Page 296 of What We Burn

Knox’s mouth twitches. It’s barely perceptible—a micro-movement that most people would miss. But I’ve been reading Knox’s face for months, and that twitch is the equivalent of a belly laugh.

“She comes home safe,” Knox orders.

Jamie nods frantically. “Absolutely. One hundred percent. I will guard her with my life. I know CPR. I have a clean driving record. I ate a full meal before I came, so I won’t be distracted by hunger. I⁠—”

Knox reaches past Jamie, hooks his hand around the back of my neck, and pulls me in. The kiss is slow, deliberate, and approximately ten times more dramatic than the situation requires. His other hand slides down my back and grabs my ass—a full, possessive handful that makes Jamie squeak. He releases me with a light tap that sends me stumbling forward onto the porch.

“Have fun, Fury.” The door closes behind me.

Jamie stands on the porch, mouth open, keys dangling from one hand.

“Holy shit,” he says. “I’m both petrified and I have a boner. Do you think I’m safe to drive?”

“You’ll manage.”

“I might not. I might need a minute.” He fans himself with his phone. “Does he do that every time you leave the house?”

“Only when there’s an audience.”

“I feel so seen. And so threatened. And highly aroused. These emotions shouldn’t coexist but here we are.” He gestures toward his car. “Shall we? Amy’s already texted me four times. She said she’s wearing her good earrings, which means she’s ready to party.”

We drive. The windows are down and the radio is playing a playlist Jamie calls “Margarita Energy,” which is mostly Lizzo and Doja Cat and one Taylor Swift song he refuses to skip.

“‘Cruel Summer’ is a cultural artifact and I won’t apologize.”

I roll my eyes at his drama.

The Mexican place is downtown, bright and loud, decorated for the holiday with orange lights strung across the patio and fake cobwebs stretched between the railings. Paper bats hang over the bar, half the staff are wearing vampire capes, and the bottomless policy is being taken very seriously. Amy is already there—sitting at a table on the patio, her favorite sparkly earrings on, and a margarita the size of her head already half-demolished.

“You started without us!” Jamie says, outraged.

“I’ve been here for twenty minutes. I’m a fast drinker and a slow texter. Sit down.”

Jamie looks around at the costumes and decorations. “We should’ve dressed up. It’s Halloween. We’re failing spectacularly at festive friendship.”

Amy lifts her margarita. “I spent six weeks recovering from a spray tan explosion. I’m good.”

“Same. I live with five men who could clear a haunted house by walking into it. The world is dark enough.”

Jamie considers that. “Fine. But next year we’re doing a group costume. Something pink.”

We sit. We drink. We eat chips and salsa and Jamie orders something called the Mega Burrito Challenge that turns out to be the size of a football and comes with a waiver. Amy and I split nachos and drink margaritas that taste like vacations and poor decisions.

For two hours we’re just three friends at a table in the sunshine, laughing about nothing.

“Oh, I needed this,” Amy says, tilting her head back as she munches on tortilla chips and sways to the upbeat music.

“Same,” I say, reaching out and giving her hands a squeeze. She smiles at me, and I smile back so hard it almost hurts.

Sunlight warms the backs of my shoulders. Salt air drifts up from the bay, mixing with grilled meat and lime, tequila and fryer oil. Amy’s cheeks are pink, Jamie’s halfway through his monster burrito and making increasingly theatrical noises about the rapidly disintegrating integrity of the tortilla.

It feels so stupidly, beautifully normal that I almost don’t trust it.

Jamie lifts his soda glass and points it at Amy. “To surviving spray tan booth explosions and still looking hot.”

Amy clinks her glass to his. “That’s beautiful. We should embroider that on a pillow.”

“I’ll get Milo on that.” I tap mine against both of theirs. “To bottomless coping mechanisms.”