He lets out a low noise, and when I glance at him, his eyes are heavy-lidded andhot. “No regrets about it at all, Angel.”
I glare at him playfully, pointing a finger at the door. “Leave, or we’ll never get out of here.”
He throws his hands up in surrender, slowly backing away. “I’m going, I’m going.” Dillon throws me one last lingering look, and then he disappears through the door.
Twenty minutes later,Dillon reaches down into the rideshare, holding his hand out to help me out. Standing on the sidewalk, I smooth my dress down, sucking in a breath before he tangles our fingers together, heading toward The Violet Wire, a popular cocktail bar. Its neon signs light up the rapidly darkening evening.
“You okay, Angel?” Dillon asks softly as we pause just outside the main door. “You’ve been quiet today.”
I wet my lips. “It’s been…Last night was rough,” I admit, and his expression falls.
“You didn’t say anything,” he mutters. “I don’t know why you won’t let me come with you.”
“You do know why,” I remind him gently. “And let’s not talk about it right now. This is a night for celebrating, not hashing out my problems with my parents.”
He doesn’t look like he’s ready to let it go, but we’re interrupted when a voice calls out, “Dillon! Charlie!” We turn to find Marisa, one of his friends, approaching, her smile bright. “That was good timing!” She pulls Dillon into a brief hug, and then me, her sweet perfume tickling my nose. “I’ll be honest, I’m glad I’m not walking in late on my own.” She pulls back, blue eyes widening as she takes in my dress. “Charlie, that dress is gorgeous!”
My cheeks go hot, my hands dipping into my pockets and then out again. “Thank you.” I take in her silky blonde hair, the rose-pink halter top, and high-waisted jeans. “You look fantastic, too.”
Marisa grimaces delicately. “You’re lucky I don’t look like a goblin,” she confides, linking our arms and pulling me into the bar, leaving Dillon to follow. “I ended up staying late after my shift at the hospital. I got home and realized I hadn’t done any washing this week! These shifts are wreaking havoc on my schedule, honestly.”
My brows knit together. “You pulled a twelve-hour shift today, and you’re here? Aren’t you tired?”
Marisa flashes a grin. “Yes,” she says simply. “It was my last shift for the week, and I desperately need a drink—or five—to relieve the tension.”
Dillon pipes up from behind us. “Marisa’s basically a robot. She never knows when to quit.”
“I know when to quit,” she argues. “It’ll be about ten seconds after I drink you all under the table.”
“Those are fighting words.” Dillon laughs as we walk further into the bar, the place packed with people and low pop music playing over the speakers. We’re walking alongside the bar, the wall to our left lined with red velvet U-shaped booths, when Dillon says, “Look, over there!”
I follow his pointing finger to see Jack standing in the middle of the booth in a back corner, waving us over. Marisa slides into the booth first, and then Dillon. It means the only place for me to sit is beside him, but there’s not quite enough space, leaving me awkwardly perched on the edge. Bliss is sitting on Marisa’s other side, with Jack in the middle. Corey and Amber—the only other couple in the group—sit across from me and Dillon on the other end.
Jack leans forward with a dopey expression, telling me he’s definitely pre-gamed. “You two are late.” He waggles his eyebrows. “What kept you?”
Dillon slouches, his thigh pressing against mine and his arm around my shoulders, tugging me into his side. I lean into him, trying to take some of the pressure off of having to balance on my seat.
“You know what they say.” He smirks. “Only the cool people are fashionably late. How early did you show up?”
Jack shrugs, his grin crooked. “Early enough to already have had two rounds.”
Bliss gives a sharp smile, looking every inch the lawyer that she is. “We haven’t seen you around lately, Dillon.” Her eyes flit between us, her tone just on the wrong side of cool.
“I’m sure Jack’s told you how busy we are at work right now,” Dillon tells her diplomatically, but her smile doesn’t soften.
“You shouldn’t work too hard.” There’s a slight undercurrent to her tone. “Or you start forgetting what truly matters.” She flicks up a perfectly-shaped brow.
Marisa leans forward, asking me, “And how have you been, Charlie? It’s been even longer since we’ve seen you!”
Before I can answer, a server appears next to us, pad in her hand, ready to take our drink orders. Once she’s gone again, I turn to Marisa. “I’ve been busy too. Work has really picked up, which is why I couldn’t make the last couple of get-togethers.” That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it, even when Bliss snorts indelicately into her glass.
The conversation flows easily from there, everyone throwing in stories about their jobs and lives, but I still struggle to find where I fit in with this group—friends who have known each other since college.
Even after nearly two years with Dillon, it still feels like I’m an interloper. It’s not something I’ve ever mentioned to him, not wanting him to think I don’t like his friends…And yet, there’s this feeling—thisinstinct—that they don’t exactly approve of me.
I’m probably overthinking it all, my insecurities pushing me to see something that’s not actually there. I’m not a bubbly or social person on the best of days, but these situations leave me feeling untethered. I can sit here, listening to the conversation, deliberating over what I might add, but bythe time I finally settle on something, they’ve already moved on to a new subject. And then the cycle starts all over again.
One on one? I’m a goddamn delight…but with this group of particular people? I’m walking along a cliff edge, each of them waiting for me to make one wrong move so they can kick me to the curb.
