10. Sasha

10

SASHA

T he walk back to my apartment is a blur, the morning light just starting to filter through the buildings and paint everything in a soft, golden hue. I’m still riding the high of last night, of Evie’s touch, her warmth, the way we fit together like something inevitable. Every step feels lighter, and I’m grinning like an idiot, replaying every kiss, every stolen moment between the shelves.

I can’t remember the last time I felt this good, this…alive. But as I turn the corner to my building, reality nudges back in, reminding me of the world beyond the quiet, intimate bubble of Evie’s bookstore. And there, leaning casually against the entrance, is Glass, his lanky frame draped in one of his usual oversized sweaters, a coffee cup in one hand and a knowing smirk already forming on his lips.

He looks up as I approach, and his smile widens. “Well, well, well,” he drawls, raising the coffee in a mock toast. “If it isn’t my wayward friend, fresh from a night of…not sleeping in her own bed.”

I roll my eyes, trying to keep my cool, but there’s no point pretending I’m not totally caught. “Good morning to you too, Sherlock,” I shoot back, reaching out to swipe the coffee from his hand. I take a sip, savoring the familiar bitterness, and then glance at him with mock annoyance. “What are you doing lurking around my building this early?”

Glass chuckles, watching me with an expression that’s far too amused for this time of day. “Oh, you know, just waiting to catch a glimpse of my favorite runaway poet. And look at that, I get more than I bargained for.” He gestures to me, his eyes sweeping over my rumpled clothes and barely tamed mess of my hair, and I know I must look like someone who didn’t plan to spend the night out.

I shake my head, unable to keep the grin off my face. “I’m not a runaway.”

Glass arches an eyebrow, the smirk still firmly in place. “Really? Because from where I’m standing, you look like someone who’s run straight into trouble. Or something like it.”

I laugh, pushing past him toward the entrance, but Glass follows, still eyeing me with that infuriatingly perceptive look. He’s been my best friend for years, long enough to know when something’s different, when I’m hiding something. And right now, I’m not sure I want to hide this. Not from him.

“You’re impossible, you know that?” I say, nudging the door open and holding it for him. He steps inside, and we both start up the stairs, his coffee still clutched in my hand.

“It’s part of my charm,” Glass replies, his voice light but probing. “So, are you going to tell me where you’ve been, or should I just start guessing?”

I hesitate for a second, biting my lip as I think about how much to share. But then I see the genuine curiosity in his eyes and the warmth that’s always there no matter how much we tease each other, and I can’t help but spill a little of the truth.

“I was with Evie Rousseau, the bookstore owner,” I say, trying to sound casual, but even saying her name sends a little thrill through me. “We…I don’t know. It just sort of happened. I went to her bookstore for the poetry night, and one thing led to another…”

Glass whistles low, shaking his head in mock amazement. “So the mysterious bookstore owner finally got you, huh? I knew there was something going on when you kept talking about her open mic like it was the highlight of your week.”

I roll my eyes, but I can’t deny it. “Yeah, well, she’s…she’s different. It feels different.”

Glass gives me a knowing look, his smirk softening into something more genuine. “Good different?”

I nod, feeling my cheeks warm at the admission. “Yeah. Good different.”

We reach my door, and I fumble with my keys, still buzzing with the residual energy of Evie, of the way her smile lingered in my mind as I left. I push the door open, and Glass follows me inside, tossing his bag onto the nearest chair and flopping down on the couch like he owns the place. I drop my bag next to his and collapse beside him, sinking into the familiar cushions with a tired but contented sigh.

“So,” Glass says, turning to face me, his eyes sparkling with mischief, “tell me everything. Did you recite sonnets by candlelight? Spill wine on first editions? I need all the details.”

I laugh, nudging him playfully. “You’re not getting the full play-by-play, you perv. But…it was good. More than good, actually. It was—” I pause, searching for the right words, but all that comes to mind is Evie’s touch, her laughter, the way her arms wrapped around me when the world finally quieted down. “It was…easy. And intense. And I don’t know, it just felt right.”

Glass watches me, his smirk giving way to a softer smile. “I’m glad. You deserve something that feels right, Sash.”

I lean back, closing my eyes as I let the warmth of his words settle. There’s a comfort in knowing that Glass gets it, that he’s happy for me without needing every detail, without turning it into something bigger than it is. He’s always been like that—supportive, steady, and a constant presence in the whirlwind of my life.

