Four #2
But Rachel is already moving, digging through the cabinet like she knew it was coming. “We said one year,” she says, sing-song, not bothering to hide the slur in her voice. “Don’t make me be the accountability cop.”
She finds the jar.
Of course she does.
It’s oversized and ridiculous—probably a leftover from some sourdough phase—stuffed with index cards, lipstick marks, a dried flower pressed between them like it matters.
She sets it on the table without ceremony.
Takes her seat like it’s official.
Claire points at Brielle, grinning. “Remember when you said this was going to be bonding and not a guilt spiral?”
Brielle lifts a hand in surrender. “It’s both. That’s what makes it tradition.”
The word lands wrong.
Rachel unscrews the lid and pulls out the “Fine Print” card, reading like she’s presenting legal terms.
“Guilt is not a valid reason for quitting. ‘I don’t have time’ means make time. If you chicken out, you host next. If you succeed, cake, champagne, and a group photo where no one says ‘suck it in.’”
Laughter.
Thin.
Uneasy.
Naomi crosses one leg over the other. “Do we all have to go, or is there a statute of limitations on emotional breakdowns?”
Claire raises her glass. “Last one to admit failure brings wine next time.”
Rachel scans the room. “Okay. Who’s first?”
Naomi goes.
“I tried,” she says simply. But there’s tension under it. “Turns out asking for what you want out loud is… harder than knowing it.”
A flick of her eyes toward Harper.
Something unspoken.
Harper shrugs when it’s her turn. “No update. Still waiting on my existential crisis to book itself.” Her fingers fidget anyway. “I’ve thought about it. Just… not in the mood to share.”
Claire goes loud, because she always does. “I got to second base with my vibrator. Does that count, or is that emotional avoidance?”
They laugh.
But it’s not clean laughter.
Rachel exhales. “I said I’d try everything in the book this year.” A pause. “Turns out the book is more optimistic than my marriage.” She shrugs. “But we booked a weekend away. Just us. I’m… weirdly scared of it.”
And then—
they all look at Brielle.
Her stomach drops.
She hates this part.
The accounting.
The moment where it stops being a joke.
She was the one who started it—months ago, laughing, tossing out a dare like it couldn’t possibly matter.
Write down one thing you want. Check back in a year.
It felt harmless then.
Now it feels like standing at the edge of something with no railing.
She reaches for the jar.
The glass taps softly against the table—too loud in the quiet.
She pulls out a card.
Finds a pen.
Jason’s voice cuts through her thoughts, clear as if he’s standing behind her:
You seem awake.
I see it.
I’m not scared of it.
She is.
She clicks the pen.
Breathes.
And writes.
Slow.
Careful.
Like if she rushes, it won’t count.
I want to feel wanted again.
I want someone to look at me like they can’t wait to touch me.
I want to stop waiting for permission.
She stares at it for a second too long.
Then folds the card.
Presses her lips to the edge without thinking—like sealing something she doesn’t get to take back.
It’s embarrassing.
She doesn’t care.
She drops it into the jar.
Closes the lid.
The quiet that follows is heavier than anything they’ve said all night.
Harper lets out a breath. “Well. That’s one way to win.”
No one laughs.
Rachel looks at her differently now.
Not teasing.
Not deflecting.
“Next week,” she says. “You’re hosting, right?”
Brielle nods.
“Yeah,” she says. “I’ll bring the jar.”
She doesn’t look at her phone the whole way home.
?
Cleanup is always the witching hour.
The energy snaps from riot to hush in a single breath—jackets pulled on, Ubers called, goodbye hugs that linger just a second too long.
Brielle ends up in Rachel’s kitchen with Naomi, who is rinsing wine glasses one by one, stacking them beside the sink with quiet precision. There’s something almost ceremonial about it—the way each glass is turned in the water, set down carefully, like it matters.
It makes Brielle ache.
The house feels different now. Emptied out, but not calm.
The mess has been reduced to smears—brie on a plate, an overturned ramekin of almonds. Rachel’s dog snores faintly in the hallway.
Naomi dries her hands, folds the towel once, sets it down flat.
She doesn’t look at Brielle right away.
Lets the silence stretch.
Then, softly—almost too soft—
“You know you’re allowed to want that, right?”
Brielle’s stomach tightens.
She waits for a follow-up—a joke, a softening, something to take the weight out of it.
Nothing comes.
“Yeah,” she says, finally. “I just—”
The sentence doesn’t finish.
She doesn’t know how.
Naomi turns then, the light catching her face, and looks at her directly.
“You don’t have to apologize for it,” she says. “Wanting isn’t a crime.”
Brielle lets out a short laugh. “Feels like it.”
Naomi’s mouth shifts, almost a smile. “You get used to it,” she says. “Wanting. Having. Even if it’s just a little at a time.”
A pause.
She glances at the clock. “You okay to drive?”
