I’ll meet you there.
* * *
The bar Erin picked was tucked half a block off the main street, wood-paneled and dim, the jukebox spilling out a steady rotation of seventies rock. Jamie liked it instantly. It wasn’t trendy or crowded, and the low light made their booth feel like a pocket carved out of the world. She took the first sip of herdrink and let the warmth burn down her throat before daring to look Erin full in the face. Erin was leaning back against the booth, fingers circling the rim of her glass, eyes already softer than Jamie was used to seeing under fluorescent lights and news cameras.
“You’re right,” Jamie said, lifting her glass a little. “No cameras. Guess that means I’ll have to remember this the old-fashioned way.”
“Dangerous,” Erin murmured, tilting her head. “Your memory might not do me justice.”
Jamie laughed, surprised by how easily it came. “Oh, I think it will.”
The second round came faster than either of them expected. Erin told a story about Leo stealing a whole loaf of sourdough off the counter and hiding it under her bed. “The entire place smelled like a brewery,” she said, shaking her head, but her mouth betrayed the fondness behind the words. Jamie nearly spilled her drink laughing, and Erin looked pleased to have caused it. When Jamie’s turn came, she admitted the worst typo of her early career—a lower third that accidentally introduced the mayor of Denver as Major Disaster. Erin laughed so hard she had to press a hand to her temple, and Jamie found herself cataloging the sound, how rare and unguarded it felt.
