Page 41

By the time I get to Gershwin’s, the jukebox is already playing something sad and twangy, and Jen, Quinn’s ex roommate and current coworker, is halfway through a story about a man who tried to flirt with her using a raccoon meme.

“I swear,” she says, leaning dramatically across the sticky table, “he said—and I quote—‘I’m like this raccoon. Scrappy and loyal.’”

Quinn nearly spits out her drink. “Scrappy?”

“Loyal?” Mads echoes.

Jen shrugs. “I mean, I do like garbage pandas.”

“No, Jen.” Quinn says with an exaggerated shudder. “Just no.”

We all laugh, and for a few minutes, it feels good. Normal. Like the weight that’s been sitting on my chest has loosened just a little.

The place is loud enough that no one notices how quiet I am.

I sip my cider, play with the condensation on the glass, and nod along to the conversation about work drama, grad school, and Maddie’s theory that one of our assistant coaches has a secret love child in Ottawa.

I don’t see the connection myself, but Mads is terrifying with an internet connection.

Then it just… slips out.

“I hate my job.”

Everyone turns to look at me.

Quinn blinks. “You mean—like, your job-job? Or—”

“All of it,” I say. “Grad school. Rehab, charting. Sports medicine. Ice baths, pre wrap and resistance bands. I hate all of it.”

Jen whistles low.

Tristan sets down her drink. “That’s not shocking. But also—wow. Okay. Say more.”

I lean back in the booth, already regretting opening my mouth. “I don’t know what I want instead. And I don’t have a plan. And I’m really scared that I’m going to disappoint everyone who gave me this shot if I walk away. So I’ll probably just whine and then go back to my routines.”

Quinn frowns. “But are you happy?”

“No,” I say without hesitation, and the word hits hard and sharp.

Tristan pulls out her phone like she’s about to start a research paper. “Okay, then. Let’s find something else. You’re smart, you’re capable—”

“Please don’t.”

She pauses.

I shake my head. “I appreciate it. But I don’t even know what I want. I just know it’s not this. Admitting it is step one. I’ll let you know about step two when I’m there.”

Tristan shrugs but pockets her phone.

Her sister, Mads, tilts her head. “What would you do if there were no rules? No expectations?”

“I dunno.” I admit. “Travel, take photos. Learn about different cultures. Maybe write. But that’s not a job.”

“Why not?” Jen asks.

“Because I’d be broke in five minutes.”

Quinn shrugs. “Then do this job until you’re ready to make the leap. But at least let yourself imagine the leap.”

“I feel like I’ve wasted so much time.” I push my hair out of my face. I wasted a whole degree.

“You haven’t,” Quinn says gently. “You’ve just been trying really hard to live someone else’s idea of your life.”

I bite my lip.

The girls shift the topic back to something lighter for a minute, but I can’t quite stop the spinning in my chest.

Quinn leans over. “You okay?”

I nod. “Yeah. Just… thinking about telling my parents.”

The table goes quiet again. Wow, I’m a downer tonight. Maybe I should have stayed home. Or gone to Ragnar’s.

“I don’t even know how they’ll react,” I admit. “It’s not like I have proof they’ll be angry. But they got me the job. They liked Christian. They still want me to date him, for God’s sake.”

Quinn winces. “Do you want to talk about him?”

I stare into my drink. “He saw me as property. Everything I did was wrong. He made me feel small. And because my parents always liked him, I thought maybe they’d take his side if I ever said anything.”

“They won’t,” Quinn says. “And Ragnar would never let that happen.”

For once, I don’t disagree.

Tristan swirls her straw in her drink. “Did you ever tell them? Your parents? About how Christian treated you?”

I shake my head.

“They might surprise you,” she says gently.

I pick at the label on my cider bottle. “I’m not sure I could handle it if they didn’t.”

Mads is watching me closely. “Has anyone ever made you feel safe telling them? Other than us, of course, because we’re the shit. You’re welcome.”

I think of Ragnar. The way he looks at me. How quiet he is when I spiral. Wrapping an arm around my waist and lending me his physical strength. How he doesn’t push or pry but always makes space.

And suddenly, I can’t stay still anymore.

“My whole life,” I say, voice soft, “I’ve been afraid of people pulling away. Of leaving me.”

The table falls silent.

“I know that sounds dramatic,” I add quickly. “But it’s not just Christian. Or school. Or my parents. It’s… old.”

Jen leans in. “Go on.”

I take a deep breath. This is so dumb of me.

I’m overreacting. Quinn’s dad had fucking cancer.

Her mom fucked off when she was a baby. Tristan't parents were neglectful.

