Chapter 24
Got A Secret, Can You Keep It
Harlee
The problem with being careful is that you still have to blink sometimes.
Usually in places you thought were safe. Quiet corners. Familiar routines. A moment you've rehearsed a hundred times suddenly going off-script because your guard drops half an inch.
I don't wake up confused. I wake up aware.
The calendar block.
The pause.
Lori's eye roll—not quite hidden, not quite meant to be seen.
Later, with wine.
By the time I'm upright, dressed, and human again, the moment has already settled into something manageable.
Not gone. Just… filed.
Lori knows.
Not because I told her. Not because I wanted to. But because I blinked at the wrong time and a private calendar invite slipped into view during a screen share that was supposed to be boring and transactional and safe.
Private Meeting: Dinner 7 p.m. at My Place — A.
That was it. That was the crack.
She didn't say anything then. Just hummed thoughtfully, eyes flicking from my screen to my face like she was lining up puzzle pieces she already owned. Flowers. Lunches. The mysterious generosity I'd been expertly deflecting for weeks.
Huh, her expression said.
Not accusation. Recognition.
So now here I am, caffeinated, dressed, composed… and acutely aware that something private has officially crossed the threshold into shared knowledge.
I'm not guilty. I'm not embarrassed.
But I am aware of gravity.
There's a knock, followed immediately by my door swinging open without waiting for permission.
“Rise and shine, corporate casualty,” Wynter announces, sunlight crowning her like she's been sent by a god I personally offended. “It's costume day.”
“It is not,” I say.
“It is,” she counters brightly, already in my space. “And before you say no, I bribed you with a dirty chai.”
She holds it out like a peace offering. I take it because I'm weak and because she knows me.
Wynter plops onto the edge of my bed, vibrating with an energy that should be illegal before noon. The mattress dips under her weight, springs creaking their morning protest.
“Also,” she adds casually, “Lori texted the group chat.”
My stomach dips. Just a little.
“What did she say?” I ask, aiming for neutral.
Wynter grins. “Drinks later. She wants both our faces in the same room.”
I take a careful sip of coffee. “Cool.”
“That didn't sound cool.”
“It's fine,” I lie. “Everything's fine.”
She hums, unconvinced, already rifling through my closet. “Your aura says otherwise.”
I sigh, long and quiet. “I think she's on to me.”
“About?” Wynter asks, though her hands pause mid-reach.
“August and me.”
“Oh shit. For real?” Surprise flashes across her face.
“Yeah. I was screen-sharing when the reminder for our dinner reservation popped up.”
Wynter winces. “Oof.”
“She didn't say anything,” I add. “But she clocked it.”
“Well,” Wynter says, already pivoting, “we'll plot over costume shopping. Get up. Get dressed. Movement solves everything.”
I groan but comply.
Later, with wine.
I remind myself.
Yeah. She knows.
But I also know this: I can hold it for a few hours.
“When's the party?” I ask as we are browsing the racks at our first stop about an hour later.
“Halloween.”
I nod. “Okay.”
Wynter grins. “Back to costume options.”
Her hands are already moving, sketching visions in the air like she's pitching concepts to a room full of executives.
“Medusa, but make it fashion,” she announces. “Snake headpiece. Emerald contacts. Men will turn to stone.”
I feel my mouth twitch. Wynter has never believed in subtlety. She believes in impact.
“Or vampire queen,” she continues. “Sexy. Plunging neckline. Cape. Thigh-high boots. I'll have fangs commissioned.”
Of course she will.
She talks while I get dressed, genres changing faster than I can track. Peacock princess. Cosmic queen. Mystical masquerade. She holds up a photo of Heidi Klum like it's evidence.
“I need a showstopper,” she insists.
I sip my coffee, watching her. Wynter is maximalist. I've always preferred things that reward attention. Something clever. Something you have to lean in to understand.
The difference becomes obvious the second we hit the pop-up Halloween shops.She beelines for anything sheer, dramatic, or gravity-defying. I drift toward horror props and special effects makeup, imagining something eerie and smart.
We bounce ideas back and forth. I relax a little. Not fully—but enough.
