The conversation with Bash flows surprisingly easily as we devour the food and enjoy the drinks. I find myself drawn to his genuine personality and easy banter.
“Which taster is your favorite?” he asks guilelessly.
“Hands-down the Chocolate Mocktini,” I concede quickly.
“Of course!” he chuckles. “Girls love chocolate.”
“I don't like being lumped in with other women,” I bite, my voice sharper than I intend, my eyes flashing. I realize it's not Bash I'm angry at. It's everything else. The culmination of months of Jaxson's distance, of feeling invisible, of knowing he's chasing other women. It hits me viscerally, leaving me unmoored and adrift, raw in a way I can't easily shake.
“I'm sor—,” he begins, but I interrupt him.
“No, it's me who should apologize. I'm sorry for being so touchy. Forgive me?” I lower my head and look up into his eyes with remorse.
“Sure,” he replies, flashing that darn dimple with his smile.
After leaving the vino lounge, I drive separately and follow Bash's directions, parking a few feet from the building we're headed to. The warehouse before me is massive, rising high against the night sky. Its grey, corrugated metal siding is intentionally tagged with bold graffiti, including split-in-half hearts, oversized XOs, and sledgehammers. A neon sign blinks above the door—Total Wrecklamation. Break Stuff When You Feel Broken or Just Because.
My nerves ease when I see it's in a surprisingly active area. Bright lights illuminate the entrance, and two security guards chat casually with visitors as they enter. In some way, it makes the place feel safer.
A figure approaches my car. Bash, walking up to the driver's side window, taps on the glass and gives me a small wave. I roll it down, and he smiles.
"Ready?" he asks.
"Yep. Let's do this."
After stepping into the lobby, I'm immediately reminded of a movie theatre. The rich smell of buttered popcorn makes my mouth water, even though I'm already full. A concession stand and ticket booth stretch along the back wall, with seating at the center. Digital panels line the walls, each cycling through photos and video clips of the rooms in various stages of destruction, from untouched to completely obliterated.
The footage shifts to show groups in hard hats, face shields, and heavy-duty coveralls, unleashing their frustrations on furniture, electronics, and anything else unlucky enough to be in their path. At the bottom of each screen, the room's punny name and theme flash in bright neon.
Wide corridors run the length of the building to the left and right of the concessions. Neon signs hang from the ceiling in each hallway, leading to the ten rooms, with five on each side.
Guests mill about, grabbing snacks from the concession stand, settling at tables, and weaving in and out of the bathrooms. Others purchase tickets or head toward the rooms, safety gear in hand. The atmospherebuzzes with life, a low hum of conversation and laughter filling the space.
I step closer to the screens, reading through the descriptions. The first one,Return to Sender,is a breakup-themed room with the tagline:Leave your EXcess baggage here.
The image shows a room filled with mementos, from plushies and trinkets to other sentimental items. It's a space designed for you to purge the ghosts of your past relationships. You bring your own keepsakes and let it all out. Rip up love letters, stomp gifts, torch wedding albums. Almost anything is fair game. There's even the option ofwrecking your wedding dresswith scissors, paint, mud, or whatever feels satisfying. A modern hooded fire pit with a chimney vented through the exterior sits near an outer wall, where flames devour what remains and send smoke laced with old regrets out into the night.
Hmmm, interesting concept. Does that include gasoline?I think sarcastically.
Next up is the aptly namedOffice Breakroom, which looks exactly as you'd expect an office setup to be. Desk, printers, phones, chairs, and filing cabinets fill the space, most of which look worse for wear. It's the perfect spot to vent workplace frustrations. Papers are strewnacross the floor, and there's a shredder in the corner, which adds a satisfying element to the chaos.
Most of the remaining rooms are the typical ones you'd find in a house: a living room, kitchen, dining room, bathroom, and other smash zones, all loaded with plenty of objects to break.
“Wow!” I breathe as Bash steps up beside me, scanning the same panel. “This place is incredible.”
“Yeah, it looked fun when I saw it online,” he confesses. “I thought it might… help you take out some of your frustrations with your husband.” He rubs the back of his neck, looking unsure. “I hope I didn't overstep.”
“I don't think so,” I giggle, glancing up at him with a smile. “My fingers are actually itching for somesmash therapynow.”
His megawatt smile reappears, flashing that dimple I'm becoming obsessed with. Guiltily, I'm drawn to him in a way I probably shouldn't be. I snap back to the displays, but not before my eyes flicker briefly to his lips.
“Which room are we trashing today?” I ask mischievously, my mouth suddenly dry.
I turn back and catch him leaning against the wall, his gaze now fixed on my mouth, almostmesmerized. He licks his lips, shakes his head, as if clearing it, then straightens before answering.
“Um, I thought I'd let you pick.”
“Perfect!” I exclaim, bouncing with excitement as I scan the options. “Let's do this one!” I announce, pointing to the bathroom with its large glass-paneled shower. “I want to hear the shattering of glass, mirrors, and porcelain.”
