Tony with Kate and Kristen, already laughing at something. Mark and Chris ahead with some Boston friends. Strangers weaving in and out of the sidewalks. Everyone glowing under streetlamps and neon bar signs.
I’m walking between Sage and Ethan.
Which is its own kind of torture.
Ethan smells like soap and cedar and whatever that cologne is that’s ruining my life. Sage’s arm keeps brushing mine, warm and confident and electric.
Then suddenly?—
She grabs my wrist.
“Come on,” she says.
“Where—?”
“I’m your wingwoman tonight.”
“What? No?—”
“Yes.” She grins, wicked and gorgeous. “We’re dancing.”
Before I can protest, she drags me inside.
The place is chaos.
Colored lights. Sticky floors. A live band set up by the open harbor doors. The air thick with sweat and beer and salt breeze.
The music hits like a wave.
People are already packed on the dance floor.
“I don’t want shots,” I say, already knowing it doesn’t matter.
Sage is at the bar ordering.
Two tiny glasses appear.
“I really don’t?—”
She hands one to me with that smile.
Thatsmile.
The one where you just… don’t say no.
When Sage is in a mood like this, she’s gravity. The hottest, brightest thing in the room. You don’t resist. You orbit.
“To bad decisions,” she says.
We clink.
Burn.
I cough. She laughs.
And then we’re on the dance floor.
God help me.
