She snorted. “I prefer persistent.”
“That’s just stubbornness with better PR.”
That earned a laugh, real and unguarded, and for a second she looked like herself again—the version of herself she’d been before everything had gotten heavy. “I don’t know,” she said, the laugh fading into something quieter. “It just feels like I’m spinning my wheels lately. Like I keep starting and not quite—” She trailed off, shaking her head.
“From where I’m sitting, it looks more like regrouping.”
She looked up at me, something uncertain in her expression. “You always used to say stuff like that. Optimistic.”
“Only when it’s true.”
She studied me for a second, then let out a slow breath. “It helps,” she admitted. “Having someone not freak out on my behalf. Harper means well, but she has a very expressive face, and every time I tell her something she—” she widened her eyes in silent demonstration.
“That’s Harper’s job,” I said. “Along with Jude.”
“God, don’t tell Jude anything. He’ll try to form a committee.” Another laugh, softer this time, the tension easing again. She glanced down at her plate, then back up at me, something thoughtful settling behind her eyes. “I’m glad we’re doing this. Talking. Normal talking, where nobody’s—” she gestured vaguely, “—you know.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Me too.” And I meant it more than I let myself show.
Across the room, the pub hummed on, but right there in the booth, it felt like we’d carved out a small pocket of the past. Not to live in. Just to remember how it felt.
“Savannah’s going to start charging us for nostalgia,” she said, nudging her plate. “We’re taking up a booth.”
“Family discount. I’ll put it on my tab.”
She smiled, then shook her head slowly. “It’s weird, though. How easy this feels. I keep waiting for it to get awkward, and it just—” she paused, “—isn’t.”
“Me too,” I admitted. “I keep bracing for it.”
She poked at her food for a second, thinking. “You always knew what you wanted to be,” she said eventually. “And now you’re doing it. I genuinely admire that about you.”
“I don’t know if I’d say I knew, exactly. I was eight years old and liked fire trucks. That’s a pretty low bar for a life plan.”
“Still.” She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You picked something and stayed with it. You found the fit. I’ve never really had that—not even at the salon, if I’m being honest, and everyone always assumed I loved it.”
“My sisters practically worship you. They’d be devastated to hear that.”
“Your sisters are very kind, and I also gave them good highlights, which helps.” She laughed briefly, then sobered. “I don’t know. I keep trying things, and nothing quite settles. Does that make sense?”
“It makes complete sense,” I said. “But for what it’s worth—and tell me if I’m veering into motivational speech territory?—”
“You’re getting close.”
“I’ll be quick. You’ve never been afraid to start over. Most people are terrified of it. You just—do it. That’s not spinning your wheels. That’s something else entirely.”
She looked at me for a long moment, skeptical but listening, turning it over. “You really think that’s a strength?”
“I know it is.”
Her shoulders loosened a fraction, like she’d been holding herself tight without realizing it. “You make it very hard to argue with you,” she said. “Has anyone ever told you that?”
“Constantly. I’ve learned to take it as a compliment.” She laughed again, and I felt it in my chest the way I always did, that particular warmth. “You don’t have to have it all figured out tonight, Becca.”
“Good,” she said softly, meeting my eyes. “Because I really don’t.” A beat. “I didn’t mean to dump all of this on you.”
“You didn’t. We’re just talking.” I held her gaze. “We used to be good at that, remember?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I do.” And the way she said it, quiet and a little careful, like she was handling something she didn’t want to drop, told me she wasn’t just talking about conversation.
