Page 4 of For the Plot

Too many ghosts. Too many people who might ask about my job… or worse, pretend they didn’t know I’d been laid off and I have to go through the entire process of explaining while they give me one of those sympathetic head nods.

So I asked her to meet me here instead. A random dive bar neither of us have ever been to, tucked on a quiet street with nothing but a flickering neon sign and a good happy hour menu. A place where no one knew my name. Where I could forget, just for a couple of hours, that my life is currently a dumpster fire.

Maya looks like she belongs here, even in a gross dive bar with nicotine-stained windows, legs crossed, posture perfect, her silky blouse tucked into high-waisted slacks that scream "promotion." Which is exactly what we're toasting to. Or pretending to.

"You should be celebrating too, you know," she says gently, clinking her glass against mine. "You're free."

"Free," I echo, lifting my glass like it's a victory banner. "Unemployed. Dumped. Emotionally bankrupt. But yes, very free."

Maya sighs. "You're being dramatic."

"Am I?" I arch a brow. "Let's recap. In the last three weeks, I've lost my job, my boyfriend, and any shred of confidence I had left in my ability to function as a normal adult. Pretty sure the universe is playing Jenga with my life and she just yanked out the bottom row."

The music overhead shifts to something with a throbbing bass line and sultry vocals. I recognize it immediately, “Love on the Brain” by Rihanna. It's been everywhere lately even though it’s been out forever. It feels like it’s starting to haunt me.

"God, this song," I say, gesturing vaguely at the speakers. "I swear it's following me. It was playing at the coffee shop this morning, in my Uber yesterday, and now here. It's like the universe is trying to tell me something."

Maya tilts her head, listening. "Rihanna?"

"Yup. I hadn’t really paid attention to it in the past. It’s something about forbidden attraction and seduction.” I bounce my eyebrows. “Maybe the universe is sending me a sign that I—” I catch myself getting animated about a song when my life is literally imploding and laugh. "Listen to me. I'm analyzing pop lyrics like they hold the secrets to my existence. This is how far I've fallen."

She reaches over and squeezes my hand. "You haven't fallen anywhere. You're just… between seasons."

"Like a show canceled on a cliffhanger."

"Exactly. But with better boobs." She flicks her eyes toward my chest pointedly.

"You're not wrong."

Maya laughs again, reaching for the mini dessert menu that we’ve both picked up and set back down half a dozen times tonight. I lean back in my chair, letting the quiet hum of the bar settle over me like a weighted blanket. It's busy but not packed—just what I assume is the usual after-work crowd. A few men in button-downs, a few in construction clothes, and the lingering smell of beer.

It’s the kind of place my ex, Shane, liked taking me to when we first started dating. When I would suggest a nicer place or maybe a place that didn’t have a sticky residue on the menus, it turned into an argument about how he felt out of place. Somehow what I felt or wanted never seemed to be a consideration.

Maya's scrolling her phone now, swiping through Hinge like a woman on a mission. "Okay. I'm finding you a rebound."

"Hard pass."

"You need to get laid. It’ll help with your stress.”

"I need a stable job, health insurance, and a reason to wear pants before noon," I tick off.

She snorts. "You're hot. You're smart. You've got a killer ass. You could walk up to any guy in this room and have him back at your place before your drink's empty."

I make a face. "Gross."

"You're just scared."

"I'm emotionally concussed, Maya. There's a difference."

"You're horny and bored and trying to pretend you're not. Classic Skye."

I open my mouth to argue but—okay, she has a point. Still. "I'm not sleeping with some stranger just to prove a point."

"I didn't say stranger. I said rebound. Ideally someone hot, emotionally unavailable, and unlikely to ghost because you never intend to text him again."

"So… A one-night stand?"

"Exactly."