We sit in companionable silence for a few moments, sipping our coffee and letting the quiet morning unfold around us. My thoughts keep drifting back to Evie and the way she looked at me when I left, like there was more to say, more to explore. And even though we’re apart now, I can still feel the pull of her, the promise of something new and unfamiliar but oh so enticing.

Glass nudges me with his elbow, breaking the quiet. “You gonna see her again?”

I nod, unable to hide the small, eager smile that spreads across my face. “Yeah. I think this is just the start.”

Glass raises his coffee cup in a mock toast. “To new beginnings, then. And to you finally finding something worth sticking around for.”

I clink my cup against his, feeling the warmth of his friendship settle around me like a second skin. It’s comforting, grounding, and as I take another sip, I know one thing for sure: Whatever happens next with Evie, I’m ready for it.

The familiar clatter of plates and the hum of conversation greet me as I step into the wing place, the late morning light filtering through the windows, casting a warm glow over the bustling restaurant. It’s already busy—tables filled with regulars and the occasional new face, all of them eager for a good meal and a cold beer. The smells hit me immediately: the spicy tang of hot sauce, the rich scent of fried chicken, the comforting aroma of garlic and herbs. It’s a sensory overload that wakes me up better than any cup of coffee could.

I slip behind the counter, grabbing my apron from the hook where I left it, and tie it around my waist with practiced ease. The fabric feels familiar against my fingers, worn soft from countless shifts. It’s a simple ritual, one that always helps me switch gears and get into the right mindset for the busy day ahead.

“Morning, Sash,” Jackson calls from the kitchen, his voice muffled by the sound of sizzling oil and the clatter of pans. He pops his head out, flashing me a grin. “You’re in early. Thought you might be dragging your feet after a late night.”

I give him a knowing smile, shaking my head. “Not a chance, boss. You know I’m always ready to work.”

He laughs, a deep, hearty sound that echoes through the kitchen. “That’s what I like to hear. We’re slammed already, so it’s good to have you on board.”

I don’t waste any time. The moment I hit the floor, I’m in motion—taking orders, refilling drinks, making small talk with the regulars who’ve come to know me as the friendly face who always remembers their favorite wing sauce. There’s a rhythm to it, a steady pace that keeps me moving and focused. It’s exactly what I need after the whirlwind of emotions from last night and this morning. No time to overthink, no time to dwell—just work.

The hours pass in a blur of activity. Plates are piled high with wings, fries, and all the fixings; drinks are poured and served with a smile; orders are taken and delivered with the same easy efficiency I’ve honed over countless shifts. I can feel the tiredness tugging at the edges of my energy, but it’s a good kind of tiredness—the kind that comes from knowing you’re doing something well, from the satisfaction of a job that keeps you on your toes.

The customers are in good spirits today, and so am I. I crack jokes with the regulars, tease the new customers about their wing choices, and make sure no one’s glass stays empty for long. The tips start piling up, a few bills here and there, tucked into the pocket of my apron.

“Hey, Sasha,” one of the regulars—Tommy, a guy who’s been coming here for years—calls out as I pass by his table. “You look like you’ve had a good night. Got that glow about you.”

I laugh, shaking my head as I refill his beer. “Just doing my job, Tommy. Maybe it’s all the hot sauce fumes getting to me.”

He grins, taking the fresh beer with a nod of thanks. “Whatever it is, keep it up. You’re brightening up the place.”

I flash him a quick smile and move on to the next table, the compliment lingering in the back of my mind like a warm ember. It’s nice to be noticed, even in the small, casual ways that don’t mean much beyond the moment.

As the lunch rush starts to wind down, I finally get a chance to catch my breath. I lean against the counter for a moment, stretching my arms above my head and rolling my shoulders to ease the tension. It’s been non-stop since I walked in, but I can’t say I mind. There’s something satisfying about a shift like this—steady, busy, with just enough chaos to keep things interesting.

I glance at the clock, realizing my shift is almost over. One more hour, and then I’m free. The thought of going home, maybe catching a quick nap before figuring out what comes next, is tempting. But there’s also a part of me that doesn’t want the day to end just yet.

“Sasha, you got another table,” Jackson calls from the kitchen, snapping me out of my thoughts. “Table five’s asking for you specifically.”

