Chapter 7
I stumble away from Matt, my mind reeling. War? What the hell does he mean by that? As if we weren't already in some twisted battle every time he walks into the Grind Stone.
My thoughts are racing faster than a caffeine-fueled squirrel. What's his game plan? Is he going to Mike Tyson me like I did to him in high school? Or is this going to be stupid like ordering impossible sandwiches? There’s a wide variety, but either way, I guess I can handle it as it comes.
A part of me – the rational, adulting part – knows I should let this go.
Rise above, be the bigger person. But there's another part, the part that still burns with the competitive fire of high school debate tournaments and mock trials, that refuses to back down.
It's not just about winning anymore; it's about proving something to him and to myself.
“War,” I mutter to myself, straightening my dress.
I should walk away. I should be the rational one here. But rational flew out the window about three shots ago, and now all I can think is: I'm going to wipe that cocky grin off his face if it's the last thing I do.
I scan the room, spotting Harvey and Jen chatting in a corner. I paste on my best "I'm totally not plotting revenge" smile and make my way over to them.
“Hey, guys,” I say, trying to sound chipper and not at all like I just declared war on a hockey player in a hallway.
Harvey's face lights up when he sees me, and I feel a pang of guilt. He's actually a nice guy, caught in the crossfire of whatever this is between Matt and me.
“Hi.” He smiles at me, and I kind of hate myself now. “You should come to my next game.”
Jen is beaming. “Oh my God, I would love that!” Jen says.
I glare at her. Oh, no. She’s fallen for this sportsmanship crap. She’s in awe.
“Amber?” Harvey asks.
I force a smile, trying to ignore how Matt told me to leave Harvey out of this.
“I'll have to check my schedule. Work's been pretty intense lately.”
Harvey nods. “Yeah, okay. Get back to me, and I’ll send over the details.”
The guilt intensifies. Why does he have to be so nice? It's making my whole revenge plot a lot more complicated.
I say, “I should probably head out. Lots of work to do tomorrow.”
Jen pouts. “Already?”
I nod.
Jen smiles and says, “You’re such a career girl. I love it. I want to be you when I grow up.”
I shrug. “It’s all in the daily habits.”
She nods. “Text me when you get home, okay?”
I take that as my cue to leave, making a beeline for the exit before I run into Matt again.
In the Uber drive to my house, my mind is working overtime.
How can I get back at Matt without being psychotic?
Or being petty? I could "accidentally" spill his drinks every time he orders.
Or maybe I could start calling out ridiculous fake names for his order.
“Strawberry Protein Shake Extra Protein for Puck Face!”
I shake my head. No, that's amateur hour stuff. I need something big. Something that'll really get under his skin.
By the time I get home, I'm drunk, frustrated, and no closer to a solid plan. I kick off my heels and head straight for the kitchen, pouring myself a glass of water. I should go to bed. I should start working on that brief for Mr. Robinson.
Instead, I search for a playlist until I find one that’s called Bad Bitch Energy. Now I’m having a dance party on my couch, on my kitchen table, and I don’t think I’ve been this drunk in my entire life.
“Take that, Matt!” I shout at my reflection in the TV screen as I bust out my best (worst) dance moves. “You think you can declare war on me? I'll show you war!”
In a burst of drunk girl energy, I decide now is the perfect time for a face mask. Because nothing says "I'm winning at life" like green goo.
As I slather the mask on, I catch sight of myself in the bathroom mirror. Hair a mess, face half-covered in green, eyes slightly unfocused. I look ridiculous. I feel ridiculous.
And yet, I can't stop grinning.
“Bring it on,” I tell my reflection. “He has no idea who he’s messing with. They didn’t call me a crazy bitch for no reason.”
I dance my way back to the living room, face mask cracking as I move. This isn't me. The real Amber Hughes doesn't dance alone in her apartment or put on face masks at 1 AM. The real Amber Hughes is all about control and plans and being the responsible one.
But tonight? Tonight I'm Drunk Amber. And Drunk Amber thinks she can take on the world.
As I collapse onto the couch, exhaustion finally catching up with me, I make a mental note: No more declaring war while drunk. It leads to weird things when I’m alone. Like why am I dancing around, happy about this?
I don’t know.
Ask the alcohol.