By the fourth store, Wynter bursts out of a dressing room in an elaborate peacock costume, feathers fanning as she spins.
“Well?” she demands. “Is this fabulous enough?”
I nod. “Absolutely. But how are you planning to dance in that tail all night?”
Her face falls. “…Damn it.”
She disappears again, muttering to herself, and I wander toward a rack of strong female characters. Wonder Woman catches my eye.
“Amazonian warrior princess,” I call.
She pokes her head out, eyes lighting up. “Ooh. Metallic bodysuit. Easy.”
Then she softens, just a little.
“You're coming with me, right?” she asks. “We always do Halloween together.”
There it is. The quiet ask beneath the chaos.
“I've got a lot going on,” I say carefully. “Between work, and end of term, a Halloween party at a nightclub is the last thing I need to be doing right now.”
“When's the last time you actually cut loose?” she counters. “One night won't ruin your life.”
“Literally a few weeks ago, remember the BBQ.”
She stops and gives me a displeased expression before she continues, “That doesn’t count that was very low key. Besides I’m performing, how often do you get to see your bestie performing at the biggest club in the Chi.”
I think of spreadsheets. Of private meetings. Of how carefully I've been moving lately. “The way you sing, I am sure this will not be the last time,” I admit. “I just want one quiet night, in with my Rubik’s Cube and wine.”
Her smile gentles. “You’re cute when you pretend you’re not itching to fuck shit up with me.”
I cackle. Her determination is relentless.
“Alright, Wynn.” I sigh, my resistance waning under the weight of her concern and the truth in her conviction.
“One night, but no after parties, and I am going home no later than 2 a.m. I have to study and finish a lab that weekend and study for finals.
So none of that, you have to be my wingwoman business, 2 a.m. And I'm out, Wynn.”
Wynter squeals excitedly and pulls me into a quick hug before disappearing to try on her next outfit. As I watch her boundless enthusiasm, I feel a twinge of my own excitement stirring. A night out with my best friend is exactly what I need.
I browse through the rows of costumes, considering my options. A witch? I pick up a witch's hat, its brim bent at an awkward angle, place it atop my head, and continue to peruse the options. Sexy cat? Not my style. I go with something fun yet obscure, like a jellyfish.
“Look at this!” Wynter squeals, holding up a corset with more strings and dreams than actual fabric. Her eyes are twin flames, alight with the thrill of the find. “It's perfect!”
“Perfect if you're aiming for an R-rating,” I mutter, but the corner of my lips quirks up despite myself. That’s Wynter—bold, unabashed, and unapologetically herself. She revels in turning heads and dropping jaws.
“Lee, you gotta see this one!” She thrusts a hanger into my hands, and I’m met with a cascade of black lace and tulle, a gothic ballgown that looks like it stepped out of a Victorian ghost story.
“Subtle isn’t in your vocabulary, is it?” I say, running a finger along the delicate embroidery. It’s actually beautiful in a dark, enchanting way.
“Never has been.”
Hours later, my feet ache and Wynter is still unsatisfied. Feathered headpieces litter the floor like casualties. A sequined crown rolls under the dressing room door, forgotten. When she finally agrees to break for dinner, I know exactly what's coming.
“We should tell Lori where to meet us,” she says, scrolling through her phone with one hand while balancing a shopping bag in the other.
I hesitate—just a breath. My fingers find the edge of my jacket, smoothing fabric that doesn't need smoothing.
Then nod.
Because I owe Lori more than silence.
The bar envelops me in a cocoon of dim light and warmth, a sanctuary where whispered secrets seem to swirl in the amber glow.
Brick walls, aged and worn, hold stories of their own—stories that echo like the soft jazz playing in the background, just loud enough to cradle our words without demanding them.
The air carries a comforting scent of polished wood and a hint of something sweet, like the promise of possibility wrapped in nostalgia.
As Lori slides into the booth across from us, her presence sharpens the atmosphere.
Her eyes are keen, scanning the room before settling on me with that easy smile that always disarms my defenses.
