Page 2 of Vega

“You analyze data. Spreadsheets gots to have something to do with that.”

I laughed as the hostess led us toward a table near the windows.

Dior had insisted that I take a long lunch so we could celebrate my birthday. I had already told him I planned to work overtime that evening, and he reacted as if I had announced that I was volunteering for prison.

The restaurant was my compromise. It was close enough to my office that I wouldn’t lose half the afternoon sitting in traffic. More importantly, they served strong cocktails.

Dior waited until we were seated before returning to the argument he had started through text that morning. “We’re going out this weekend, even if I have to drag you out.”

“No, we aren’t.”

“Yes, we are.”

I waved him off. “I don’t like clubs.”

Clubs had always felt like rooms full of people performing for strangers. Everybody dressed to impress the opposite sex, hoping someone liked what they saw enough to take them home when the night ended. I wasn’t interested in being some guy’s random hookup or story he told his friends the next morning.

“That’s because you’ve never been to the right club,” Dior tried to argue.

“I’ve been to clubs with you.”

Dior groaned dramatically. “Urgh, don’t remind me. You stood against the wall clutching your purse like somebody’s auntie.”

“I was protecting our belongings while you basically fucked strangers on the dance floor.”

He giggled devilishly. “I was networking.”

“You had your tongue in somebody’s mouth.”

He shrugged, still wearing that sneaky smirk. “Networking can be intimate.”

I opened the menu to hide my smile. “I don’t want to spend my birthday weekend in a dark room with sticky floors, overpriced drinks, and men pressing themselves against me without permission.”

“That is why we get a section.”

“A section is still inside a club.”

Dior leaned across the table. “Sonnet, you are twenty-three years old. You are supposed to be outside.”

I shrugged, smiling. “I leave my home every day.”

He rolled his eyes dramatically. “Work doesn’t count.”

“I would rather go to a nice restaurant, order drinks, and hear the person sitting across from me without screaming.”

“That is not a birthday celebration. That is a business dinner.”

“It’s what I enjoy.”

He scoffed, arguing, “It’s lame.”

I shrugged a shoulder. “It’s peaceful.”

“It’s geriatric.”

Dior and I had been best friends since college, even though we had almost nothing in common beyond loyalty and an appreciation for good food.

He had studied fashion design and treated every hallway like a runway. Dior believed clothes should announce who you were before you spoke. He loved crowds, attention, loud music, and any event that gave him a reason to put on something dramatic.