ONE
SAVANNAH CROSS
Thursday nights belong to trivia.Not dates. Not errands. Thursdays are sacred, which is why I’m already halfway through my first beer when I slide into our usual booth at Jake’s, shoulder-checking Noah on the way in like physics is a suggestion.
“Move your long legs,” I tell him. “Some of us are fun-sized.”
He snorts, scooting anyway. “Babe, you’re not a Snickers.”
I laugh, loud and easy, the sound spilling out before I can stop it. It still surprises me sometimes how freely it comes now. “No. I’m a Milky Way. Sweet, a little messy, and absolutely worth the calories.”
Eli chokes on his beer. Lena presses her lips together like she’s trying not to smile and failing. Noah just shakes his head.
“I regret knowing you,” Noah says.
“Liar,” I reply, lifting my bottle. “You’d miss me immediately.”
Lena grins and taps the laminated trivia card against the table. “Okay, children. Focus. This is week six. We are not losing again because you two get distracted arguing about height statistics.”
“We lost last week because Noah insisted the answer to everything was ‘The Beatles,’” I say.
“That is a statistically sound strategy,” Noah replies. “They show up everywhere.”
Our team name is already written on the board behind the bar in thick black marker.
QUIZTOPHER NOLAN.
It was my idea. I remain proud. Some people peak in high school. I peak in team names.
The bartender drops off another round before we even ask. That’s how you know you’re regulars. He gives me a look as he sets the beers down.
“Pacing yourself tonight, Savannah?”
I smile sweetly. “Absolutely not.”
He laughs and moves on, and I feel that familiar flicker of comfort settle in. Being known here. Being expected.
The place is loud but not chaotic. TVs along the walls play a basketball game on mute, the crowd noise blending into the hum of conversation. Someone cheers at a screen. Someone else is already arguing with the trivia host about rules like this is a courtroom drama.
And then there’s the other team.
I notice them the same way I always do. Not because they’re new. Not because they’re loud. Because they aren’t.
They’ve been playing all season too. Same nights. Same back tables. The Iron Reapers take up two tables pushed together near the back, leather cuts worn or draped over chair backs, patches dark and unmistakable. Beers lined up like they’ve been there a while and plan to stay. Only a handful of them are actually playing. The rest stand behind them, watching, heckling, laughing low.
They don’t perform. They don’t need to.
I tell myself I’m not staring. I tell myself I’m just taking inventory of the room like I always do. Old habits don’t die. Still, something in my stomach tightens in a way that has nothing to do with beer and everything to do with awareness.
“Okay,” Lena says, leaning in. “Categories tonight are Movies, Geography, Sports, Music, and a mystery round.”
“That mystery round is going to ruin us,” Eli says.
“I live for chaos,” I say, taking a long pull of my beer. “Bring it on.”
The trivia host taps the mic. “Alright folks, welcome back. Pens ready. Round one.”
I feel the familiar spark light up in my chest. Not competition exactly. Something looser. Joy with structure. A game I know how to play.