I raise an eyebrow, my curiosity piqued, and make my way over to the table in question. It’s a couple of college kids, bright-eyed and grinning, probably here on a study break or just looking to kill some time. They’re mostly new faces, but they seem friendly enough.

“What can I get for you?” I ask, pulling out my notepad with a smile.

They place their orders—wings, extra spicy, with a side of fries—and I nod, jotting it down quickly. As I turn to leave, one of them calls out, “Hey, Sasha?”

I pause, looking back at them. “Yeah?”

The kid grins, a little sheepish. “Thanks for the recommendation on the hot sauce last time. You weren’t kidding; it’s the best we’ve had.”

I laugh, nodding in acknowledgment. “Told you. Stick with me, and I’ll make sure you eat right.”

He gives me a thumbs-up, and I head back to the kitchen, my mood lifting a little higher. It’s the little things like that—the small connections, the moments of shared laughter—that make this job more than just work. It’s about people and making someone’s day a little better, even if it’s just with a plate of wings and a joke.

By the time my shift ends, I’m tired but content, my pockets a little fuller and my heart a little lighter. I untie my apron, hang it back on the hook, and give Jackson a quick wave as I head for the door.

“See you Monday night, boss,” I call over my shoulder.

“Take care, Sasha,” he replies with a grin. “And don’t stay out too late this time!”

I laugh, stepping out into the afternoon sunshine.

The streets are alive with the usual buzz of New Orleans—tourists weaving through the sidewalks, music spilling out of every open door, the scent of street food mingling with the thick, humid air. I tuck my hair tie into my bag, feeling a pleasant heaviness in my pocket from the tips I’ve earned today. It’s been a good day, simple and steady, and my thoughts drift back to Evie, to the soft, quiet moments of the morning that still cling to me like a favorite song.

As I turn down a quieter street, I decide to finally check my phone. I’m not much of a phone person. Usually, it’s just a tool for work schedules and the occasional text from Glass. I hadn’t even given Evie my number yet, but I find myself hoping, just a little, that maybe she found a way to reach out. I dig my phone out of my bag and swipe it open, glancing at the screen as I walk.

There’s a notification: a new message from an unknown number. My heart skips, a little burst of excitement sparking inside me. Maybe it’s her. I open the message, and the words make me smile instantly.

Hey, is this Sasha?

It’s got to be Evie. Who else could it be? The thought sends a warm rush through me, and I can’t help but type back a quick, flirty reply, my fingers moving faster than my mind.

Hey, beautiful, you found me. I was just thinking about you! Just finished my shift at Bourbon Wings. What about you?

I hit send, already picturing Evie’s smile when she reads it. But almost immediately, a new message comes through, and the words make my stomach drop.

Are you Sasha Bennett from Westchester?

My breath catches, and my heart starts to pound, the lightness of the moment evaporating in an instant. It’s like a switch flips in my brain, and suddenly, all the warmth and ease I’ve been carrying with me turns to ice. I stare at the screen, the familiar, dreaded name of my past staring back at me, and every instinct I’ve trained myself to follow kicks in at once.

It’s not Evie. It’s someone else. Someone who knows too much; someone who’s reaching into a part of my life I’ve spent years trying to bury.

Panic flares, hot and fast, twisting my thoughts into a tangled mess of fear and frustration. I don’t know who this is, how they got my number, or what they want, but I can’t risk finding out. I can’t let my past crawl back into this new, fragile thing I’m trying to build. My fingers fumble over the screen, my chest tightening as I try to steady my breathing. Without hesitating, I block the number, the screen blinking back to my home page as if nothing happened.

But I can’t shake the feeling. The moment is ruined, my sense of calm shattered by the sudden reminder of who I used to be—who I’ve been running from. I shove my phone back into my bag, my hands trembling as I pick up my pace, trying to put as much distance as I can between me and that message. The city around me feels sharper now, every sound too loud, every step too quick.

I thought I was past this. I thought I could keep the past buried. But now, all I can think about is how quickly everything can unravel, how one message can pull me right back to where I never wanted to be again.

I take a deep breath, trying to shake it off, to remind myself of everything that’s good, everything that’s new. Evie’s face flashes in my mind—her smile, her laugh, the warmth of her touch—and I cling to that image like a lifeline. I won’t let this ruin what I have now. I won’t let the ghosts of my past pull me under.

I keep walking, my steps quick and determined, focusing on the path ahead, on the present, on everything I’ve built here. I have no intention of looking back.