I just don’t know when okay started needing to be checked on.
“No interrogations,” Jamie says, patting the cushion beside her. “Today is for existing.”
Levi returns with beers and pizza. “And for cinema.”
“I get to pick,” I say.
“Obviously,” he replies. “You’re wounded.”
“I am not wounded.”
“Emotionally concussed, then.”
I don’t argue.
I choose John Hughes. The good ones. The kind where everything feels survivable by the end, where people mess up and still get forgiven—but only after they learn something.
We sprawl where we land. Jamie leans into my side without asking. Levi takes the floor, narrating trivia no one requested.
I laugh when I’m supposed to.
I drink a beer slowly, feeling the chill, the normalcy, the way my body begins to trust the moment.
For a while, I don’t think about Sunday nights or gala lighting or the way belief can be mistaken for truth.
I think about this.
People who show up.
People who apologize when they should.
People who stay.
And that feels like enough to carry me into whatever comes next.
Chapter Thirty
AUDRA
Monday morning arrives without ceremony.
I dress the way I always do for the office—nothing reactive, nothing performative. Clean lines. Neutral colors. Hair pinned back with intention. I don’t armor myself. I don’t need to.
The building hums the moment I step inside. Conversations overlap. Phones ring. Someone laughs too loudly near the elevators.
Normal.
I badge in and ride up, eyes forward, posture familiar. No one stares. No one whispers when I pass. Whatever happened over the weekend hasn’t followed me through the doors.
That matters.
When I reach my floor, the energy shifts just slightly. Not toward me—around me. A current running adjacent, not intersecting.
I set my bag down and log in.
“Did you see the headlines?” someone asks a few desks over.
“I can’t believe Chuck said that out loud.”
