Chapter 10 The Red Flag Assessment （We Failed）
AMANDA
The dive bar is already buzzing with conversation by the time Izzy and I push through the doors, the scent of whiskey and something that might be hope filling the air.
It’s not packed—it’s a Wednesday, after all—but it’s got that easy, familiar hum of a place that doesn’t judge too harshly.
Perfect. Because I’m about to make some bad decisions.
I scan the room until I spot her—Raven, tucked into a corner booth, looking like a goth fairy who decided to blend fantasy aesthetic with dark academia.
She’s got her phone propped up against a beer bottle, clearly filming something for her TikTok, and I can see she’s wearing one of her signature wigs—tonight it’s a dusty-rose bob that somehow works perfectly with her black choker and flowy dark dress.
Fresh tattoos peek out from her sleeves, delicate botanical line work that looks more like illustrations from a vintage herbology textbook than traditional ink.
“Is that her? She looks different than I remember,” Izzy says, following my gaze.
“Yep. That’s my baby sister, in all her goth fairy glory.” I wave in Raven’s direction until she notices us, immediately ending whatever video she was making. Probably something about graveyard landscaping.
Raven slides out of the booth as we approach, and I can see Izzy taking in the full effect: the perfectly applied dark makeup that somehow looks ethereal rather than harsh, the flowy dark dress paired with fishnets and vintage boots, and enough crystals hanging from her neck to open a metaphysical shop.
“Izzy, Raven. Raven, you remember Izzy.”
“The work wife,” Raven says with a smirk, extending a tattooed hand. “I assume you’re the friend who tries to talk sense into this disaster?”
Izzy shakes her hand, lips twitching with amusement. “I try. And fail spectacularly. It’s an ongoing battle that I’m definitely losing.”
Raven nods approvingly. “I stopped trying years ago. Much better for my mental health.”
I gasp, pressing a hand to my chest. “You both are so mean to me. I’m a delight.”
Raven slides back into the booth. “You’re something. Jury’s still out on what, exactly.”
We settle into the booth, drinks appearing with an efficiency that makes me secretly love dive bars.
No pretense, no eighteen-dollar cocktails with names like “Midnight Regret,” just alcohol and the promise that tomorrow’s problems can wait until tomorrow.
I don’t tell Raven this, of course, because I have a reputation to uphold, which centers mostly on maximalism and the color pink, and admitting I appreciate understated dive bar charm would completely ruin my brand.
Plus, Raven’s the sort of girl who derives genuine joy from making people do things they hate, so the moment I admit I like this place, she’ll immediately suggest we go somewhere else.
“So,” Raven says, propping her chin on her hand while simultaneously adjusting her phone to catch the lighting. Even off-camera, she’s always thinking about the next shot. “Izzy, tell me, how do you keep up with Amanda’s chaos on a daily basis?”
“I don’t,” Izzy deadpans, taking a sip of her drink. “I just hang on and try to enjoy the ride.”
Raven laughs, and I can see why her followers are obsessed with her. “I like you,” she says. “You’re honest.”
“It’s a character flaw,” Izzy replies.
I watch them fall into easy conversation, and it’s satisfying seeing two of my favorite people get along.
Raven picks up her phone again, this time including all of us in what appears to be a casual “girls’ night” story, complete with perfectly angled shots of our drinks and her commentary about finding the perfect lighting in dive bars for her “dark cottagecore meets real-life grit” aesthetic.
“So,” Izzy says, after Raven finishes capturing the perfect close-up of her drink, “I have to ask, what kind of advice did you give Amanda about this Chad situation?”
Raven’s expression remains completely calm as she says, “Phone calls between sisters are sacred. I couldn’t possibly reveal the intimate details of our private conversations.”
Izzy narrows her eyes. “Raven.”
“I’m sworn to secrecy. It’s a blood oath.”
“We did not make a blood oath,” I protest.
“I know, because you’re lame,” Raven says matter-of-factly. “Metaphorical blood oath. The point still stands.”
Izzy leans forward, fixing Raven with a look. “I’m Amanda’s best friend. I have clearance.”
“Do you, though?” Raven tilts her head, clearly enjoying this. “Where’s your paperwork?”
“Oh my God,” I groan. “Just tell her, already.”
“Well, since Amanda’s giving me permission, I told her to embrace the red flags. Life’s more interesting that way.”
Izzy gives her a slow, horrified blink. “I’m sorry, what now?”
“Red flags can be sexy,” Raven continues. She’s completely unbothered by Izzy’s expression of dawning horror.
Izzy leans forward. “Okay, if you’re such an expert on red flags, let’s test your theory. What constitutes a red flag for you?”
Raven grins wickedly, clearly enjoying being put on the spot. “Oh, you want specifics?”
