Chapter 23

Amelia

The sound of ice against glass punctuates the laughter as I twirl the mint sprig in my mojito. The Diamond thrums with the night's pulse, a rhythm that sets our trio at ease. We're perched on bar stools, silhouetted by the glow of amber lights strung along the mahogany bar.

"Amelia, seriously, you're a lifesaver," Stella says, raising her glass to me. "Stepping in for us at Sum Total was beyond clutch." She takes a delicate sip.

"Ah, it's nothing," I reply, waving off the praise like a bothersome fly. She's the one who saved my ass, and she knows it. "They're not the easiest bunch, but I can handle them."

"They're actually asking about locking you down for a year or more." Stella's eyebrows arch, inviting me to entertain the idea.

But I shake my head, feeling the tug of my ambitions. "No way, being their admin isn't the end game for me. But I'll stick around until something else comes up or they find a permanent fix."

Stella nods. "That makes sense to me."

"Here's to better jobs and even better opportunities," Isla chimes in, touching her glass against ours. Her statement hangs in the air, mingled with hope and the scent of lime.

"Speaking of performances," Isla adds with a mischievous glint in her eye, "you wouldn't believe how great my actor guy is in bed. Though, he's always fishing for compliments if you catch my drift."

That makes me snort. "Sounds like you're dating a one-man show who needs constant applause." I tease.

"Encore! Encore!" Stella jests, nearly spitting out her drink.

"Maybe he's just rehearsing for his next role. Insecure Lover Number One."

Isla's cheeks flush a playful pink.

"Or perhaps," Stella adds, barely containing her giggles, "he's building up to record your intimate scenes, not for the memories, but for critique sessions!"

Our collective laughter peals through the bar, drawing sidelong glances that only fuel our amusement. It's the kind of moment that stitches us closer together—three friends against the world.

"Should I be worried if he brings a director's chair to the bedroom next time?" Isla manages between breaths.

"Only if he yells ‘cut' instead of…" Stella dissolves into another round of giggles.

The mojito's minty tang lingers on my tongue as Stella leans in once she's composed herself, the glow from the bar's pendant lights casting a shimmer across her features. "I've moved on from that lawyer," she confesses.

"Ooh, do tell," I coax.

"His name is Marc," she purrs, rolling the R. "He's French. A psychologist."

"Sounds intense." Isla twirls a strand of her hair.

"Intense and incessant." Stella groans, her smile fading into a mock frown. "Every complaint about work becomes a session with Doctor Love. It's like I'm paying for therapy in kisses and coq au vin."

"Is that French for chicken?" Isla asks, eyes wide.

"Among other things," I quip, earning an eye roll from Stella. But it's the way she said French, like it's a secret only her lips can tell.

"Okay, hypothetically," I venture. "What if Monsieur Psychologist suggests a ménage à trois?"

"Mon dieu," Stella gasps theatrically, hand pressed to her chest. "With that accent? I'd melt faster than butter on a warm croissant. How could I possibly say no?"

Our laughter bubbles up again just as the waiter arrives with our second round of drinks.

"Speaking of irresistible men," Isla turns to me. "What about your Kent?"

"Oh yes, Kent," Stella echoes, leaning in with interest.

"Ah, well…." I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. "He's working nights right now, but we see each other when he gets off in the mornings, and we talk before he goes in. We're considering a trip to meet his mother. In London."

"Serious stuff," Isla whistles, eyebrows raised.

"Maybe," I concede, swirling the ice in my mojito. My heart's been a fortress for so long, but Kent, with his earnest eyes and late-lunch dates, is now laying siege to its walls.

"Are you worried?" Stella's question is soft, tinged with concern.

"Terrified." The admission comes more easily than I expect. "But he makes me feel…seen. And after that whole mess with Sophia…" I pause at the memory of my mother's overdose.

"Have you talked to her since then?" Stella probes gently.

I shake my head. "She checked herself out of rehab. Again." My voice is flat, the words tasting like ash. "And then she disappeared. It's just a matter of time before the knock comes, though. The one with bad news."

A silence settles over us, heavy and uncomfortable until Isla breaks the quiet.

"This is so much for you to manage, Amelia," she says. "And it's okay if it makes you tired and if you don't get the results you want. We've got to embrace the good and the bad, in our loved ones and ourselves."

I find myself nodding, grateful for these two women who've seen every side of me—the light, the dark, and the shades between.

"Here's to accepting, warts and all," I toast, lifting my glass.

"Especially if those warts come with a French accent," Stella adds, and we chuckle, the mood lightening once more.

"Anyway," Stella insists, reaching across the table to give my hand a reassuring squeeze. "Kent is smitten with you. Don't let your mom's issues cast a shadow on what you have with him."

"Easy for you to say," I chuckle. "You're not the one who has to worry about a mother-shaped grenade rolling into your life without warning."

"True," she concedes. "But Kent isn't running scared. That says something, right?"

"Right," I agree, the word feeling like a promise.

We chat for a few more minutes until someone notices the time. Then we all stand, slipping on jackets and exchanging the kind of hugs that feel like they could stave off any storm.

I walk home alone, my heels clicking on the sidewalk. The moon, a slender crescent, hangs low in the sky, an observer to my solitary figure cutting through the cityscape.

My apartment greets me with its familiar scent of vanilla and musk, and the soft glow of the lamp I left on warms the room. Dropping my purse on my bed, I pull out my phone, thumbing through messages until Kent's name lights up the screen.

Kent: Hey, my lovely. How about spicing up my night shift with a pic?

I shake my head.

Me: Oh, are you making a quick run to the grocery store? Need some entertainment?

Kent: Haha. Very funny.

Me: I suspect you have plenty to keep you busy right now. But if you're good, there might be something better waiting at 6 AM.

A moment ticks by before his reply bubbles onto the screen.

Kent: Promise?

Me: Cross my heart.

I picture his grin, boyish and eager. It's a dangerous game, offering pieces of myself like secrets to be unwrapped. Yet with Kent, the risk seems part of the thrill.

Slipping into bed, I curl beneath the sheets, their coolness soon giving way to the heat of my own skin. My mind wanders through a maze of possibilities, each more tantalizing than the last. The thought of Kent's arms, strong and secure, encircling me in the morning light sends a shiver down my spine.

"Be careful, Amelia," I whisper to myself, the words a mantra against falling too hard, too fast. But the truth is, I'm already tumbling, free falling into something that feels like it could be everything.