The Art of Self-Sabotage

Sokay, Bruce and I had a date planned recently with another couple, Alison and Chad. We'd been organizing it for a couple of weeks, and it was marked on the calendar, so I assumed everyone was aware.

I was really excited about this date. I really like Chad, Alison’s husband. It’s been working out because Alison and Bruce have hit it off and are having a great time! Chad and I have had a lot of fun, and he seems interested. However, his personality is like that of a stoic Viking warrior—quiet and observant. He doesn’t speak unless he has something important to say. Don’t get me wrong, he’s hilarious. He makes me laugh, we engage well, and the sex is amazing.

However, communication could be better. I understand his work and personality, so I get it. Anyway, I was excited about this date. As far as I knew, we were going to meet up with Alison and Chad after dinner for drinks and dancing. That’s my jam—let’s fucking go!

I woke up excited. I hadn’t talked to Chad in a few days, and I was eager to catch up. All day, I daydreamed about dancing with Chad, kissing him, all the things... he makes me a bit giddy, I’m not gonna lie.

I picked out a cute dress, spent an hour on my hair and makeup, and then it was time to head out. Just as we pulled out of the driveway, Alison texted Bruce saying Chad was tired and didn’t want to go out.

Excuse me?

With that, our plans were dashed, and we were back in the house. Disappointed, upset, rejected, and diminished—those feelings hit me like a wave as I walked back inside.

I have no idea what happened, as I’m out of the communication loop. Apparently, Alison made these plans, and I’m not sure Chad was ever fully aware or even on board. So I can’t be mad at him.

I feel like I set myself up for failure. I set expectations without communicating with Chad, so that’s on me. It all just fucking stings—the time and effort I put into planning my day, blocking out one of my only free nights, only for it to go up in smoke because someone is "tired." What the actual fuck?

The thing is, I honestly have no one to be upset with. I can’t blame anyone but myself. I’m frustrated that I keep doing this to myself—setting expectations without communication.

So here I am, the following morning, dealing with puffy eyes and a migraine from wallowing in my feels all night. I’ll clean my face and move on with my day. I’ll pack the dark feelings away because they are no one else’s problem but mine.

I’ll likely do this again to myself, like someone who drank too much and now has a burning hangover and swears they will never drink again.

Oh, I’ll drink again. Because I’m a dumb fucking idiot.

Note:

This might seem a bit strange if you're not familiar with Jonathan Swift. He's the author of "Gulliver's Travels," but he's also known for his sharp, ironic works, particularly "A Modest Proposal." In that essay, he ironically suggested that the solution to the economic troubles of 18th-century Ireland was for the poor to sell their children to the rich—as food. That’s right, he proposed child cannibalism. It's a brilliant piece, full of irony, which happens to be my favorite type of humor.

In a similar vein, I wanted to address an issue that affects so many of us today, myself included. Being unemployed in the current job market feels like an endless cycle of job searching, résumé refinement, ghosting, and rejection. 

Meanwhile, recruiters claim their jobs are just as challenging (give me a fucking break, you're employed, aren't you?). While I generally empathize with others, I find it difficult in this situation. If recruiters are struggling, they should voice their concerns to their leadership, not to the unemployed.

Therefore I offer my Modest Proposal: Feed the unemployed to the ATS monster. Jack them into the Matrix and drain them of their knowledge and experience. By doing so, it might finally understand its role better whilst helping ease the load for recruiters and culling the unemployment herd.

This piece is crafted in the spirit of satire, aiming to inject humor into the often disheartening job search process. A way to bring levity to this fucking dumpster fire. I hope you enjoy. 

A New Modest Proposal 

For Preventing the Unemployment of Qualified Individuals from Overwhelming the Job Market, and for Rendering Them Advantageous to the Efficiency of the Applicant Tracking System

Ahem,

In the current age of technological advancement and economic uncertainty, we find ourselves besieged by a peculiar dilemma: the overwhelming current job market. It has become a common sight to witness the well-educated and highly skilled wanderers of the job market, their résumés clutched tightly, as they approach the great and terrible maw of the Applicant Tracking System (ATS), a beast as ravenous as it is indifferent.


