Ellery #2
We both laughed, the sound easing some of the tension I hadn’t realized I’d been carrying. I tucked my phone into my bag and stood, looping my scarf around my neck.
For a brief, stubborn moment, I almost texted Kyle again—just to remind him, just to try one more time. But I stopped myself.
He was busy.
And maybe, just for one night, I could be too.
Naomi grabbed her purse and looped her arm through mine. “Come on,” she said with a grin. “Let’s go be bad at being responsible.”
“Story of my life,” I muttered, but I followed her anyway—out of the employee lounge, into the hum of the office, where for once, I wasn’t someone’s afterthought.
Just someone choosing herself, at least for the evening.
The bar near the lake was alive in a way I hadn’t felt in weeks. Warm light, music too loud to think, the hum of laughter and clinking glasses wrapping around us like permission to breathe. Naomi had already declared the night a “morale emergency,” which apparently meant shots were mandatory.
“Two tequila, extra lime,” she told the bartender, then turned to me with a grin that could start wars. “Doctor’s orders.”
I groaned, but the sound melted into laughter before I could stop it. “You’re not a doctor.”
“I am of bad decisions and good timing. Drink up.”
So I did.
The burn was sharp but clean, pulling a sound out of me I hadn’t made in too long—something halfway between a laugh and a sigh.
For the first time in weeks, the knot between my ribs loosened.
The music thumped through the floor, some upbeat pop song I actually recognized.
Naomi started swaying in her seat, mouthing the words, and before long I was singing with her—off-key, giggling, cheeks warm.
“This,” she said between choruses, “is what you look like when you’re not managing fifty things at once. It’s unnerving. You have a face.”
“Rude.”
“True.”
We dissolved into laughter again, and it felt… good. Messy, human, alive. I didn’t have to be the organized one, the one who fixed everything. I could just be me.
A few drinks later, Naomi leaned across the table, eyes sparkling. “Okay. New game. Text someone dangerous.”
I blinked. “Define dangerous.”
She smirked. “Someone who makes your pulse misbehave.”
I shook my head, laughing. “Absolutely not.”
“Come on! You’ve earned a little chaos.”
“I’m not texting anyone,” I said, too fast. “That’s how people end up regretting mornings.”
She gave me a look that was pure mischief. “Then I’ll do it for you.”
Before I could stop her, she snatched my phone off the table. “Naomi!”
“Relax, I’m just browsing your contacts. Ooh, Beckett Mason—now that’s dangerous.”
I lunged for the phone, still laughing, half-panicked. “Give it back!”
She danced it just out of reach, scrolling dramatically. “Oh look, his name’s already near the top. Wonder why.”
I grabbed at it again, and in the chaos—my hand hitting hers, both of us laughing too hard—I must’ve pressed something, because suddenly the phone lit up and started ringing.
Naomi froze. “Oh, hell. You didn’t—”
I looked down.
Beckett Mason — Calling.
“Oh no no no no,” I whispered, staring at the screen like it might explode.
Naomi slapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide and delighted. “You did!”
“End call, end call, end—” My fingers fumbled over the buttons, tequila and adrenaline making everything clumsy.
But it was too late. The ringing stopped.
The phone was already pressed to my ear when his voice came through — deep, rough around the edges, and entirely too sober for the chaos around me.
“James? You okay?”
I froze. Oh no.
My brain, of course, decided to do the dumbest possible thing. “Why did you have sex with me in my dream?”
There was a pause long enough for me to hear my own heartbeat — and Naomi snorting into her cocktail beside me.
“…What?” Beckett finally said. His voice had dropped, caught somewhere between alarmed and disbelieving.
I waved my free hand like that would somehow fix it. “You were bossy,” I explained, words spilling out before I could stop them. “But nice-bossy. And then you—wait.” I blinked, squinting like the thought might steady itself. “I’m not supposed to tell you that part.”
Across the table, Naomi was doubled over, tears in her eyes. “You didn’t!” she mouthed.
I absolutely had.
Beckett sounded like he’d forgotten how to form sentences. “Ellery, are you—”
“I’m fine!” I interrupted, laughing too loud. “Perfectly fine. Maybe slightly tequila-flavored fine.”
There was more background noise — glasses clinking, music thumping from the bar’s speakers. Naomi shouted something about another round, and the crowd cheered like she’d declared a national holiday.
Beckett’s voice came through again, lower now, steady in a way that made me feel warm and dizzy all over. “You’re drunk.”
“Obviously,” I said brightly. “Oh—some guy’s asking me to dance.”
I heard him inhale sharply, like he was about to argue.
“James—”
“Relax,” I said, already standing, trying to balance my phone, my drink, and my dignity. “It’s N—"
She was already pulling me toward the dance floor, laughing, our hands laced like we were seventeen again.
“Bye, dream villain,” I said, smiling even though he couldn’t see it. Then I hung up.
For a moment, I just stood there, heart racing, the phone still warm in my hand. Naomi tugged me forward, and I let her — but part of me stayed behind, caught in the echo of his voice.
The music swallowed me up, lights spinning gold across the floor, but the image in my head wouldn’t leave: Beckett, confused and concerned, saying my name like it meant something.
Why did you have sex with me in my dream?
Gosh. I was never living that down.
And somewhere between the bass and the tequila, my heart whispered the truth I didn’t want to hear.
No, Beckett. I wasn't okay. Not even close.