“Adrenaline says yes. Liver says questionable.”
Naomi snorts. “Text me when you get home.”
“Always do.”
And she does.
?
The drive is ten minutes.
Quiet streets. Familiar turns.
It feels longer.
She cracks the window, lets the cold air cut through the heat still sitting under her skin. Tries to settle it.
Every stop sign feels like a checkpoint.
One. Two. Three.
By the fourth, her grip on the wheel is too tight.
She catches her reflection in the rearview—hair falling, lipstick worn down, cheeks still flushed. Her pupils look too big, like she’s coming down from something.
She thinks about Naomi’s words.
You’re allowed to want that.
She turns it over, trying to find the edge of it—where it stops being truth and starts being something easier to say than to live.
She doesn’t find it.
?
The house is dark when she pulls in.
The porch light is low.
She sits in the car for a minute, engine off, the heat fading.
Her phone lights up.
Naomi
got home.
No question mark.
Brielle smiles.
She checks her reflection again.
For a second, she sees it clearly—
A woman in a red dress. Alone. Hands still slightly unsteady. Eyes brighter than they should be.
Not lost.
Not unsure.
Just… changed.
The cold finally pushes her out of the car.
She steps onto the driveway, keys in hand, shoulders squared without thinking about it.
With each step toward the house, the feeling shifts.
Less sharp.
More certain.
Not something to hide.
Something to carry.
She unlocks the door.
And goes inside.
?
The house at night is unrecognizable.
No cartoons looping, no trail of Cheerios, no sudden cries from down the hall—just the low creak of floorboards settling into themselves.
Brielle slips off her shoes, drapes her coat over a chair, and moves down the hallway on instinct, still half-expecting something to call her back.
Nothing does.
The bedroom is dim, almost cave-like. Jason is already in bed, one arm over his eyes, the other resting palm-up on the quilt—fingers slightly open, as if he’d been holding space and forgot to close his hand.
The bedside lamp casts a soft, forgiving light.
She pauses in the doorway.
He’s not asleep.
His eyes track her as she crosses the room—quiet, steady. No demand. No questions waiting behind his teeth.
Just attention.
He doesn’t greet her.
Doesn’t fill the space.
He watches.
She slips out of the red dress, folds it with more care than she expects, sets it over the chair. Pulls on an old T-shirt—his, once. The fabric is thin, worn soft. She can feel the air move through it.
He notices.
He doesn’t say anything.
That restraint lands.
She gets into bed carefully, but the mattress dips anyway. The sheets shift, settle.
For a while, neither of them speaks.
Just breath.
Fabric.
The distant hum of the neighborhood transformer.
Jason breaks it.
“Did you have fun?”
She turns onto her side, facing him. The simplicity of it catches her off guard.
“Yeah,” she says. “I did.”
A beat.
“We did the Pact check.”
He frowns slightly. “The jar thing?”
“Yeah.”
She swallows.
Feels the words line up before she can stop them.
“It’s been almost a year. We had to say where we’re at.”
He nods once.
Waits.
Doesn’t rescue her from it.
She could deflect.
Make it a joke.
She doesn’t.
“I wrote that I want to feel wanted again,” she says, voice quieter now, but steady. “Not just routine. Not just… because it’s time. I want to feel it.”
Her throat tightens, but she keeps going.
“And I wrote that I don’t want to wait for permission anymore.”
The words sit between them.
Unprotected.
Jason doesn’t react right away.
No flinch. No defense. No immediate reassurance.
He takes it in.
Then, after a moment:
“That makes sense.”
It lands gently.
Not dismissive.
Not threatened.
Just… true.
Something in her chest loosens.
He shifts onto his side, bringing them level.
“Do you want to talk about it,” he asks, “or just… be here?”
She shakes her head.
“Just be here.”
“Okay.”
He moves closer.
Pulls the covers over her.
His arm settles around her waist—not pulling, not claiming—just there, solid.
His hand rests under her ribs, warm, steady.
Holding.
Not taking.
She closes her eyes.
Listens.
The silence isn’t empty.
It hums.
This isn’t abstract anymore.
It’s something they’ve both heard.
Something that exists now.
A clock, maybe.
Or a line they’ve stepped over without noticing.
Jason’s breathing evens out beside her.
Sleep comes for him easily.
She stays awake.
Heart still moving too fast.
Body too aware.
She isn’t waiting for permission anymore.
She said it.
Tomorrow—
she’ll have to mean it.
?
Her phone lights faintly against the nightstand.
She picks it up.
Harper
You’re spiraling.
Brielle
I am not.
Harper
You’ve been typing and deleting in the group chat for twenty minutes.
A pause.
Brielle stares at the screen.
Brielle
I hate you.
Harper
No you don’t.
What are you about to do?
Brielle hesitates.
Then:
Brielle
Something I can’t undo.
She sets the phone face down.
Listens to Jason breathe.
And doesn’t move.