She leaned forward, eyes still on Alex and Morgan as they argued about whether printers were sentient because they were so spiteful.
I laughed, surprised by how easy it came. I hadn’t noticed how quiet I’d been for most of the night until I wasn’t. It felt good, which was deeply inconvenient.
I took another sip and let myself pretend this was normal for me. Let myself pretend I hadn’t spent years keeping people at a careful distance because closeness always came with expectations.
Pete slid another round toward us and raised his brows at the empty glasses. “You ladies celebrating or coping?” He said it like he already knew the answer and was simply being polite.
“Both,” I said.
He nodded in understanding. “Excellent. Hydration is available if anyone wants to pretend.”
“No one wants to pretend,” Morgan said.
Pete glanced at me. “You look like the responsible one.”
That was absolute slander. I snorted. “That’s a terrible first impression.”
He smiled. Not the greasy kind, but the genuine, bartender-who-has-seen-things kind.
I liked men like this. The older ones who were married to their jobs and completely uninterested in me. It was the safest kind of flirting because everyone went home alone and emotionally intact.
“You want water on the side?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said immediately. “And another of whatever this is. For balance.”
“Smart,” he said. “I like you.”
I eyed him. “Careful. That’s how it starts.”
He laughed and set the glasses down without spilling a drop. This man was professional and respectable.
I approved.
As the night went on, glasses kept appearing, and somehow, they kept emptying. Jamie was laughing at something Morgan said three minutes ago like it had just occurred to her, which felt like a strong sign we were officially past the point of dignity.
This was how it always went. I watched for the moment everyone crossed the invisible line between fun and regret. Usually, I was the one standing there with a flashlight and a plan.
Cris eyed me with a conspiratorial grin on her face. “You’re smiling.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“It’s a facial malfunction.” Which would, eventually, resolve itself.
It had been a long time since I had sat in a room full of people who didn’t need anything from me. No emergencies. No “just a quick question.” No one quietly waiting for me to fix what they broke, smooth the mood, keep the night moving, make sure everyone got home safely and nobody forgot anything important. I had spent most of my life being the responsible one, and not in the flattering, capable-adult way people like to compliment when they aren’t the ones carrying it.
I had to make sure the bills got paid on time. I had to remind my mother about appointments she had made herself. I had to sign permission slips and track deadlines and learn, early, that ifIdidn’t hold everything together, it simply would not hold.
The drag. That was the word that lived in the back of my head. The wet blanket. The fun killer. The person who showed up to remind everyone that actions had consequences.
My jaw tightened before I even realized it. My free hand curled against my leg, nails pressing into my palm hard enough to anchor me. I caught it a second later. Forced my fingers to uncurl.
So yes, I was drinking more than usual. On purpose.
I lifted my glass and took a long sip.
Cris lifted her glass and squinted at it. “I think this one is empty, which feels unfair.”
