“Story of my life,” I muttered, but I followed her anyway—out of the employee lounge, into the hum of the office, where for once, I wasn’t someone’s afterthought.
Just someone choosing herself, at least for the evening.
The bar near the lake was alive in a way I hadn’t felt in weeks. Warm light, music too loud to think, the hum of laughter and clinking glasses wrapping around us like permission to breathe. Naomi had already declared the night a “morale emergency,” which apparently meant shots were mandatory.
“Two tequila, extra lime,” she told the bartender, then turned to me with a grin that could start wars. “Doctor’s orders.”
I groaned, but the sound melted into laughter before I could stop it. “You’re not a doctor.”
“I am of bad decisions and good timing. Drink up.”
So I did.
The burn was sharp but clean, pulling a sound out of me I hadn’t made in too long—something halfway between a laugh and a sigh. For the first time in weeks, the knot between my ribs loosened. The music thumped through the floor, some upbeat pop song I actually recognized. Naomi started swaying in her seat, mouthing the words, and before long I was singing with her—off-key, giggling, cheeks warm.
“This,” she said between choruses, “is what you look like when you’re not managing fifty things at once. It’s unnerving. You have a face.”
“Rude.”
“True.”
We dissolved into laughter again, and it felt… good. Messy, human, alive. I didn’t have to be the organized one, the one who fixed everything. I could just be me.
A few drinks later, Naomi leaned across the table, eyes sparkling. “Okay. New game. Text someone dangerous.”
I blinked. “Define dangerous.”
She smirked. “Someone who makes your pulse misbehave.”
I shook my head, laughing. “Absolutely not.”
“Come on! You’ve earned a little chaos.”
“I’m not texting anyone,” I said, too fast. “That’s how people end up regretting mornings.”
She gave me a look that was pure mischief. “Then I’ll do it for you.”
Before I could stop her, she snatched my phone off the table. “Naomi!”
“Relax, I’m just browsing your contacts. Ooh, Beckett Mason—now that’s dangerous.”
I lunged for the phone, still laughing, half-panicked. “Give it back!”
She danced it just out of reach, scrolling dramatically. “Oh look, his name’s already near the top. Wonder why.”
I grabbed at it again, and in the chaos—my hand hitting hers, both of us laughing too hard—I must’ve pressed something, because suddenly the phone lit up and started ringing.
Naomi froze. “Oh, hell. You didn’t?—”
I looked down.
Beckett Mason — Calling.
“Oh no no no no,” I whispered, staring at the screen like it might explode.
Naomi slapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide and delighted. “You did!”
“End call, end call, end—” My fingers fumbled over the buttons, tequila and adrenaline making everything clumsy.
