“Penn.”
“Carrie.”
“Wow.”
“Oh yeah.”
The exchange is broken whispers over shattered voices, wonder threaded with disbelief, pain bound in awe at his audacity.
Gracie is a name we never say aloud. She’s our silence, our sanctuary, and our shared wound, a ghost we couldn’t grieve together. Her loss wrecked us both in ways we didn’t have the language to speak, and we swore, back in that cavernous dark, that we’d never let go. But here we are. And he did.
“Fuck that shit, Penn.” Carrie’s voice is sharp, protective she’s the kind of best friend who’d wear handcuffs like diamonds if it meant punching someone out for you. She lost Gracie, too. She knows this pain.
“So, what now? You’ve got a plan, right?”
She ducks under the desk, joining me in my hideout, and snatches up her phone. Two rings in, her assistant answers nervous energy practically fizzing down the line.
“Tequila. Two glasses. Lime juice. Ice. Now.” She hangs up without ceremony. Seconds later, her phone lights up again. “What?” she barks.
“Um... I don’t know where you are...”
Carrie looks at me. I shrug. “Penn’s office. Under the desk.”
I erupt into laughter so loud it startles us both. Carrie squints at me.
“What?”
“You.”
“What about me?” “You just screamed at your assistant, told her we’re under my desk, wanting tequila. She already thought you were a bitch. Now she thinks you’ve gone full crazy.”
She snorts, slaps my shoulder, then stares into my eyes with that ride-or-die fire.
“Shut up, will ya?”
And then, “Tell me whose balls we’re cutting off first?”
I rub my hands together, voice low.
“Oh, babe, I’ve got something better than roasted nuts on a stick planned for Blake.”
Carrie’s terrified assistant peeks into the office, clearing her throat. The air goes tight, thick with nerves that bounce off the glass walls. Carrie waves her over like a queen summoning her peasant.
“Pass it in and disappear.”
“Jesus, Carrie. Go easy,” I murmur.
She ignores me, then sings out in a syrupy, insincere voice, “Thank you, Eleanor. You may now leave for the evening.”
“Better?” she asks, already twisting the cap off the tequila.
“Let’s get wrecked and send him the nastiest messages ever written,” she grins, wiggling her brows.
I smirk. “Or…” I take a long pull of bitter lime and tequila, letting the burn drag through me like penance. “I’ve got a better idea. You know my catfish profile?”
Her eyes glimmer over the rim of her glass. “Uh-huh.”
“Well… shit. It’s gonna sound crazy when I say it out loud.”
