Cheyenne
I weave through the crowd, gin and tonic clutched in my hand like it’s a lifeline.
My confident stride is a lie. I’ve been lying all night, starting from the moment I slipped into this too-tight dress that Genna insisted made me look like a goddess. Each sequin feels like it’s digging into my skin now, a thousand sharp reminders that I’m playing a part.
And seeing Dylan at the bar—seeing him with that flirty bartender—just confirms what I’ve always known.
Some things neverchange.
Especially not Dylan Williamston and his magnetic pull on every woman in his orbit. Including me, apparently.
But we’re ‘just friends.’
The words echo in my head again, mocking me with each step I take across the rooftop.
“If Dylan wants to keep being ‘Hockey’s Hottest Playboy’ and ignoring our connection, then that’s on him,” I mutter to myself. “It’s his loss.”
I’m done waiting around for a man to validate me. I’m done hoping a man will choose me. I’m done trying to find my worth in a relationship.
I am enough. Just as I am.
I spot Genna and Paul near the railing, her red coat now draped over her arm as she leans into him, laughing at something he said. They look so natural together, so right. My chest tightens with an emotion I refuse to name.
“There you are!” Genna calls when she spots me approaching. “I was starting to think you’d been kidnapped by the bartender.”
If only she knew.
“Just a long line,” I lie, forcing my lips into what I hope resembles a smile. “This place is packed.”
Paul nods, his arm casually draped around Genna’s waist. “It’s getting crazy. Everyone is showing up for the countdown.”
I take a long sip of my drink, welcoming the bitter bite of gin. The alcohol burns slightly, but it’s a good burn—something tofocus on besides the knot in my stomach and the feeling that I shouldn’t have come tonight.
“Have you seen Dylan?” Genna asks, her eyes scanning the crowd with an innocence that makes me want to laugh. Or maybe cry.
“Briefly. At the bar.” I shrug, aiming for casual indifference. “He seemed ... occupied by the blonde bartender.”
“Oh,” she mutters, exchanging a look with Paul that I can’t quite read. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” I take another sip of my drink.
Genna reaches out and rubs my forearm with an embarrassingly sympathetic look on her face. “Why don’t you come meet Michael? He’s been asking about you all night.”
Before I can protest, she’s guiding me toward a tall man with kind eyes and a neatly trimmed beard. I vaguely remember him from a previous party—he helped me find my coat. Under normal circumstances, I might be interested. He’s objectively handsome, with an easy smile and shoulders broad enough to fill out his tailored jacket perfectly. But tonight, I can barely focus on his extended hand, let alone his words.
“We meet again,” he says, and I realize I’ve been staring blankly.
“Sorry, yes.” I shake his hand, feeling the roughness of calluses. “Michael, right? You helped me find my coat at the Christmas party.”
He looks pleased that I remember. “Good memory. I’m flattered.”
The conversation shifts around me—something about rock climbing, which explains the calluses—but I’m only half listening. The rooftop seems to grow more crowded by the minute, bodies pressing closer, the air thicker with perfume and cologne and the bite of winter. The string lights overhead blur into starbursts when I blink, and the champagne glasses on passing trays catch the light, sending prisms dancing across faces, clothing, and the floor.
“Cheyenne?” Genna’s voice breaks through my haze. “You with us?”
“What? Yes, sorry.” I sip my drink again, but it’s mostly melted ice now. “Just ... taking it all in.”
Michael leans closer, his voice pitched lower. “It’s a bit much, isn’t it? All this...” He gestures vaguely to the party around us.
