His eyes flick between us, and something akin to amusement tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Figures.” He sticks out hishand. “I’m Will, by the way. Y’all got names, or should I just refer to you as Menace to Society and her loyal partner in crime?”
I shake his hand. “Sable.” I jerk a thumb at my gremlin of a best friend. “AndMenaceis Demi.”
“Charmed,” Demi deadpans with a too-honeyed smile as if still plotting her way back in.
Will smirks, then sobers a bit. “Y’all good to drive?”
“We walked,” I say. “I live a few streets over.” I jerk my head toward Demi. “And nobody’s fucking with me while I walk my pitbull home.”
Will laughs under his breath and shoots Demi a look. “Yeah, I can see that.”
Demi flips him off.
Will shakes his head, already heading back inside. “Good luck with that one,” he calls over his shoulder.
I grin, but Demi’s not done.
“We don’t need luck,” she shouts as a final stand. “WE HAVE ALCOHOL AND POOR JUDGEMENT.”
And with that, we start walking, Demi still fuming, me still laughing, and Main Street buzzing behind us as if at almost forty years old we weren’t just unceremoniously dumped into the alley like last night’s trash.
Back at my house, the familiar scent of vanilla candles and old wood welcomes me like a hug. The quiet hum of the refrigerator and the soft tick of the hallway clock feel like a lullaby after the holy mess at the bar.
Demi is already strutting around in a pair of my sweatpants that puddle around her ankles, pure ‘90s skater jeans energy. She’s always treated my space as her own, and there’ssomething about that comfort I love. She feels permanent, unbothered, unbreakable. In one hand, she’s sucking down an applesauce pouch with the dedication of a post-soccer game kid, and with the other, she’s rifling through my pantry with the determination of a treasure hunter. No sense of order. No shame.
“You seriously don’t have any good snacks?” she calls over her shoulder, her voice muffled by the bag of stale pita chips she’s digging out from the back.
I glance over from my spot in the living room, where I’ve been watching the tornado whip through. “Define ‘good.’”
She waves the applesauce pouch in the air. “Not fucking these.”
I shrug. “Bash likes them.”
Her glare lands hard, all righteous indignation and silent accusation. “You have failed him.” Then she heads back to the living room with the assortment she’s got tucked under her arm and dramatically flops back onto the couch, legs crossed, crumbs everywhere.
I take a slow breath and look around the house, letting my gaze wander over the space that used to be ours—Andrew’s and mine—but always mine by law.
The hardwood floorboards betray only the ghost of his passage. Every wall wears the furniture I restored myself—the battered oak chair whose leather I stitched patch by patch, the walnut dresser I refused to sell even when I could’ve doubled the price. On the far wall, my degree hangs in a matte-black frame—a silent middle finger to everyone who ever said I couldn’t. I did all of this on my own.
Andrew never left a mark because he never wanted to. For ten years, he held up a neon sign flashingI don’t belong here, and I just kept pretending I didn’t see it.
Tonight feels different, though. For the first time in years, someone tried to make me run from my own life, and I didn’t. Well, Demi didn’t let me. The memory of Ashley’s smug face flashes through my mind—the way she invaded my space, dropped Andrew’s name like a weapon, waited for me to crumble. But I held my ground. Even when every instinct screamed at me to flee, I stayed.
I shake the thought away, watching Demi transform my organized living room into her personal chaos zone. It’s oddly comforting—her ability to bounce back from throwing punches to rifling through my snacks like nothing happened. Some things never change.
She pops open my laptop, now buried in a nest of pillows and throw blankets she’s yanked from their perfectly folded spots, completely unbothered by the disaster she’s made of my couch.
“Alright, so what’s the plan for Stalker Barbie?” she asks, fingers already flying across the keyboard.
I groan. “Demi, please tell me you’re not—”
“I’m just doing some light research.”
I lean over and instantly regret it. The screen is filled with a website that looks dangerous. Dark backgrounds, red text, and a loading bar that gives off a distinctly illegal vibe.
“Demi, what the fuck is this?”
She smirks and wiggles her fingers ominously. “The dark web.”
