Page 7

Sofia

I PASSED!!

Emma

I KNEW YOU WOULD!!!

Josh

Drinks tonight. No excuses.

Another notification slides across the top of the screen before I can close it.

Emma

Callie, what did you get? We’re meeting at O’Malley’s at seven. You’d better be there.

I stare at the messages until the letters blur together. Six months ago, we promised we’d celebrate together no matter what happened because we’d all survived one of the hardest exams we would ever take. It felt impossible to imagine any outcome that didn’t end with all of us raising a glass to the next chapter of our lives. Now, every excited message feels like a door closing quietly between the future they earned and the one that’s slipped a little farther out of my reach.

I could lie and tell them I’m still waiting for my score. I could even tell them the truth and spend the rest of the evening insisting they celebrate anyway while pretending I don’t notice every sympathetic glance sent my way. None of those options feel fair to them, and none of them feels survivable for me.

Instead, I toss my phone onto the passenger seat as I climb into my car and pull out of the parking lot before anyone can send another message asking if I’m on my way. The closer I get to campus, the more people carry the unmistakable lightness that comes from reaching the other side of something difficult. Every stoplight feels like another opportunity to recognize someone I know, so when the road toward downtown appears in front of me, I keep driving straight instead.

I keep driving until I reach ‌neighborhoods that are unfamiliar enough that I stop worrying about running into classmates. The knot in my chest doesn’t loosen, but at least I don’t have to wonder if the next person who walks through a door is going to ask how I did. A small neighborhood bar comes into view just off the main road, quiet enough that I almost miss it. It isn’t somewhere college students usually gather, which is reason enough to pull into the parking lot.

I park, grab my purse, and head inside before I can convince myself this was a mistake. There’s a baseball game playing on one television tucked into the corner while a country song drifts through the speakers overhead. Most of the tables are occupied, but I'm just another customer the moment I walk through the door.

I search the room for the quietest place to disappear until I notice a single empty stool near the end of the bar. The man sitting beside it barely registers beyond his broad shoulders and the way he stares into the drink in front of him.

I slide onto the stool beside him.

Chapter Three

Jubal

The sound of the stool beside me scraping across the floor pulls my attention away from the amber liquor that's been sitting in front of me since I arrived. I keep my face hidden beneath the brim of my cap as someone settles onto the stool, close enough that the sleeve of her jacket brushes the edge of the bar between us.

I chose this seat because it offered only one direction for a stranger to approach, and for the last twenty minutes, nobody had. The wall on my left protected one side while the empty stool protected the other, allowing me to sit in public without becoming part of anything happening around me. The bartender is already walking toward the woman beside me; leaving before she orders would draw more attention than staying.

“What can I get you?” he asks.

She looks up at the bottles arranged behind him as though one of them might offer instructions. “What do people order when they plan on making bad decisions, but still want to wake up with their dignity?”

The bartender glances at me, apparently expecting help from the only other person close enough to have heard her.

“You’re asking the wrong man,” I respond, deciding to join their conversation.

I can feel her turning toward me, and I brace for the pause that comes when recognition changes a stranger’s expression. Surprise usually arrives first, followed by the quick recalculation of what they should say to Jubal Duvall now that they have access to him. Thankfully, no recognition comes.

“What did you order?”

I glance at the bourbon in front of me. “Something that lets you keep your dignity but makes you question why you cared about it.”

“That sounds expensive.”

“It was twelve dollars.”

She laughs, then lifts one shoulder as she studies the rows of bottles behind the bar. “I’ll have a vodka soda.”