“In what year did the Berlin Wall fall?”
“Eighty-nine,” I say, then pause. “Right?”
“Yes,” Lena says.
“No,” Noah says at the same time. “Eighty-eight.”
I stare at him. “You’re wrong.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” I say, pointing my pen at his chest. “I know it in my bones.”
“You didn’t live through it.”
“Neither did you.”
Eli raises his hands. “I love when you two fight. It’s like watching siblings who actually enjoy each other.”
“Noah,” I say, leaning closer, lowering my voice dramatically. “If you overwrite my answer, I will steal your fries next time we’re here.”
He considers this. Slowly crosses out his answer.
“Power,” Lena mutters.
When the host calls time, I sink back against the booth, laughing, feeling that light, floaty buzz settle in. The good kind. The kind that doesn’t blur the world. Just softens the edges.
This is what my life looks like now. Thursday nights. Beer. Friends who know me well enough to argue with me and still trust my instincts. No one watching what I say. No one correcting my tone. No one asking me to be quieter, smaller,easier. Two years divorced and back home, finally taking up space without flinching.
I lift my bottle again, clinking it against the others. “To Quiztopher Nolan,” I say.
“To Savannah being right,” Noah adds.
“Always,” I agree.
From the back of the bar, the Iron Reapers laugh again, low and easy, like they’ve been there the whole time. I don’t turn around.
But my body knows exactly where they are.
By the end of the night, I’m buzzed enough that the edges of the room feel soft but my brain is sharp as hell. That’s my sweet spot.
“And in an absolutely shocking turn of events,” the trivia host says into the mic, “we have a tie.”
The bar groans and cheers at the same time.
“Tied for first place,” he continues, grinning like this is his favorite part of the job, “Quiztopher Nolan…”
I fist-pump so hard I almost elbow Noah in the ribs.
“…and The Reaper-cussions.”
The back tables erupt. I twist in my seat despite myself.
Only four of the Iron Reapers are still playing now. The rest stand behind them, beers in hand, heckling freely. The four at the table look focused. Cuts still on. Pens ready. One of them rolls his shoulders like he’s about to step into a fight instead of a trivia question.
“Did they seriously name themselves The Reaper-cussions?” I ask.
“That’s objectively good,” Eli says.
