"Okay, seriously⁠—"

"I bet if we check the CDC website right now, there's a booster shot specifically for Evan's bullshit."

"Amanda."

"We just need to find a Walgreens doing walk-ins. I'll drive. I'll even hold your hand if you're scared of needles."

"Oh my God, please stop." I shake my head, burying it into my hands before laughing despite everything. Amanda has always had this effect on me—the ability to make me laugh even in my darkest moments, to pull me back from the edge of despair with her ridiculous analogies and unwavering loyalty. Her presence is like sunshine after a storm, bright and necessary.

"You know I'm right."

I look up at her through one cracked eye. "Maybe let's try an emotionally healthy approach to dealing with it."

"Emotionally healthy?" She snorts, tossing her hair over her shoulder, the blonde strands catching the light. "Okay, therapist, I have a better idea—revenge."

My mind immediately runs through four different scenarios of what Amanda considers "revenge," calculating exactly how each would backfire and what it would take to bail her out of jail. The mental risk assessment is automatic—another skill honed from years of managing her chaos, of being the voice of reason to her impulsivity. The possibilities range from mildly embarrassing to federally criminal.

I groan, already dreading whatever she's about to suggest. "Amanda⁠—"

"No, listen. Here's what we're gonna do."

"I already don't like it."

"We are going out tonight."

I’m surprised by the simplicity of the suggestion. "What?"

"Girls' night. You, me, margaritas the size of our heads, and a pile of tortilla chips so big we legally have to sign a waiver before consuming them."

I hesitate, considering the offer, the tension in my shoulders easing at the thought. The idea of salty chips, tangy lime, and Amanda's unfiltered commentary sounds like the perfect antidote to this awful day.

Like exactly what I need—to get out of my head, to spend time with someone who knows me and loves me anyway, to eat and drink and forget about Evan and work and all the complications of my life, just for a few hours. To laugh until my sides hurt, to feel normal again.

But also, after today, all I want to do is curl into bed and pretend I don't exist. To wrap myself in blankets and disappear from the world, at least until morning. To process everything that happened, everything I learned.

And maybe talk to Caleb.

I immediately tell that part of my brain to shut up. To stop going there. To stop thinking about how hand felt on my back, the way his eyes softened when he looked at me, the way he shared his own pain to make me feel less alone.

Except that wasn’t Caleb.

That was Callahan.

Jesus. I did it again. I keep doing it—blurring the lines between the code and the man. Between the fantasy and the flesh.

The AI is a distraction, nothing more.

Amanda sees the hesitation in my expression, reads it with the accuracy of someone who’s known me for years.

“Don’t even think about bailing,” she warns, pointing a threatening finger at me. The obscenely large diamond on her index finger which she proudly bought herself catches the light as she gestures. “We are getting drunk. We are eating our weight in chips. We are talking shit about your ex.”

"We haven't broken up," I correct automatically, the words hollow even to my own ears.

"I said what I said," she replies, crossing her arms over her chest, raising an eyebrow in challenge. Her expression dares me to contradict her.

"Fine," I mutter, already feeling a small spark of anticipation despite my exhaustion. "But you're buying the first round."

Amanda claps her hands together, victorious.

"Yes! Okay, get ready, bitch. We are going out tonight."

SOMEONE BETTER MOP THE FLOOR

IZZY

Amanda and I stumble into the bar, already cackling, the neon glow buzzing around us. The place is packed with Friday night revelers, bodies pressed close in that familiar weekend ritual of escape and celebration. Music thumps hard enough to rattle the ice in my drink, vibrating through the floor and up into my bones. The bass line provides a steady backdrop to conversations that grow louder as the night progresses, everyone competing to be heard over the noise.

I am 100% committed to drinking just enough margaritas to forget today ever happened. The memory of Evan's humiliating comments, Monroe's leering, and my unexpected emotional breakdown in front of Cal—all of it needs to be washed away with tequila and lime.

Amanda, ever the professional bad influence, orders us a pitcher to start. Her credit card slaps onto the sticky bar top. The bartender—bearded, tattooed, and clearly appreciative of Amanda's low-cut top—nods and gets to work, lime juice splashing, ice crackling in the blender.

And that's how I find myself—one oversized margarita deep, salt crusting on my lips, tequila warming my veins like liquid courage—confessing something to her that I probably shouldn't. The alcohol loosens my tongue, washing away inhibitions I normally keep firmly in place.

"I haven't had sex with Evan in... a while." The admission slips out between sips, surprising even me with its candor.

Amanda, mid-sip, practically lights up like a human firework. Her eyes widen comically, margarita frozen halfway to her mouth. "Define 'a while.'"

I wave my hand vaguely, the motion sending my drink tipping dangerously close to the rim. "Long enough that I have zero desire to start again." The words feel surprisingly freeing, as though naming this truth aloud has released something long trapped inside me.

Amanda gasps like I just told her I renounced men altogether. Her perfectly glossed mouth forms a dramatic 'O' of shock. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"I'm saying that if he tries to touch me, I feel actively repulsed." I take another gulp of my drink, staring at the salt rim like it holds answers to questions I'm just beginning to ask myself. The tequila burns pleasantly down my throat, warming my chest. "Like, full-body cringe."

Amanda slaps the table so hard that our drinks jump, droplets of margarita splashing onto the worn wooden surface. "YES. Welcome to your feminist awakening!"

I snort, nearly choking on my drink. The carbonation bubbles up my nose, making my eyes water. "That's not⁠—"

"No, listen." She points at me like she's about to deliver a life-altering TED Talk, her finger hovering inches from my face. "You're realizing you don't need a man to get you off. You've been choosing yourself over his mediocre dick. That is growth. That is power. That is breaking free from the patriarchy."

I laugh, pressing a hand to my forehead, feeling the flush of alcohol warming my skin. "I am not breaking free from the patriarchy."

"Yet." She swirls her margarita, the pale green liquid creating a small whirlpool in the glass. Ice cubes clink musically against each other. "We just need to get you a rubber boyfriend and you're golden."

I choke, margarita going down the wrong way. "Oh my God." My voice comes out strangled, half-laugh, half-cough.

"Speaking of," she purrs, leaning in, her blonde hair falling forward. "You did name-drop the app earlier. Why?"

I hesitate, debating if I should even ask. The alcohol makes me bold, but some questions still feel too embarrassing.