Page 23 of Played
"You should quit," he says over dinner on Wednesday. "Go back to school. Study something worthwhile."
Thursday, he brings up online courses. Education programs, specifically.
Friday, he suggests I just take a break. "You don't need the money anymore."
But what would I do? Sit in his apartment all day, staring at the walls? Binge Netflix until my brain turns to mush?
I'm not wired that way. I need people, conversation, the chaos of the bar. Even the annoying parts—the drunk guys hitting on me, the spilled beer, the arguments over fouls, sportsmanship, and shots called—it's still life. Movement. Connection.
Daniel doesn't understand that. He's content in his quiet, controlled world.
I'm not.
Now it's Saturday, and I'm staring at my reflection, second-guessing everything. Dark jeans. Green polka dot top. Hair twisted up in a clip, deliberately casual. Nothing too sexy. Nothing that says I'm trying.
Which I'm not.
I practice my breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth.
The lie sits heavy on my tongue. I told Daniel I'm visiting Jenna, which required a painful phone call where I begged her to cover for me. She agreed, reluctantly, after a lecture about boundaries and bad decisions. God, I hate her sometimes. We have a very mother-daughter relationship, despite the fact that we're basically the same age. I suppose she's more mature than me.
My phone buzzes.
Almost there.
My heart stutters.
I’ve asked him to pick me up at a plaza near my place. I didn’t want Daniel to see us.
When I spot Julian’s dark and sleek SUV, I grab my jacket and head out of my car, walking slowly, each step amplifying my nerves.
When I slide into the passenger seat, he glances over, and God—he's devastating. Black fitted shirt, jeans, that easy confidence he wears like cologne.
"Hey." His smile's warm, genuine.
"Hey."
We pull into traffic, and the city slides past the windows.
"So, ready for group therapy with strangers?" he asks, eyes on the road.
"Thrilled. Can't wait to cry in front of people I don't know."
He laughs. "We'll bring Kleenex. Make it a party."
"Do they serve wine at these things?"
"Doubt it. But we can stop after."
The suggestion hangs between us, dangerous and tempting.
"You look nice," he adds. "Green suits you."
Heat creeps up my neck. "Thanks. You clean up pretty well yourself."
"I try."
The drive stretches ahead—fifty minutes of highway, trees blurring past, the sun dipping lower.
