“I have anxiety.”
“Duh. Who doesn’t? But you still need to see people who aren’t made of pixels.”
I rub my temples. “Cynna, I can’t. Not tonight. It’s not?—”
She shuts the cabinet and turns, eyes narrowed but soft. “It’s not about tonight. It’s about every night. It’s been months, Roxy. You’ve been hiding in this cave like it’s warding off demons, but the only thing it’s doing is starving you of light.”
“I don’t do well out there.”
“You don’t give yourself the chance to try.”
My throat tightens. That old, acidic dread bubbles up from somewhere deep. My mind flashes—unfamiliar environments, noise too loud to think over, the flicker of pity in someone’s smile, the clink of drinks I didn’t want, the brush of fingers I didn’t ask for.
I wrap my arms around myself. “You remember what happened last time.”
Her voice softens. “I do. And I was the one who helped you pick up the pieces.”
I nod. “They don’t bruise, but they stay.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want new scars.”
She steps closer. “Then don’t let the old ones win.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “I don’t want a scene.”
“You won’t make one.”
“I don’t want to be looked at.”
“They’ll be too busy looking at me.”
I open one eye. “Wow. Humble.”
“Realistic,” she says with a smirk. “Look, I’m not taking you to some synth-heavy nightmare bar. Just a lounge. Chill music.Soft lights. No pressure. We’ll stay near the exit. You can leave the second it feels wrong.”
My heart’s thudding like a warning system. I shake my head. “I’ll freeze. You know I freeze.”
“Then I’ll unfreeze you. Like emotional jumper cables.”
“That’s not how?—”
“One drink. One hour.”
I hesitate.
She steps back, arms wide. “You get dressed, or I do it for you. And my taste in tops is, like, aggressively cleavage-forward.”
I want to say no. Iplanto say no.
But something slips.
Something awful.
Curiosity.
It cracks the door open in my ribs and peeks through, and I hate it. Ihatethat part of me that still wants. Still wonders. Still imagines there’s something out there that won’t hurt like the last time.