At best. She single-handedly raised her siblings when she was just a kid herself.

I, on the other hand, was raised by two wealthy doctors who gave me everything I ever asked for.

I just didn’t think I could ask for unconditional love. I didn’t believe I deserved it.

“I was adopted from a baby box. Hours old. Someone left me wrapped in a blanket at a hospital, and my parents took me home two days later.”

The girls are quiet. Not in a judging way—just listening.

“I’ve always known. My parents never hid it. But I don’t think they ever really understood what it meant.”

“What do you think it means?” Mads asks gently.

“I think,” I say slowly, “there’s a scar on my brain I can’t see. A blueprint laid down before I could speak. That says: everyone leaves. That says: if someone could walk away before even holding me, knowing me… then maybe everyone can.”

Jen whispers, “Sadie…”

“I know it’s not logical. I know they didn’t mean to hurt me. But I also know that even newborns recognize voices, scents, the rhythm of a heartbeat. And when all of that disappears in a blink? It hurts.”

None of them speak. So I keep going.

“I’ve read the science. I’ve read the trauma studies.

Babies who lose their birth parents, no matter how loved they are after, still feel it.

We recognize the trauma in kids adopted from foster care or hard places, but not the ones like me.

And I think that’s why I’ve spent my whole life trying to be who everyone wanted.

I don’t have a bad past. I wasn’t…hurt. But—”

“You don’t have to do that anymore,” Tristan cuts me off, voice calm but furious. “Your pain is fucking valid, Sadie. I don’t care if you grew up with pony lessons.”

“I don’t know who I am without it.”

Quinn reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “Then let’s find out.”

I smile, shaky and real. “You guys are the best.”

“We know,” Mads says, grabbing her drink. “Now go pee so we can order nachos without interruption. We know you can’t handle more than one drink without breaking the damn seal. Idiot.” She winks.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell them, slipping out of the booth, cheeks still warm from crying and laughing all at once.

Gershwin’s is warm and loud, sticky-floored comfort that smells like cheap beer, buffalo wings, and other people’s poor decisions. But tonight, in our little corner booth under the flickering neon sign, it feels like safety. Like home, in a way I’ve never really had.

My friends know everything now. About the job I hate.

About never feeling like I belong. About the baby box, the adoption papers.

About how hard it is to feel lovable when you’ve always believed you were someone’s mistake.

They didn’t flinch. They stayed. Mads grabbed my hand.

Jen passed me a napkin with glitter lip gloss smudged on it.

Quinn, tough as she is, got misty-eyed. Even Tristan, who probably doesn’t know what to do with this much emotion, offered to help me find a new gig.

I should feel hollowed out, but I don’t. I feel lighter.

I weave through the crowd toward the bathroom, dodging some guy in a Patriots jersey and a girl dancing with a half-eaten mozzarella stick. I’m almost there when I hear it—my name, low and sharp like a paper cut.

“Sadie.”

My stomach drops. I don’t even need to turn around. I already know the smell of his cologne. Know the way his voice curves around my name like it’s something dirty.

Christian.

I square my shoulders before I look at him. He’s leaning against the wall near the hallway to the restrooms, arms crossed. Polished. Pressed. Shark eyes.

“You’ve been ignoring my texts,” he says. “Real mature.”

“I blocked you,” I say evenly. “So, yeah. That’s sort of the point.”

His smile is all teeth. “Cute.” He looks me up and down, like he’s still got the right. “You always did like performing. Acting out. The glasses, the hair… this whole weird little manic pixie thing you’ve got going on.”

I don’t answer. I won’t give him that.

“You done playing the tragic orphan yet?” he sneers, just loud enough for me to hear over the hum of the bar. “Or is that still your favorite party trick? Poor little Sadie, always needing someone to save her.”

The words hit, but not the way he wants them to. Not like before. I brace for that twist in my gut, the one that usually follows his voice. The doubt. Self-loathing.

It doesn’t come.

Instead, my brain gives me Ragnar. The way he talks to me like I’m real. Like I’m more than the bright noise I use to keep people from seeing the cracks. The way he listens, quietly and completely, as if he can see straight through the mess and still wants me, anyway.

I think about how he kissed me like I mattered. How he whispered ég elska tig and looked at me like I hung the damn moon. How he took care of me when I couldn’t even look at myself.

And suddenly, Christian doesn’t scare me anymore.

He just makes me angry.

Furiously, bone-deep angry.

“Get out of my way,” I say, voice tight.

Christian steps closer, a sneer twisting his perfect mouth.

“I came to talk.” His tone is low. Controlled.

I look around. No one in sight.

He steps closer. “You embarrassed me.”

“I told the truth.”