“I’ll have a whiskey neat,” she orders, barely bothering to shed her coat, as if she knows the urgency of this moment.
“Well,” she says, leaning back with casual confidence. “This looks cozy.”
Wynter beams at her, the joy radiating from her like sunlight breaking through clouds. I manage a smile, though it feels more like a mask than a genuine reflection of my mood.
“So,” Lori prompts, her tone light but her gaze piercing. “How was costume shopping?”
“A bust.” Wynter sighs, slumping dramatically as if the weight of the world rests on her shoulders. “Nothing screams main character energy.”
I can’t help it; I deadpan, “Because The High Priestess, Human Peacock, and Marie Antoinette After the Revolution weren’t main enough.”
“Exactly!” Wynter insists, completely missing my sarcasm. “I need icon.”
Lori considers this, her fingers tapping rhythmically against her glass. “I think I can help. I make most of my own clothes. Come by this week.”
“Sold,” Wynter replies immediately, her excitement palpable.
The server returns with our drinks: a glass of deep red wine for me; something vibrant and dangerously pink for Wynter; and a whiskey for Lori that glints like liquid gold under the dim light.
The atmosphere shifts, tension thickening the air as Lori raises her glass. “So,” she begins, her voice steady, “James is A.”
There it is—the unspoken truth laid bare between us. It’s not a question; it’s a declaration delivered with the precision of someone who has been piecing together fragments of a puzzle. My heart races, but I don’t deflect. I don’t deny.
I exhale slowly, guess we aren't easy in with lube on this one. Feeling the weight of her words settle on my shoulders, I decidedly say, “Yeah.”
Wynter presses a hand to her chest, vibrating with anticipation, her eyes darting between us as if waiting for the next move in this unspoken game.
Lori’s mouth quirks into an amused smile, a mixture of fondness and incredulity. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner,” she says. “The flowers. The lunches. The way you’ve been floating instead of walking.”
A laugh escapes me, surprising even myself. It’s a small sound, but it feels like a release. “I didn’t mean for you to find out like that.”
“But you’re not denying it,” she counters, leaning in slightly, her eyes locked onto mine.
“No,” I admit, the truth spilling out like a confession. “I’m just… careful. We're careful.”
Understanding settles between us, a silent acknowledgment that feels like a shared language—one that doesn’t need words to convey its significance.
“I won’t blow up your spot,” Lori assures me, tone steady and sincere. She lifts one shoulder in a casual shrug. “But you know you’d be the envy of half that office, right?”
I grimace, already feeling the tension coil in my stomach. “That’s what I’m worried about. Envy and jealousy run in the same circles.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Wynter agrees from beside me, clapping her long acrylics together like punctuation.
Lori huffs a laugh, leaning back against the counter. “True. But damn. I will pay money to be the fly on the wall when Rebecca finds out you’ve got James sending you more flowers then he pays her a glance,”
Wynter nearly chokes on her drink.
“She's been trying to climb that ladder for years,” Lori continues, shaking her head slowly, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Actually… scratch that. You don’t need that nosy bitch anywhere near your business.”
She lifts both hands in surrender, expression calm and matter-of-fact.
“You don’t have to worry about me,” she says simply. “My lips are sealed.”
She pauses.
Then her mouth curves.
“Until you’re ready,” she adds lightly. “Then please refer back to my fly-on-the-wall comment.”
She raises her glass, and I clink mine against hers—a soft sound that reverberates through the moment like a promise. Wynter joins in a beat later, her glass chiming brightly against ours, a reminder that we’re in this together. Contained. For now.
And somewhere deep inside me, amidst the swirling emotions and tangled thoughts, I know this isn’t the beginning of the end. It’s just the first crack in a facade that’s been carefully constructed.
“Finally.” Wynter sighs, melting back against the booth like a weight has been lifted from her shoulders. “I was tired of carrying this secret alone.”
Lori laughs lightly, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Now spill. Everything. And don’t skip the good parts.”
As their eager expressions urge me forward, a swirl of excitement and apprehension stirs in my chest. I take a deep breath, feeling the warmth of the wine creeping in as I prepare to unravel the threads of my truth.