To solve the plight of these beleaguered job seekers, I propose a most ingenious solution: let us feed them, quite literally, to the ATS systems. These digital behemoths, much like the infamous Audrey II from "Little Shop of Horrors," demand constant nourishment, and what better sustenance than the very applicants who seek to appease them? By doing so, we shall fortify the system, enabling it to become more robust and precise in its selection of candidates for employment.

Picture, if you will, a grand procession of eager applicants, willingly march into the gaping digital jaws of the ATS. As they are consumed, their essence is absorbed, enhancing the system's capabilities and refining its algorithms. This noble sacrifice ensures that only the most suitable candidates are chosen, leveling the playing field for all.

This proposal offers myriad benefits. First, it alleviates the burden on recruiters, who are currently overwhelmed by the sheer volume of applications. With a more powerful and accurate ATS, recruiters can focus on engaging with the most qualified candidates, rather than sifting through an endless sea of résumés.

Second, by feeding the job seekers to the ATS, we create a sense of equity and fairness in the job market. No longer will applicants be judged solely by the whims of chance; instead, they will be evaluated by a system that has been honed to perfection through their own contributions.

Of course, this modest proposal is made with the utmost sincerity and concern for the welfare of all parties involved. It is a testament to our ingenuity and willingness to embrace unconventional solutions in the face of modern challenges.

In conclusion, let us not shy away from feeding the ATS beast, for in doing so, we may find a semblance of order amidst the chaos of the job market. After all, as the great Audrey II might say, "Feed me, Seymour!"

David Copperfield: The Lost Chapter

Note:

In the heart of the English countryside, a housekeeper stumbled upon an old chest hidden deep within a manor's dusty closet. Inside, among the mothballs and dust mites, lay a collection of Charles Dickens' private diaries, filled with unfinished works, poems, and other writings. Most intriguing was a lost chapter from *David Copperfield*, offering a rare glimpse into a scene Dickens ultimately chose to exclude. This humorous tale reveals young David's clumsy encounter with romance—a moment both awkward and enlightening.

Though Dickens may have deemed it a detour from his main narrative, this passage echoes the novel’s themes of innocence lost and lessons learned. It captures youthful missteps with a gentle, satirical touch, reminding us of the humor and humanity in our own journeys.

But that’s all a lie. I was inspired by a recent date that was as hilarious as it was charming, to pen this Dickens "fan fiction." A line from my date struck me as something David Copperfield might say, setting the stage for a chapter. 

On a personal note, writing in Dickens’ style was a real challenge. First of all, he’s flowery and overly expressive. Secondly, we have about 200 years between us, so the lingo is quite different, you feel me? 

Anyway, here’s to Dickens' unparalleled ability to illuminate the human experience with warmth and wit, and to my date's knack for making me laugh and blush all at once.

Chapter XX: A Most Awkward Encounter

My dear reader, it is with a blend of embarrassment and amusement that I recount to you a peculiar episode from my earlier years—one that I have often pondered whether to share. Yet, in the spirit of candor and with a touch of humor, I feel compelled to unveil this memory.

It was a time when youthful curiosity and the mysteries of affection led me into an encounter both bewildering and, dare I say, inelegant. The lady in question, whose name I shall discreetly withhold, possessed a charm that captivated my inexperienced heart. Our mutual affections, though sincere, were perhaps not matched by our understanding of certain... intricacies.

As the moment of intimacy approached, we found ourselves hastily and somewhat awkwardly divesting of our garments, driven by a fervor that left a trail of scattered clothing and the occasional missing button. In the midst of our eager fumbling, she drew me near, guiding my form to align with hers in a tender yet urgent embrace. My anticipation was palpable, my resolve unwavering, as I prepared to join with her in this newfound closeness.

However, as I ventured forward, she instinctively pulled me closer, and it became apparent that our shared ardor had led us into an unforeseen predicament. In my earnest attempts to navigate this unfamiliar territory, I realized that my zeal had surpassed her comfort. To put it delicately, I was longer than she was deep, and our initial fervor required a more considerate approach.

The situation, though mortifying at the time, unfolded with a series of mishaps that would not have been out of place in a comedy of errors. In our sincere endeavor to align our intentions with our actions, we stumbled and fumbled in a manner that would have amused even the sternest of observers.

As I ventured too deep, a look of discomfort crossed her face, rendering her momentarily speechless. Her eyes widened in a silent plea, a clear indication that my eagerness had exceeded the bounds of comfort. In that instant, a wave of realization washed over me, and I knew I must tread with greater care.

