The Boys We Meet In Bars

CHAPTER 1

Quinn

“Ugh, he texted me again.” I flip my phone face down on the table I'm sharing with my best friend at dinner. Sophie picked our usual Italian spot for our quarterly catch-up, so instead of slumping on the couch binge-watching Gilmore Girls, we’re half a bottle of wine deep, unpacking the latest drama in her life.

But thanks to Josh’s text, it’s my turn to update her on mine.

“Are you serious?” She arches a perfect brow as she flips her long blonde hair over her shoulder. “Show me.”

As if on cue, my phone buzzes again. The vibration jolts through me, sharp as the adrenaline spiking in my veins. My anxiety ratchets higher, making me feel more like I’m being chased through the woods by a bear than receiving another text from my ex-fiancé.

I’ll always pick the bear.

“Okay, just scroll up.” I slide the phone across the table, my fingers trembling slightly against the polished wood. I draw in a slow breath, watching her manicured nails tap against the screen as she scrolls through the endless messages, her eyes narrowing.

“Oh, the usual.” Sophie scoffs, lips curling as she flicks the screen with exaggerated boredom. “Same script, different day.”

Heat creeps into my chest. “I’m over it, Soph. I wish he’d get the hint and leave me alone.” My voice comes out tighter than I intend.

For months I’ve been screening, ignoring, pretending silence might speak louder than any reply. But no—he feeds on the quiet, twisting it into something that keeps him tethered. Turning it into fuel for his delusions.

Sophie tilts the phone toward me with a look that mirrors my own irritation. “Yeah, for a guy who couldn’t even bother texting you good luck on your first day at a new job, he sure has plenty of time to blow up your phone now.”

Each buzz yanks me straight back to those last months of our engagement, to the night almost a year ago that I finally told him to pack his bags. The image of his suitcase slamming shut flashes across my mind, and my throat tightens like the memory.

Sophie sighs, dropping the phone back into my hand. I mute Josh’s notifications, shove the device into my clutch, and breathe easier with it out of sight.

“I’d love to know why he’s even bothering. Like, he’s still spamming you with the classics. ‘Please talk to me,’ ‘we can work this out,’ and my personal favourite: ‘Mummy says I deserve a second chance.’” She lets out a sharp laugh as she downs the rest of her glass.

“Oh God, don’t even get me started on Carol”, I groan, pressing the heel of my hand to my forehead as if her name alone gives me a headache. “She’s responsible for just as many therapy sessions.”

Sophie smirks, swirling her wine. “Invoice him. Therapy tab and all.”

I snort and top up our glasses with the last of the red. “Please. That’d fund me a three-week vacation and then some.”

“You know what? We should. Paris. Finally. No Josh, no excuses, just us,” she says, the candlelight brightening her eyes.

I mean, I could probably pack up and leave, and it’s not like I have any commitments tying me down here—no pets, no family, just some plants I’m fruitlessly trying to save.

“Don’t tempt me.” I laugh, but it’s the brittle kind, splintering at the edges, and chase it with another sip of wine. “I have a house to sell, remember?”

Before Soph can wind me up into believing that a spontaneous trip will magically erase the last six years, the waiter swoops in with his notepad.

He introduces himself as George, and Sophie rattles off our usual orders without even glancing at the menu.

I exhale, grateful for the interruption, and let the clink of glasses and low hum of the restaurant drown out the heaviness for a moment.

When he disappears toward the kitchen, we slide right back into our conversation.

Sophie twirls the stem of her wineglass, eyes narrowing on me. “And he’s still dragging that out, huh?”

I nod, staring at the candle. “Yeah. He even turned down a buyer’s offer. No reason. Just… keeping me stuck.”

It’s also why I can’t afford to block him yet. Until the house sells, he’s still tethered to me in the worst way.

She scoffs. “Classic Josh.”

I roll my eyes. “Well, I do have some good news,” I say, and down the last inch of pinot. “I haven’t shed a single tear over him in at least three months.” I raise my glass like it’s a toast worth making.

Sophie clinks hers against mine. “I’m so proud of you, babe.”

I’ve come a long way from those nights on my kitchen floor, tears hitting the tiles as one ugly truth after another broke through. Piece by piece, the picture of us cracked until I could no longer ignore it, until walking away was the only way forward.

George reappears just in time, sliding our plates onto the table. Steam from the pasta curls up between us, rich with garlic and basil, and Sophie has already rattled off a request for another bottle of red. But my appetite is gone after so much Josh talk.

I reach for some Parmesan cheese and add a sprinkle on top, but the smell makes my stomach clench and I regret it immediately.

“You’ll find someone, I promise. You don’t realise it now, but you are healing. Any guy would be lucky to get a chance with you,” Sophie lectures me as I twist some pasta onto my fork.

