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I slide my feet into black heels—also fancier than my norm—and wrap up in my pea coat. I know there’s no way I’ll get a ride service on New Year’s Eve, so I decide to walk the few blocks to Bridges and Bitters. I’ve been spending some time there after work and it’s a pretty nice spot. The owner, Esther Storm, created a speakeasy vibe and everything from the light fixtures to the signature drinks shows careful attention to detail.
I usually show up with Samantha and another woman from work, Logan Brady. Sam calls us the three C’s since we are the chief executive, financial, and technology officers of a data analysis company supporting bio-tech research.
I call myself lucky to know them. I’ve been in Pittsburgh for about a year and haven’t met a ton of people. Which is why I’m heading to the New Year’s party even though I’d rather sit at home with Emilie on my lap, watching K-Dramas.
I hustle along Butler Street, smiling at the festive atmosphere. The Lawrenceville neighborhood goes all out for the winter holidays, with all the storefronts decked out in evergreens and candles. There’s even a cookie tour where people can stop in each shop for free treats. I love these small-town touches that make each Pittsburgh neighborhood feel so homey. I could really make a life here. I’m already making a life here.
I feel a little wistful thinking of my family’s blended celebrations that always included kicking off the Lunar New Year a little early and leaving up the garlands well beyond Three Kings Day. But, as I approach Esther’s bar, I stop in my tracks. She has outdone herself with shimmering black-and-gold streamers, garlands, and even a mirrored disco ball glinting in the center of the room.
And despite the decadence, it all still seems tasteful. I realize I’m staring in the window when Samantha sees me from inside. I can hear her squeal through the glass and soon she’s out on the sidewalk tugging me inside.
“Lyra, you absolutely have to taste Esther’s latest concoction. But make sure you eat the little pastries in between glasses so you don’t get too drunk too quickly.”
Samantha hiccups and I see her fiancé shake his head, thrusting a glass of clear liquid into her hand. He rubs gentle circles on Sam’s back as she sips the water. “How’s it going, Lyra?”
I shrug, hanging my coat on a hook. I feel for my wristlet, making sure I’ve got my phone and house keys, and by the time I reach for a fluted drink, Samantha and AJ have tottered off to talk to someone else. I take a sip of the champagne punch and smile as the bubbles tickle my nose.
As I drink, I hear Logan talking to someone. I hear the word birthday and my ears perk up. Turning, I spy my CFO poking a man in the chest. She seems a little tipsy herself as she repeats, “It’s just so great that today is yourbirthday.” She gasps and holds a hand up. “Oh my gosh, your parents must have been so excited that you came in time for a tax deduction.”
I look at the man’s face, which seems pinched and uncomfortable above his bowtie, and I decide to intervene. “Lo,” I say in a loud voice. “People don’t always like to talk about finance stuff at parties.”
The guy turns to face me, looking a little relieved. But when I catch his eye, my stomach flips around: behind that floppy hair, despite the nerdy bowtie and vest, he’s the most attractive man I’ve seen in years. He seems frazzled, but like he’s using the bowtie and vest to ground himself with a wisp of decorum. He has bright blue eyes and auburn beard stubble and an awkward smile that just really does things to me. Pleasant things. I take another sip of my drink while I try to compose myself.
2
RAYLAND
I’m so sweaty.I know that’s ridiculous, because it’s about 15 degrees outside, but I’m standing here in a bowtie, sweating.
I vaguely know who these people are. My co-workers are all either married to or best friends with the women in this bar, which should make the party less stressful. But it’s still a busy party and now I went and blurted out that today is my birthday.
I grit my teeth and try not to bite a hole in my cheek once this gal latches on to the birthday tidbit. I know she’s married to my colleague Cal, but for the life of me I can’t remember her name. Not while I’m sweating and peeling my beer label.
But then something unexpected happens. Another woman swoops in to tell the first woman to stop bothering me. And instead of feeling more anxious, I feel like someone turned off the sound in the room. It’s like everything stops and all I can see is this dark-haired woman in the shimmering dress, smiling at me.
I peel another slice off the label on my empty beer as—Logan! Logan Brady is her name!—Logan shakes her head and wanders off, leaving me alone with the sparkling woman. She studies me and nods. “Looks like you need another drink.”
“What?” I look down in my fists, which are covered with wet foil label bits. “Oh. Yes.” I blow out a breath and look around for somewhere to set the mess.
The sparkly woman grabs a glass from a tray. “Come on,” she says, tipping her chin toward the back of the room. “I want to show you something.”
We walk around the corner and this time, it actually does feel like someone shut off the sound. I look around a few times to make sure I’m not hallucinating. The sparkling woman holds a glass in each hand as she walks toward a velvety fainting couch. There’s really no other word for this piece of furniture.
I sink down into the upholstery beside her and accept the drink. We clink glasses. “To a bit of quiet,” she says, taking a sip. She laughs and then holds a finger to her nose. “Whew! The bubbles got me.”
I take a sip and have a similar reaction. I realize I feel at ease for the first time since Cal told me I had to come here tonight to schmooze. “How did you know this was back here?” I gesture around the room, which features a massive table for group events, as well as a few scattered vintage couches that really round out the speakeasy vibe the bar has going on.
She leans her head back on the couch and I stare at the contrast the dark red velvet makes with her black hair. I want to reach out and run my fingers through those silky strands, so I focus on setting my crusty beer on the floor instead. “I come here a lot,” she says, smiling. “There’s a group that meets here and they sort of pulled me into their fold.”
I take another sip of the drink and nod. “I think I’ve heard of this. ‘Floof’ or something? Some of the Brady Ladies go, right? I work for a family-run company. The Brady family.” I wince. “I’m rambling. Sorry.”
“Hi, Rambling. I’m Lyra. Nice to meet you.”
I laugh harder than I should at her joke. I love bad jokes. Always have. I used to train myself not to laugh out loud when my professors or older colleagues made dumb jokes, because I know it’s uncool to find them as amusing as I do. But here I am, enchanted. “It’s Rayland, actually. And it’s nice to meet you, too.”
We each take a sip of our drinks, seeming to settle in to the relative quiet of the back room while a roaring New Year’s party swirls on the other side of the wall. “Do you think this still counts as being at the party?”
Lyra laughs. “It better! How’d you get roped into this?”
