Weeks passed in a blur.
Zoe managed to wake up, go to work, and play the part of someone holding it together. She smiled in meetings. Met deadlines. Answered emails like nothing inside her had caved in. But not a single day passed without the sting of Stacy. Not just the loss—but the way she left. No goodbye. No conversation. Just distance where there used to be warmth. One day they were sharing coffee and half-finished plans, and the next, Stacy was gone—like Zoe had been a phase she quietly outgrew. The betrayal settled deep in her bones, bitter and festering. It was the silence that hurt the most—the way Stacy disappeared without even giving her the dignity of closure.
By the time Friday came, she needed air. Or noise. Or alcohol. Or all three.
The bar was dim, amber-lit, and humming with soft jazz from the speakers above.
She slipped onto a worn leather stool, the cool metal footrest pressing against her heels.
It smelled of citrus peel, spilled gin, and old conversations.
She slipped onto a stool and tapped the bar lightly.
"One margarita, please," she said to the bartender, her voice low but steady.
He nodded and turned to make it. The faint clink of ice, the hiss of citrus, the sound of conversations drifting around her—everything felt a little too sharp, too alive for how dull she felt inside.
Moments later, the glass appeared in front of her. Zoe took a sip, the salt stinging the corner of her mouth, the tequila burning the back of her throat in a way that felt almost comforting.
A few chairs away, a woman settled into a barstool—graceful, composed, the kind of presence that made the air shift just slightly.
Zoe glanced over.
She was beautiful—sexy in that effortless, curated way, like she'd walked out of a lifestyle ad. Confident posture, silk blouse, red lips, and a glass of something expensive in her hand.
She caught Zoe's glance and smiled, lifting her glass slightly in greeting.
Zoe gave a polite smile back, raised her own glass in return, then turned away.
She wasn't here for that.
Before the woman could say anything—or before Zoe could talk herself into engaging just to feel something—Bea's voice rang out behind her.
"Hey, sorry I'm late!"
Zoe turned, and Bea was already sliding an arm through hers, steering her toward a booth near the back.
"Come on," Bea said. "Let's sit."
They slipped into the booth, Zoe's drink in hand. She took another long sip and tried to ignore the familiar ache settling in her chest.
For the next few minutes, they caught up. Bea talked about work, her nightmare of a new manager, a weird date she'd been on. Zoe listened, grateful for the distraction, even if she only half-absorbed the words.
Then Bea paused mid-sentence, her gaze drifting back toward the bar counter.
"...Okay, so I just noticed," she said slowly, leaning in a little. "That woman at the bar counter? She's been looking over here. At you. Since we sat down."
Zoe didn't turn to look. Just shook her head and took another sip of her drink.
"I saw her earlier," she said. "She smiled. I smiled back. That was it."
"That was not it. She's still watching you." Bea smirked. "Maybe you should go talk to her."
Zoe let out a small, dry laugh.
"Why? So I can waste her time the way Stacy wasted mine?"
Bea's expression softened.
"Zoe... not everyone's Stacy."
Zoe turned toward the bar finally, just for a second. The woman was laughing now, head tilted back as she spoke to the bartender, but her eyes flicked toward Zoe again—subtle, sure, but there.
Zoe's smile faded.
"She looks like a Stacy," she said, voice low. "Beautiful. Rich. The kind of woman who'll hold you when things are good and vanish when they're not. When life gets messy, she'll run back to her world of smooth sheets, curated routines, and relationships that don't ask too much."
She stared down at her drink, her voice thick now.
"Stacy left the second it wasn't easy anymore. She didn't just walk away—she replaced me. Upgraded to something cleaner. And now she's engaged. Living her safe little life while I'm still..." She trailed off.
Bea reached across the table and placed a hand over Zoe's.
"Still healing," she said gently.
Zoe pulled her hand back slowly and looked out the bar's front window, where the night stretched long and quiet.
"I'm not ready to flirt. I'm not ready to trust someone else's smile." She paused. "Hell, I'm barely ready to trust my own."
Bea nodded, not pressing, just sitting with her in the stillness.
The woman at the bar eventually paid her tab and left. Zoe didn't watch her go.
She didn't need to.
And they let the night unfold in laughter and easy conversation, two friends anchored in each other's presence, their margaritas clinking like small celebrations of a bond that never wavered.