As I drift off to sleep, one thought lingers: Matthew Pearson has no idea what he's started. And I'm going to enjoy every minute of making him regret it.
The morning light feels like a personal attack as I pry my eyes open. My head throbs in time with my heartbeat, a painful reminder of last night's poor decisions. I groan, reaching for the ibuprofen in my cabinet.
As I swallow the pills dry, wincing at the bitter taste, I give myself a stern internal pep talk.
I have a shit ton of work to do today, and there’s no room for indulging in this migraine.
I drag myself around my apartment, each movement feeling like a herculean effort.
The face that greets me in the bathroom mirror is a sorry sight – puffy eyes, smudged makeup, and hair that looks like it's been through a wind tunnel.
I splash some cold water on my face, the shock helping to clear some of the fog from my brain.
Instead of wallowing in my apartment, surrounded by the evidence of last night's impromptu dance party (how did my bra end up on the ceiling fan?), I decide a change of scenery might help kickstart my productivity.
I gather my laptop, a stack of files that feels way too heavy for how thin it is and throw on a vitamin C serum mixed with coffee grinds that should pinch my face awake.
The walk to Starbucks is an exercise in willpower. Every step reminds me of my aching head, and the morning sun feels like it's personally offended by my existence. But I push through, driven by a mix of caffeine-need and stubborn determination.
I can be both a hard worker and a girl who goes to college parties. I think.
The familiar smell of coffee hits me as I push open the door, and for a moment, I'm transported back to my high school days when I would come here every morning. I can get through any amount of hard work. The proof is in the pudding. And I guess that pressure and stress might’ve been why I attacked Matt that day in high school.
I order the largest black coffee they have – none of that frappe, sugar-laden nonsense today – and claim a corner table.
As I set up my office, I can feel the curious glances from other patrons.
I must look a sight – hungover, dressed in casual clothes with a suit cardigan, surrounded by files. I’m used to the eyes and the comments.
You’re a little young there to be so busy.
Aren’t you the cutest little thing with all your files?
The first sip of coffee is like a jolt of electricity to my system. I close my eyes for a moment, savoring it, before diving into my work with single-minded focus.
Three hours later, I emerge from my law-induced trance, blinking in surprise at how much I've accomplished. I've plowed through briefs, drafted motions, and answered a mountain of emails. My to-do list, which had seemed insurmountable this morning, is now a satisfying collection of check marks.
Pride swells in my chest, momentarily drowning out the lingering headache.
This is why I push myself so hard. This feeling of accomplishment, of knowing I'm one step closer to my goals, is worth every sacrifice.
Take that, hangover. Amber Hughes doesn't let a little thing like alcohol-induced poor judgment slow her down.
As I start packing up my things, my phone buzzes with a text from Jen. I hesitate before opening it, a mix of guilt and curiosity warring in my gut.
Jen: OMG last night was so fun! But I can't tell if Harvey's into me or you.
I stare at the screen, conflicting emotions swirling through me. On one hand, Jen's my friend and I want her to be happy. On the other... Harvey's become an unexpected pawn in whatever twisted game Matt and I are playing. And as much as I hate to admit it, I'm not ready to give up that advantage.
Me: Not sure either
I hit send before I can overthink it, then immediately regret my vagueness. I should be a better friend. I should tell Jen to go for it with Harvey, that I'm not interested. But the thought of losing my connection to Matt's world, of potentially giving him the upper hand, I can't do it.
The thought of Matt sends a fresh wave of determination through me.
He wants war? Fine. But he's going to learn that I fight dirty.
I may not have his athletic prowess or his seemingly unlimited free time, but I've got brains and a work ethic that could put most people to shame. He has no idea what he's up against.
I spend the next few days on high alert, half-expecting Matt to jump out from behind every corner with some new prank or insult. But life goes on as normal – or as normal as it can be when you're juggling a job as a paralegal and a part-time job at a sandwich joint.
It's a particularly busy day at the firm. I'm buried in case files, trying to make sense of a particularly convoluted contract dispute, when Mr. Robinson's voice cuts through my concentration.
“Amber, phone call for you.”
I blink, momentarily disoriented. No one ever calls me here. Anyone who knows me personally knows better than to call me at work. Confused but curious, I pick up the phone.
“Hello?”
The dread I feel shows in my gut. It’s twirling, and I’m afraid someone has died.