Gathering my wits, I softened my approach, attuning myself to her unspoken cues. With gentle patience, I adjusted my pace, ensuring that our shared experience was one of mutual enjoyment rather than distress. Her initial discomfort gradually gave way to a more relaxed demeanor, and together, we found a rhythm that brought us both to a harmonious conclusion.

Despite the awkwardness, we managed to extract a sense of humor from the experience, laughing at our own ineptitude. It was a lesson in humility and the unpredictable nature of youthful passion—a reminder that even the most earnest of intentions can lead to the most unexpected of outcomes.

And so, dear reader, I share this tale not to scandalize, but to amuse, and perhaps to remind us all that life’s most delicate moments are often those that teach us the most about ourselves.

Thanks For The Rejection

Note:

Life can be a real bitch sometimes.

We all face moments of disappointment and frustration that test our resilience and patience. The letter you’re about to read was written during one of those times—not to be sent, but as a way to process, to release, and to move forward.

In the midst of unemployment and rejection, I found solace in writing. Putting my thoughts on paper helped me make sense of the chaos, untangle my emotions, and find a way through. This letter is a snapshot of that moment—a raw, honest reflection on professional struggles, personal growth, and the weight of uncertainty.

By sharing it, I hope to offer something familiar—because while the details may be mine, the feelings of doubt, resilience, and self-discovery belong to all of us.

Thank you for taking the time to read and reflect with me.

Subject: A Reflection on Disappointment and Leadership

To Whom It May Concern,

I'm writing this not to seek reconsideration, but to lay bare my disappointment and frustration with the decision to deny me the part-time Specialist position. After dedicating over 8 years to this department, and nearly 13 with the company, it's a slap in the face to be judged solely on a decade-old mistake, especially when I've proven my worth time and again since then.

The probation period was supposed to be a chance for growth and redemption, not a life sentence hanging over my head. It's infuriating to see this double standard at play—where some people's errors become amusing anecdotes, while mine remains an indelible mark against my name.

Let's not pretend that this part-time position involves anything too complex or beyond my capabilities. By denying me this role, you're essentially saying I'm not even capable of handling simple tasks. It's a blatant dismissal of my skills and experience.

What's even more baffling is the inconsistency in your judgment. When I left the company in 2022, I was actually asked by one of the decision-makers if I wanted to stay on as a part-time Specialist. I declined at the time because I wanted to fully dedicate myself to my new role, demonstrating my professionalism and commitment. So, I was suitable for a part-time position three years ago, but now, something that happened nine years ago is suddenly a dealbreaker? Make it make sense.

I don't know if you're aware, but the job market is absolute trash right now. I've been unemployed since November of last year, and like many others, it's been difficult to even secure a phone screening. Recruiters are overwhelmed and relying on ATS programs to sift through applicants. It's a tough situation for everyone, but that's not the main point here. This is about the principles and values that seem to be lacking in this decision.

This company has always prided itself on being a family, a place where we take care of our own. But this decision makes that sentiment feel like nothing more than empty words. I've been a vocal advocate for the culture here, but now I question its authenticity. It stings even more knowing that someone I once considered a close friend, who was part of my wedding party, played a role in this decision. It seems leadership has changed her, and not for the better.

I hope this decision weighs heavily on your conscience and prompts a reevaluation of how leadership treats its people. It's time to reflect on whether the values you claim to uphold are genuinely practiced.

This experience has left a bitter taste, and I hope it serves as a catalyst for change within the company. No one should feel this level of betrayal from a place they once considered a second home.

Sincerely,

Someone Who Knows Their Worth

The Hollow Point

In some dark, dank corner of nowhere exciting, where silence reigned and nobody asked questions, Lena cleaned her weapons with obsessive care. Her life now was a shrine to isolation and brutality—just how she liked it. But rewind the tape a bit, and you'd meet a very different Lena. Years before she was a ghost with a paycheck, Lena was a vibrant artist full of life, as skillful at the potter’s wheel as she was with a rifle. The cover was impeccable—attending "seminars" and "craft fairs" out of town masked the shifts when she was out ending people. On the surface, Lena was an honest-to-goodness artist, dedicated to her craft. But deep down, she was a stone-cold killer.