But when I take a bite, my mouth is so dry that it turns my favourite meal tasteless. I cringe as I swallow, and then I take a healthy gulp of my wine to wash it down.

“I guess you have a point, I mean, surely it’s not that hard for someone to put in the bare minimum and not fuck me up emotionally. Is the bar that low?”

“He dropped it so low that it’s not even a bar anymore. It’s just a stick on fire, in hell—”

“And the devil is snorting the ashes,” I interject, and Soph laughs so hard she almost spits out her mouthful of wine.

“Honestly, Josh’s bedroom was the first red flag before we even knew what red flags were. No fitted sheet, fake-tan stains on the mattress, that cheap musk body wash…” She shudders theatrically. “It was gross.”

I press my palm to my forehead and groan. “Oh my God, don’t remind me.”

“He didn’t even stay with you when you were sick, Quinn! Who leaves their girlfriend home alone when she’s throwing up because they have a football game the next day and don’t want to ‘risk it.’”

“He did have a point, and it wasn’t like I wanted to make him sick,” I mutter, irritation prickling sharper the longer his name lingers in the air.

Digging through memories I’d rather keep buried feels like reopening a wound, but if I don’t talk some of them out with Sophie, they’ll keep looping over and over in my head.

She’s my safe space, and venting with her is more validating than journaling.

“No, that’s not okay,” Sophie says firmly. “He was supposed to take care of you, not just himself.”

I nod, the truth stinging even now. “Yeah. I know.”

Josh never really cared, and I hate how long I made excuses for him. If I’d gone through with that engagement, I would’ve walked down the aisle and signed my life away to someone who’d convinced me he was everything.

The irony is, I’ve never felt lonelier than I did toward the end. Even now, nearly a year out, I feel less alone than I did lying next to him every night.

“But don’t worry, babe. I’ve checked your star sign compatibility,” Sophie teases, wagging her brows. “A Leo with a Taurus moon rising is bound to appear any moment.”

“Shame you can’t swipe with astrology filters.” I sigh.

“I know! If I could filter anything, it would be guys holding giant fish like they’re overcompensating for something,” Sophie says, rolling her eyes.

“Or every shirtless gym selfie. Bonus points if it’s taken in some dingy bathroom with a dirty mirror,” I shoot back, grinning, though the thought makes me wince as I swirl my fork through the pasta.

“Oh, and the classic ‘Which one is he in the group photo?” she adds in between mouthfuls of her gnocchi. “It’s rough out here.”

“I don’t know how you do it. I don’t even want to think about finding someone new, not when I’m already lugging around too much baggage. Who’d want to deal with all that?” I admit, staring into my half-finished glass of wine.

“Firstly, any guy would be lucky even to get a shot with you, and secondly, that’s enough self-deprecating talk for tonight.

You got out of bed, and you look hot. That deserves a celebration.

” She lifts her glass, drains the last sip, and sets it down with a decisive clink.

I hesitate, excuses bubbling to my lips, but when I glance at my phone, Josh’s third text glows across the screen.

I don’t even open it. It’s only seven thirty, and I already know the cycle.

By midnight, his desperation will turn to anger.

“Okay…” I say, as I think about what tonight might bring. But at the end of the day, it’s easier to choose Sophie, tequila, and the city than sit alone doom-scrolling in the dark.

“Yay! Let's finish this bottle and our food, then we’ll head into the city,” she says, excitement lighting up her face as she tops up our wineglasses with the last of the pinot. “You won’t regret it, I promise.”

“If you say so.” I look at her doubtfully, taking small bites of my pasta, hoping that it soaks up some of the alcohol that’s going straight to my head.

After we finish dinner, Sophie heads to the front to pay, and I push back my chair and slip into the bathroom. The soft clink of cutlery and the murmur of conversation fade behind me.

Cool air brushes my skin as I grip the sink.

I lean closer to the mirror, forcing a breath past the tightness in my chest. The reflection staring back looks put-together enough—shoulder-length brown hair, brushed but unstyled, hazel eyes shadowed but steady, and concealer masking the weeks of insomnia.

On the surface, I pass. Inside, it feels like I’m patching cracks with tape.

I tug at the hem of my tan midi dress, smoothing it down as if that small gesture might smooth the unease too.

My fingers ghost over the lines of shapewear beneath, checking twice even though I already know they’re hidden.

I practice a smile, watching it falter, then coax it back until it almost looks natural.

The dread of the night ahead coils low in my stomach, but when I step out, Sophie is waiting with that tipsy grin of hers, glassy eyes and all. Something in her carefree expression steadies me. It’s only one night, I remind myself. One night I don’t have to give Josh power.

Our Uber pulls up at the curb just as we reach the door. I slide in beside her, heart thudding, nerves tangled with a flicker of anticipation. Despite the shadow of Josh’s texts, I promise myself I won’t let him steal this night with my best friend.