Nachos at the Lantern

"Loaded," you say, settling back into the seat. "Always loaded. Extra cheese. No negotiation."

Priya pumps her fist. "Democracy works. Loaded nachos it is."

The minivan hums along Route 9, late afternoon light pouring amber through the windows. Wren drives with both hands at ten and two, occasionally glancing at the GPS like she doesn't entirely trust it. The music shifts from bass-heavy to something softer—a dreamy indie track with layered harmonies that fills the cabin like warm water.

This is nice. This is just... nice.

You let your head rest against the window, watching the treeline blur past. The glass is cool against your temple. Your reflection ghosts back at you—smoky eyes, loose hair, the sage jacket collar brushing your jaw—and you don't flinch from it this time.

Janelle shifts beside you, reaching into her bag. She pulls out a lip gloss—something shimmery and pink—and applies it one-handed without a mirror, a practiced flick of her wrist. She catches you watching and holds it out.

"Want some? It's mint."

"I'm good, thanks."

"Your loss. It's really good mint." She tucks it away and her hand lands on the seat between you, fingers loosely curled. Not reaching. Just... there. Available.

From the front seat, Wren clears her throat. "Riley, can I ask you something for the blog? Like, your philosophy on closet organization. What's the core principle?"

You think about it. "Everything visible. If you can't see it, you won't wear it. That's the whole thing."

"That's really good." Wren is scribbling in her notebook one-handed while driving, which makes Janelle grab the wheel briefly. "Sorry. Sorry. But that's quotable."

Priya twists around in the passenger seat, one arm draped over the headrest. "Okay, real talk. What's the worst thing you found in Janelle's closet? And you have to be honest."

Janelle groans. "Priya—"

"I found a pair of jeans with a hole so large it constituted a structural failure," you say, deadpan. "Like, the entire inner thigh was just... gone. Vaporized."

"They were COMFORTABLE," Janelle protests.

"They were a safety hazard."

Priya cackles. Wren is still scribbling. The van takes a gentle curve and the sunlight shifts, catching the gold hoops in Janelle's ears, the gloss on her lips, the warmth in her eyes when she glances sideways at you.

Her knee is still pressed against yours. Steady. Present.

"We're almost there," Wren announces, pointing at a weathered wooden sign ahead. THE LANTERN, it reads, with a painted lantern icon that's peeling at the edges. "Devon said he's working the door today. We're golden."

The parking lot is half-full—mostly trucks and older sedans. A patio visible through the trees, string lights already glowing despite the daylight. Someone's set up a trivia board near the entrance.

Wren pulls into a spot near the back and kills the engine. The music cuts out and for a moment there's just the tick of cooling metal and the distant murmur of the patio crowd.

Priya unbuckles. "Alright, ladies. Nacho time."

Janelle lingers, gathering her bag, and when you both stand to slide the door open, she's right there—close enough that you catch the scent of her shea butter moisturizer mixed with something floral. Her eyes hold yours for a beat longer than casual.

"Ready?" she asks, and the word seems to mean more than just nachos.