She discovered pottery by accident—a random elective in school—but the moment her hands touched the wet earth, something buried in her blood woke up. Her mother had been a potter before her untimely death, though she never had the chance to teach Lena. Somehow, the clay still found her. She was a natural, a savant.

Lena's childhood was quiet. Literally quiet. Her father was a deadbeat man with a deadbeat job and a deadbeat life. War-induced PTSD kept him locked inside his own mind or the bottom of a bottle. He was all she had, though. Mama died when Lena was young, and that only deepened the hole Dad was living in. She knew she was the single thread keeping him tethered to this planet, and she did everything she could to show her appreciation. She knew he was fragile, that one bad move might push him over the edge. For all he was, he was still hers.

He might have been a ghost of a man, but he knew how to handle a rifle. A former Marine scout sniper, an expert marksman. But as it often goes with soldiers of his caliber, he came out the other side fucked up. Papa couldn’t boil water, but he could shoot a beer can off a fence post from 500 yards away. Shooting was his only outlet, and Lena, desperate for a connection, tried to bond with him by showing how well she could hold a gun.

Papa freaked out. Maybe because she was five. Maybe because when he woke up from his drunken haze on the couch, she had the sight set right between his eyes. Or maybe because she had a near-perfect Captured Thumb grip and the safety was off. The beating that followed ensured she never touched another gun in that house again.

That night, long after the bruises bloomed, Papa sat slumped at the kitchen table, a half-empty bottle sweating in his grip. He wasn’t looking at her. Wasn’t really looking at anything.

"You think you can just forget? Walk away?" His voice was low, rough as gravel. He let out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. "You should know better. You can’t outrun ghosts. You can’t bury wounds that refuse to close."

Lena didn’t understand what he meant. Not then. But years later, with blood on her hands and a phantom pressing against her ribs, she finally did.

Then, suddenly, one day, Papa was gone. Lena came home from school to find the trailer they called home burnt beyond cinders. Officials ruled it an electrical fire, but when they thought she wasn’t listening, they whispered. The town drunk had been spotted earlier that day, stumbling home with a five-gallon jug of gasoline. Odd, they said, since he didn’t drive. Odd, since he didn’t have any other use for that.

The heavy scent of gasoline in the air seemed to confirm what no one wanted to say outright. Lena didn’t cry outwardly, but her soul screamed.

She had no other family, no place to go. That changed when Mr. Siegel, her art teacher, took her in. He had served with her father once, long before war and whiskey hollowed him out. Jack—he insisted she call him Jack—was the first person to see something in her beyond a quiet, broken kid. He cleared out his home studio, moving his canvases and easels into the garage so she could have a room of her own. His once-chaotic bachelor pad became something else entirely: a home, one that smelled of oil paint and wet clay, where jazz hummed low on the stereo, and where someone finally gave a damn about her.

Jack nurtured her artistic side, guiding her hands at the wheel, teaching her about balance, patience, and precision. When he wasn't sculpting or painting, Jack had another passion: shooting. He frequented the gun range, and one day, he took Lena with him. It was meant to be a one-time thing. But the moment she picked up a pistol, he saw it—steady hands, sharp instincts, an uncanny ability to tune out distraction.

"Jesus, kid," he muttered after she nailed the bullseye on her third shot. "Where the hell did you learn that?"

She hadn’t. It was just there, in her bones.

Jack had seen too many sharp young souls dulled by the machine. So when recruiters came knocking, he pointed her in a different direction—toward people who paid well for someone with her skill set. Contracts, lucrative and discreet. On her terms. A life split between two worlds: one molding earth, one ending lives. And Jack? He remained by her side—her mentor, her wingman in both business and blood.

Years passed. Jack lived long enough to see her art displayed in museums, her books on ceramic techniques become essential reading. When he died, peacefully and without regret, Lena buried the last piece of her past.

Then, at his funeral, a tiny gray kitten wove through the crowd, its sharp eyes locked on her. When she returned home, it was waiting on her doorstep. It slipped inside no matter how many times she shut it out. Eventually, she gave in.

"Houdini. Fine. You win."

Houdini became her shadow. He understood her silences, her absences. But when mission time rolled around, he lived up to his name. He vanished.

She tore through the house, calling for him. Nothing. The clock ticked down to departure, and frustration mounted.

"You better be here when I get back, you little bastard."

