It’s Thursday.
A longer pause this time.
Sage:
Right. Of course it is.
I tighten my grip on the wheel.
Me:
I’ll make it up to you. Tomorrow. Dinner. Somewhere nice.
The reply takes longer.
Sage:
Okay. But email me when you get home.
Me:
Promise.
Three dots appear. Then disappear. Like she’s typing and deleting. Memorizing instead of sending.
Sage:
Have fun.
I pull into Tony’s building, glass and steel rising out of the neighborhood like it doesn’t belong there. I park, grab the six-pack I promised, and ride the elevator up with a guy who smells like cologne and money.
The doors open to noise.
Poker chips clacking. Music low and lazy. Someone already yelling about a bad beat. Tony’s place smells like wings, pizza, and whatever overpriced candle he’s burning to feel “centered.”
“ETHAN!” Tony booms. “You made it!”
“Barely,” I say, dropping the beer on the counter.
The rooftop doors are open. String lights flicker against the darkening sky. Summer’s close enough to taste.
We settle around the table. Cards shuffle. Wings disappear. Someone spills a beer and doesn’t even apologize.
And then—like clockwork—it starts.
“So,” Jake says, leaning back. “How long’s it been now?”
“Almost three weeks, since they met,” Tony answers for me, smirking. “And he’s already insufferable.”
“Can’t stop glowing,” Mark adds. “Haven’t met a single one of her friends.”
“What about, Chloe?” I countered.
Tony snorts so hard beer nearly comes out his nose.
“Chloe doesn’t count.”
“Why not?” Jake asks.
