Page 95 of Triplet Babies for my Ex's Best Friend

“It wasn’t going to be about anything,” she says calmly. “It was going to be about his face.”

“I hate you,” I mutter.

She beams. “I know.”

The bar is loud but not overwhelming, the kind of place that balances music with conversation so you don’t have to scream your entire personality into existence.

I like this.

Being out. Being… normal. Not someone recovering from a public breakup in an airport. Not someone trying to prove she’s fine while quietly unraveling. Just a girl in a bar with a friend, drinking a pink and slightly dangerous liquid.

“Okay,” Sophie says, glancing over my shoulder. “Update.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“We’ve been clocked.”

I blink. “By who?”

She tilts her head subtly.

I turn just enough to follow her line of sight.

Two guys at the bar.

Cute.

Not in a life-altering way, not in aoh no, my judgment's gonekind of way. Just objectively attractive. Tall, well-dressed, the kind of men who probably know exactly how attractive they are and have structured their personalities accordingly.

One of them catches my eye and smiles.

I immediately look back at Sophie. “No.”

She laughs. “Why not?”

“Because I just got here and I refuse to immediately become a person who gets chatted up at bars like I don’t have emotional baggage.”

“Everyone here has emotional baggage,” she says. “Some of it just has better hair.”

I snort. “I’m serious.”

“So am I. They’re cute.”

“They are.”

“And?”

I panic. “And I’m not interested.”

She narrows her eyes.

“I just…” I gesture vaguely with my drink. “I don’t know. I’m not in the mood.”

“You're in a bar.”

“Yes, but emotionally I’m in pajamas.”

“That isn't how bars work.”