Four letters.
Seventeen emotional stab wounds.
I swallow half the whiskey in one go. It scorches apath down my throat. My insides ignite—chaotic, reckless, running hot in all the wrong directions.
Seth beams. “Atta girl. Now scoot closer. You’re playing.”
“Oh God.” I brace for impact. “Playing what?”
“Never Have I Ever: Slightly Inappropriate Edition,” Holly announces, far too giddy for the group therapy session we’re about to spiral into.
Seth elbows me. “Also—this is the whisper edition.”
“Little ears around,” Charlie hisses from across the bar. “So we can’t use the words we want to use.”
Nick nods solemnly, like this is a UN briefing. “Great. We can pretend last year didn't scar us all. Emotional charades is a serious upgrade.”
Which means this is seconds away from devolving into expert-level, whisper-only, R-rated-for-sure, sometimes-X-rated horny adult confession hour.
My chest tightens. My fingers curl around the glass like it's the only thing anchoring me to this barstool.
This might actually be the worst idea I’ve ever had—and that’s a competitive category.
I pry my ribs back open by downing the rest of my whiskey. Then I tilt the empty glass back and forth until I’m absolutely sure forearms over there notices.
Only then do I settle in beside the group, pretending I’m just here to play a card game.
Pretending I’m not trying to breathe in the same room as a man who once knew exactly how to steal it from me.
Chance lifts his drink like a man still trying to bleachhis brain of my secret stash… or forget they’re currently shoved down his pants like emotional contraband.
“Sierra’s up.” Of course I am.
A bigger woman would bow out gracefully.
Or clutch her chest and claim sudden, dramatic-onset malaria.
But whiskey is doing the thing whiskey does by turning the smart part of my brain into a supportive but unhinged hype squad.
The universe giggles maliciously.
And Everett—God, Everett—keeps glancing over like he isn’t eavesdropping but is absolutely eavesdropping.
Fine.
If he’s listening, I’ll give him something to listen to.
I lean forward, lowering my voice to a whisper only our little group—and, unfortunately, the entire bar staff with functioning ears—can hear.
“Never have I ever…” I let it hang, sweet and venomous.
“…run away when I couldn’t hack reality.”
Everett freezes.
Actually freezes.
Full statue. No blink. No breath. His hand hangs mid-air halfway to the glass he’d been reaching for.
