And she's in the VIP section, which is... cordoned off.
Do I have access to that?
Before I can make a more concrete plan, someone drunkenly bumps into my side, and I reach out to steady them with both hands as they stutter out an “Oh, shit.”
The group of people around the man who nearly fell over starts laughing, a few of them offering apologies and scolding their clearly drunk friend.
And all at once, my world stops spinning, and my lungs cease to move.
Dark eyes meet mine for the briefest second from the group.
Brigit.
Shedoestower over the rest of them in her high heels. And her short little skirt can barely keep up with her long legs.
Wavy brown hair falls messily down over her shoulder as shegently grabs the drink from her friend, “Okay, I think that’s enough of that.”
The gaggle of people holds their friend up, and I get to finally see in person the adorable little lines that dance across Brigit’s nose when she laughs.
“I’m so sorry,” she giggles, clearly feeling well past tipsy herself,leaning on the more upright parts of her group, “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” I mutter, my eyes narrowing.
Why would she need to pretend to these people that she doesn’t know me?
Nodding, she pulls on her friend's elbow, encouraging them all to keep moving as if I’m not here at all.
They disappear into the crowd, leaving me reeling.
If she’s acting like she doesn’t know me, is it because it’s safer for her to do so? Or because she’s hoping I really don’t remember her and she can get away from whatever we had now that I’ve lost all memories of it?
For the rest of the night, all I can think of is why the hell she pretended not to know me. It’s probably for the best, honestly. She’s likely safer without me in her life.
But I’m incapable of letting this go.
If she’s the only person I had, she’s the only one who might have some fucking answers. And if she doesn’t want to give them to me, I’ll just have to take them.
Chapter 8
Bás Dorcha
BRIGIT
With a fresh pedicure, I stroll into my apartment just past sundown, setting my purse on the table.
The time-release fragrance fills the air as I strip off my work clothes and change into sweats and a long-sleeve shirt.
The summer sun sets behind the mountains, leaving my apartment awash with warm, golden light.
The next thirty minutes I spend cooking myself something to eat, and enough to take to work tomorrow.
There's something comforting, soothing about the process of cooking. I get to take pieces of one thing and change them, form them into something completely new. The scent fills my kitchen, the herbs and spices mixing with the lemongrass as the chicken sizzles and the pasta boils.
Pouring myself a glass of red wine, I sink into one of the four chairs at my kitchen island, content to sit while I wait until I need to flip the chicken and stir the noodles. Against my own rules, I open my email to check for any after-hours emergencies.
Nothing.
Satisfied, I scroll through social media, noting the handful of new friends I've made from Friday and all the photos they posted, tagging me and the Mingle official page.
