“Mind your business, you hag,” I shoot back, flipping her off with zero heat.
But they’re still watching me, expectant and a little too hopeful, like they’re rooting for me to pull some kind of queer rom-com miracle out of my rhinestone ass. The problem is, they don’t know what I know. That I let someone in. Once. And I still remember the way he laughed when he let me pin falsies on him for the first time. How he’d hum the chorus of “Proud Mary”under his breath when he thought no one was listening. How he said goodbye like it was just a pause, not a full stop. That kind of love doesn’t just go away; it roots itself deep; it becomes a foundation. Quiet, strong, unshakable, even when you pretend it never happened. I shake off the thought of him like a bad habit. He left. I let him go. And neither of us reached out again. It’s done.
“One risk,” I repeat, more to myself this time. “Nothing wild. Just…enough.”
“That’s how it starts,” Patti says knowingly, stirring her Bloody Mary with a giant pickle spear. “Next thing you know, you’re crying in a hot tub with your new boyfriend and a bottle of Pinot Grigio because he wants to take you hunting for your one-month anniversary.”
“Too specific,” Dixie says.
“Because it happened,” Patti replies with a shudder. “Never trust a man whose Tinder profile is nothing but fishing pictures.”
“Honestly, same rule applies to anyone who lists ‘podcasting’ as a special interest,” Alexa adds. “It’s always trouble.”
“May, I think it’s sweet,” Dee says, stretching out on the velvet banquette like a spoiled cat. “One risk. A little magic. I mean, what else could be more fitting in this town?”
It all sounds ridiculous, but it also sounds like maybe exactly what I need.
“One risk,” I repeat. “Not specifying what kind. Could be love. Could be…switching to oat milk. Could be getting a tattoo of Patti’s face on my ass.”
“I do not want to live on your ass,” Patti groans from her chaise. “I’d never see the light of day again.”
“I vote it’s a romantic risk,” Dee singsongs, cutting off my response. “Like texting your ex. Or, oooh, flirting with thatdelivery guy who looks like a Hemsworth who got lost on the way to a Hallmark movie.”
“He’s married,” I say automatically.
“Details,” she waves me off.
Dixie raises her red Solo cup. “To May’s Year of Questionable Choices.”
We all clink drinks, or at least make clinking gestures. Alexa is still too hungover to lift her arm fully, and Dee’s just holding an empty can of whipped cream.
“I swear to god,” I say, already regretting this entire conversation, “if y’all try to set me up with someone again, I will glue all your lashes to your elbows.”
“Worth it,” Dixie shrugs. “We’ve got backup lashes.”
“And backup elbows,” Alexa adds.
Before I can argue the biological logistics of that, the door creaks open and Tucker steps in, holding a tray of bagels and a gallon of coffee like the angel of mercy they truly are. They freeze when they see us all huddled around the bar in various states of hungover decay.
“I see y’all survived,” they say, amused.
“Barely,” Patti mutters.
“New Year’s brunch,” I say, handing them a flute of questionably flat champagne. “And resolutions.”
“Ah.” T pauses, taking the drink from me as they slide behind the bar and promptly pour it down the drain. Solid choice, honestly. “So, what’s yours?”
“To keep the glitter out of the espresso machine this year,” I say solemnly.
“Good luck with that,” T snorts.
“Also: take one risk,” Patti stage-whispers, like it’s a scandalous secret.
“Oh god,” T mutters, pouring themselves a coffee. “Is this going to be like last year’s ‘no more late-night dance-offs with Alexa’ situation?”
“That was self-defense,” I say, indignant.
“I beat you fair and square,” Alexa protests. “You just weren’t emotionally prepared for a spontaneous death drop.”