“I want to understand your methodology,” Izzy says seriously. “If Amanda’s going to follow your advice, I need to know what we’re working with here.”
“Ask away,” Raven says, lounging like a woman who’s never been wrong.
Izzy taps her lip thoughtfully. “Guy who owns a motorcycle.”
“Green flag,” Raven answers immediately.
“Okay. Guy who only wears black.”
“Green flag.”
“Guy who’s never had a long-term relationship.”
Raven shrugs. “People grow at their own pace. Still green.”
Izzy raises a brow. “Guy who has a sword collection.”
“Green. Bonus points if he knows how to use them.”
I snort. “Honestly, same.”
Izzy squints. “Guy who says ‘I’m not like other guys’ unironically.”
Raven pauses. “Hmmm… depends. Does he have a tragic backstory?”
“Why would that matter?” Izzy asks, genuinely distressed.
“Because trauma adds depth,” Raven replies, like it’s obvious.
Izzy groans. “Okay. Guy who refers to his ex as ‘crazy’ in the first five minutes.”
“Yellow,” Raven decides. “Investigate further. She might actually be crazy.”
I cackle. “Oh my God, you’re doing mental gymnastics for emotionally unavailable men.”
Izzy keeps going. “Guy who’s in a band but won’t tell you the name.”
“Green. He’s protecting your ears from heartbreak.”
Izzy stares. “Guy who texts only between the hours of eleven p.m. and two a.m.”
“That’s just good time management.”
“Raven!”
“What? Maybe he works nights!”
I pretend to wipe away tears. “You’re going to get me killed.”
“Okay,” Izzy says, narrowing her eyes. “Final question. Fingerless gloves. Red or green flag?”
Raven tilts her head, thoughtful. “What’s the vibe?”
Izzy groans. “The vibe is that he’s wearing them. In public. On purpose.”
Raven shrugs. “Still green. Maybe he’s just misunderstood. Or has cold palms. Or is expressing himself through edgy handwear. Either way, green.”
I choke on my wine.
Izzy throws her hands up. “You have no red flags.”
Raven shrugs, smug. “I prefer to think of them as spicy green flags. Like jalapenos. Technically warning signs but still delicious.”
“You know what?” Izzy says finally. “You two are cut from the same cloth. Were you both raised by wolves?”
“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” Raven says, raising her glass in a toast.
For the next hour, we drink, laugh, and get into increasingly ridiculous debates. Raven films snippets throughout—her followers are apparently loving her “real talk with my sister and her work wife” content. At one point, she launches into a passionate rant about men.
“Listen up, my little dumplings,” she says into her phone, which she’s holding at the perfect angle to catch all three of us.
“Men are trash. All of them. Every single one. I interact with hundreds of them daily through my content, and let me tell you, they’re all pigs with thumbs and the emotional intelligence of a brick. ”
“That’s a little harsh,” Izzy says, though she’s laughing.
“Is it?” Raven arches a perfectly sculpted brow. “When was the last time a man surprised you by being decent without expecting to be rewarded for the most basic human courtesy?”
Izzy opens her mouth, but I cut in.
“She’s not the right person to ask, Raven. She’s married to a hot guy who’s obsessed with her. Her experience is not representative of the general population.”
Raven nods. “Apparently, Izzy’s living in a fantasy land where men actually follow through on their promises.
But for the rest of us, don’t trust them,” Raven continues, now fully in content-creation mode.
“Don’t ever trust them. They’ll tell you exactly what you want to hear until they get what they want, and then poof—” She snaps her fingers.
“They disappear like they never existed in the first place.”
I suddenly get chills despite the warmth of the alcohol in my system, but I push the discomfort down. We’re having fun. I’m not going to let ghosts from Vegas ruin another perfectly good night.
“Isn’t most of your audience men?” I ask, genuinely curious. “Aren’t you worried they’ll get offended by this kind of rant?”
Raven waves a hand, unfazed. “Nah. Most of them just flood the comments to say they totally agree and they’re ‘not like the other guys.’ ” She takes a sip of her wine. “Which, ironically, is the most frequent response in my comments section.”
“Like watching a pack of wolves insist they’re golden retrievers,” I observe.
“Exactly,” Raven says, ending the video and turning back to us. “That’s why I stick to making money off them instead of dating them. Much more profitable and significantly less of an investment.”
“Smart business model,” Izzy says.
“Speaking of business,” I say, because I’m tipsy and have zero filter, “how’s the OnlyFans empire treating you?”
Izzy chokes on her drink. “I’m sorry, what?”
Raven grins, completely unbothered. “Brilliantly, actually. Amazing what lonely men will pay for. I’m basically running a digital support service for emotionally stunted men, except I get paid better than most therapists.”