At the bar

The Rusty Anchor’s got that dive bar stink—spilled beer, cheap cologne, and a whiff of desperation. The place is packed, bodies crammed shoulder to shoulder under dim lights, the jukebox blaring some 90s grunge track that’s got half the crowd belting out the lyrics like they’re at a reunion tour. My boots stick to the floor as I weave through the crush, dodging elbows and half-spilled drinks. Why exactly are we still hanging out here?

I scan the room for Monica but spot Ryan first. He’s camped at a high-top near the bar, nursing a beer, looking relaxed in that effortless way of his. He’s still got that athletic build—broad shoulders filling out a worn Henley, sleeves pushed up just enough to show forearms that probably still see a gym—but there’s no frat boy posturing tonight. Just Ryan, easygoing, hair a little messy, like he didn’t overthink it. His blue eyes find mine, and he lifts his beer with a small grin that’s more warm than cocky.

“Hey, stranger,” I say, sliding onto the stool across from him and flicking my hair back. “Where’s Monica? She ditch you already?”

Ryan chuckles, leaning back with his arm draped casually over the chair. “Nah, she’s powdering her nose or fixing her lipstick or… I don’t know, whatever girls do when they vanish for twenty minutes. You know how she gets when she’s had a couple.” His grin deepens. “Glad you made it. Was starting to think I’d be stuck people-watching solo all night.”

I smirk. “Suffer through this fine establishment without me? Tragic.”

He lifts his beer in a mock toast. “Exactly. You get it.”

I can’t help but grin. “You always this charming, or is it just the beer talking?”

“Little of both, maybe.” He takes a sip, eyes glinting over the rim of his glass. “Seriously though, you clean up nice. Hard to believe you used to roll in looking like you could headline a **** metal show.”

I laugh, sharp and easy. “Yeah, well… life happens. I traded the black eyeliner for a paycheck. Where’s your glow-up, jock boy? Still rocking the high school letterman vibe?”

He laughs, deep and warm, and points his bottle at me. “Touché. But c’mon, Monica’s told me stories. You were, like, the queen of bad decisions back in college—parties, guys, booze and ****. You're a cool girl now, don't get me wrong, but I gotta say I’m curious what that Thalia was like.” His grin’s got a teasing edge, flirty but not crossing the line, and his eyes linger on me a second too long.

My pulse ticks up, and I feel that tug—the old me, the one who’d match his vibe and then some, just to see how far it could go. But the new me, the one trying to keep shit together, hesitates, wondering how Monica would take it if I leaned too hard into this.