She expected the usual greeting upon return. A flick of a tail, a slow blink, a smug little mewl. Instead, the house was silent.

Then came the unease. The absence. The untouched food.

The smell.

She knew before she even admitted it. The stench, cloying and rancid. Her pulse hammered as she followed it—to the safe. The steel door swung open, and there he was.
Houdini. Small. Still.

The claw marks etched into the interior told the story. The panic. The struggle. The desperate fight to escape.

She staggered back, hands shaking like she’d never held a gun steady in her life. This wasn’t an enemy she could shoot, wasn’t a problem she could solve. This was her fault.

She buried Houdini in the sunniest part of the garden. Then she made a decision.

Burn it all.

The house, the shop, the life she’d built. No second chances, no sentimental goodbyes. Just an inferno to swallow every mistake, every tie, every trace of the woman she’d been.

She resurfaced in the mountains, a ghost in a cabin miles from the nearest town. Work, execute, disappear. A closed loop of cold efficiency. No distractions. No warmth.

Then one evening, a stray darted into her path—thin, ragged, wild.

Lena froze.

The cat stared at her, unblinking, a ghost from a past she’d tried to incinerate.
Papa was right.

You can’t outrun ghosts. You can’t bury wounds that refuse to close.

Bitter Aftertaste - A Hot Brunch Sequel

A Note from Mira:

We thought we understood the rules.

We thought we were clever, charming, adaptable—maybe even essential.

But the truth is, we weren’t players in this game. We were inventory. Fresh stock. A novelty, briefly thrilling and easily replaced.

This story isn’t about heartbreak or betrayal. It’s about clarity.

About that sharp, metallic taste when the high wears off and you realize the thing that made you feel alive was never actually about you.

We walked in glowing, believing we were part of something special.

We walked out knowing we were just next.

Updated Cast Notes:

In Hot brunch, I offered a handy little cheat sheet to help keep everyone straight—and I’d be remiss not to do the same for this follow-up. Only this time, the gloss is gone, the curtain’s been pulled back, and we’ve seen more of who these people really are.

Here’s the cast again, now with the benefit of hindsight.

Drew and Stacy

• Drew: The polished puppet master. Smooth, strategic, always nearby but never fully present. Laughs easily, but it never reaches his eyes.

• Stacy: The queen bee with a thinly veiled superiority complex. Her flirtation with Bruce has curdled into something performative—more about control than chemistry. She plays hostess like it’s theater, and you’re either cast or cut.

Tony and Sue

• Tony: The unapologetic voyeur. Can’t stop watching Mira with a hunger that now feels invasive. He used to be part of the thrill—now he’s part of the discomfort.

• Sue: Master manipulator in designer denim. Smiles like a best friend, talks like a recruiter, and watches like a rival. Her interest feels transactional, her affection weaponized.

Matt and Jessica

• Matt: Former ally gone ghost. His easygoing charm now feels distant, like he’s guarding a secret or quietly picking sides.

• Jessica: Once the group's mischievous big sister, now a cryptic messenger. Her smirks sting, her loyalty unclear. She's in the know, and she wants you to know you’re not.

Joey and Samantha

• Joey: All swagger, no stability. His energy is restless, like he’s still trying to prove he belongs—or distract from the fact that he doesn’t.

• Samantha: Tight-lipped and wounded. You get the sense she’s still reeling from something, keeping it together because she has to, not because she wants to.

Penny and Paul

• Penny: The loud laugh is a shield now. She leans into attention like a lifeboat, trying too hard to prove she’s moved on.

• Paul: The ghost at the party. Observant, silent, and simmering. His smiles are polite but cold. He knows what happened—and who let it happen.
  
  

And now without further delay, I give you part two of Hot Brunch: A Bitter Aftertaste.

Bruce and I were on cloud nine.

After meeting this saucy new group and being enveloped into their world, we felt like we’d hit the jackpot. So when the invite to Stacy’s birthday dinner party arrived, we didn’t hesitate. The moment we stepped through Drew and Stacy’s front door, I knew something had changed. The house was the same—pristine, suburban, deceptively ordinary. The kind of place where neighbors wave politely and kids ride their bikes in the cul-de-sac, never guessing what happens behind closed doors. But the air inside felt different this time. Thicker. Sharper. Last time, we were welcomed like honored guests, showered with flirtation and warmth. This time, the smiles felt a little too polished, the greetings a little too rehearsed. There was no playful urgency to pull us in, no eager hands guiding us toward drinks and whispered possibilities. Instead, there were glances. Subtle, assessing. Bruce felt it too. I saw the flicker of confusion in his eyes as he squeezed my hand, a silent ‘do you feel that?’.

