1
Jess
The bar of the dimly lit Manhattan spot screams “try-hard” with its subway tile backsplash and hanging plants connected by string lights. It’s the kind of place where a beer costs thirty dollars and they call it “craft.”
Perfect hook: “Pretending thirty-dollar beer tastes different than six dollar beer.” Would’ve gotten 50k views, easy, two years ago.
I shake off the thought.
Old habits.
“You good?” Ethan asks, sliding onto the barstool next to me. My brother has that perpetual paramedic energy. Always checking vitals, even when the only thing dying is my social life.
Almost everyone I know is either married or engaged. Sabrina bagged a billionaire. So did Tatiana.
I can’t even bag groceries without the cashier judging my wine-to-veggies ratio (thank god for self checkout). But sure, I’m totally fine being the eternal single friend. The one they’ll eventually stop invitingto couples’ dinners because I ‘wouldn’t be comfortable.’
Yep, just fine and dandy.
“I’m golden,” I lie, fiddling with my phone case. “Just living my best unemployed life.”
“You’ll land something soon,” Ethan says. “Your port is solid.”
Right. My portfolio. A digital graveyard of content that once got millions of views and now gets... crickets. The algorithm changed. The trends shifted.
And me? I didn’t shift fast enough.
Story of my life.
I shrug. “Sure. Any day now. I’m beating them off with a stick. Of dynamite.”
“That’s the spirit.”
The truth is, I only said yes to drinks tonight because I’ve been saying no for five years. Every casual invite, every group gathering, every “just come grab drinks” text from Ethan that I knew would include Marco Fiore. I’ve dodged them all with increasingly unbelievable excuses. Prior commitment. Deadline. Migraine. That thing where you suddenly remember you have to reorganize your spice cabinet alphabetically.
All because of one Vegas night five years ago that I still think about when I’m trying to fall asleep. One night... the day before Marco Fiore was to marry someone else.
Marco Fiore. Ethan’s billionaire best friend.
Yes, another billionaire.
You’d think I’d have enough of them after seeing what Sabrina and Tatiana went through with theirs. But Marco Fiore... the man I had approximately four hours with under circumstances I’m still not entirelysure were real. It’s not like anything happened, to be honest. We didn’t even kiss. But we... connected. Or at least, that’s what it felt like. Probably a drug-induced connection, to be fair.
Still, tonight, for reasons I can’t fully explain even to myself, I decided to stop running.
Maybe it’s because I’m tired of hiding. Maybe it’s because my bank account is so anemic that even my dignity is negotiable. Maybe it’s because some self-destructive part of me wants to prove I can sit in the same room as him without combusting.
Spoiler alert: I’m about to combust.
Ethan flags down the bartender. “He’s a good guy, Jess. I know you’ve only met him a couple times, but you two should actually talk. He’s—” He pauses, something flickering across his face. Concern maybe. “He’s been through a lot. Could use a friend who isn’t me.”
Translation: Marco’s wife died two years ago and Ethan thinks we should be friends. Sure. I’ll just casually befriend the drop-dead gorgeous man I’ve spent half a decade dodging. Totally normal. Nothing awkward about that at all.
Great with emotional support. That’s what my LinkedIn summary has been reduced to. From “Senior Marketing Consultant, 500K+ Social Following” to “Great with Feelings, Apparently.” The algorithm giveth, and the algorithm taketh away.
I paste on a smile. “When’s he getting here?”
“Any minute.” Ethan checks his phone. “Don’t be weird.”
