Then:I’ve never cared.
Then:Maybe that means I don’t have standards.
I didn’t say any of it.
We ended up at a new upscale bar near Faneuil Hall—brick walls, a live band, people dressed like they wanted to be noticed. Once Sage’s friends arrived, her mood flipped instantly. Laughing. Hugging. Reconnecting like no time had passed.
They were cool. Stylish. Confident.
They talked about summers past. Old apartments. Old versions of themselves.
“Remember Newport?” one of them said, laughing. “The beach house?”
“And the SEALs,” another added.
I blinked. “The seals?”
Sage grinned. “Oh, Beth. You don’t know?”
They leaned in, conspiratorial.
“Every June,” Sage said casually, “the Navy SEALs train down there. First week of June. You can always spot them.”
Her friend nodded eagerly. “Tight Henleys. Buzz cuts. Those ridiculous five-thousand-dollar dive watches.”
“They think they’re undercover,” Sage added, rolling her eyes. “Like no one can tell. Please.”
The table laughed.
“They’re built different,” someone said. “Strong. Confident. Intense.”
Stories spilled out—flings, brief romances, weekends told like trophies.
“It’s the confidence,” one said. “They just take up space.”
“And they’re never boring,” another added.
Sage took a shot and said, lightly, “I actually dated one seriously.”
The table quieted.
“He was amazing,” she continued. “But it didn’t work. He was always gone. Top-secret stuff. Other countries. I could never reach him.”
She shook her head. “Drove me insane. I need connection.”
Then she smiled again, like flipping a switch.
“But when I’m single?” She shrugged. “I don’t mind revisiting.”
Laughter. Glasses clinking.
Someone pointed at me. “When you’re single next year, Beth, we’re taking you to Newport.”
“We’ll make sure you bag a SEAL.”
I smiled, because it felt expected.
Inside, something didn’t quite settle.