We hadn’t questioned the invite. After all, things had been going so well. The late-night drinks, the flirty texts, the secret little rendezvous that made us feel like we weren’t just new—we belonged. So why, standing here now, did I feel like an outsider?

Stacy’s birthday dinner was in full swing. The dining table overflowed with gourmet platters, candles flickering over half-filled glasses of red wine. A soft jazz playlist hummed in the background. It should have felt inTonyate. Instead, it felt staged. As we wove through the room, offering casual smiles, we picked up on small hesitations in the way people responded. Conversations that trailed off when we approached. That distinct feeling of being observed—but not in the hungry, excited way we’d grown used to. At one point, my eyes landed on two couples—Joey and Samantha on one side of the room, Penny and Paul on the other. A month ago, they had been inseparable, the kind of duo that moved as a four-piece set. Now, they weren’t so much as looking at each other. Penny’s laugh was a little too loud as she leaned into another man’s touch. Samantha sipped her wine with tight lips, nodding absentmindedly as Joey spoke to her. Bruce caught me watching. “What’s up with them?”

Before I could answer, Jessica materialized beside us, holding two fresh drinks. She followed my gaze, then smirked. “Ah. That whole mess.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Mess?”

Jessica handed me a glass. “Let’s just say, some people still think they’re good at keeping emotions out of it.” She tilted her head toward Joey and Samantha. “Joey and Penny had a thing a few weeks back. Paul knew, but… turns out knowing and seeing are two different beasts.”

Bruce let out a low whistle. “Damn.”

Jessica shrugged. “It happens. Some people adjust, some pretend, some implode.” She flicked her gaze to us, curious. “You two still having fun?”

The way she said it made my skin prickle. Before I could answer, Sue beckoned her over, and Jessica was gone. I turned back toward Bruce—only to be distracted by something else. Drew and Stacy, just around the corner of the kitchen island. Their voices hushed, but not enough. “I mean, they’re still fun,” Stacy was saying, stirring something in her glass. “But, you know… the shine wears off.”

Drew let out a soft chuckle. “Shiny new toys never stay shiny.”

I stopped. Not dramatically, just enough for the words to land. Bruce must have seen something shift in my face because he leaned in, voice low. “What?”

I swallowed, forcing a smile as I turned back toward him. “Nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing. It was every late-night conversation, every lingering kiss, every whispered promise of how special we were here. It was realizing, in real time, that none of it had been real. We weren’t being welcomed. We were being sized up, consumed. And now, just as easily, discarded. Bruce’s fingers found the small of my back, a grounding touch. His face was still pleasant, but I could see the tension in his jaw. He was picking up on it now too. A few weeks ago, this house had been a playground. The laughter, the teasing, the delicious unpredictability of whose hands might find you next—it had been intoxicating. But now, standing in the same space, all I felt was naked. And not in the fun way. Someone touched my arm. Sue, with her perfectly tousled hair and ever-present smirk. “Mira, babe. There you are.”

I turned, willing the warmth back into my face. “Here I am.”

She glanced between me and Bruce, reading something in our expressions. Her smile didn’t falter, but there was an edge to it now. “You two good?”

Bruce exhaled a short laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Of course. Just… taking it all in.”

Sue held his gaze for a second longer, then tilted her head, amused. “Well, you two are quick learners.”

I wasn’t sure what she meant by that, but I didn’t like the way she said it. As the night wore on, I couldn’t help but notice how differently everyone treated us compared to before. Stacy, who had always been a huge flirt with Bruce, seemed distant now. She kept giving him these coy looks, but they lacked the heat from before. It was almost like she was teasing him just to remind herself she could—not because she really wanted to. When she finally came over to chat, her tone was light, almost dismissive.

“Hey, Mira,” she said, leaning against the counter. “How’ve you been liking the neighborhood?”

“Oh, it’s great,” I replied, forcing a smile. “Everyone’s been so welcoming.”

She smirked, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah, we do try. Though, you know, sometimes people get… comfortable. Maybe a little too comfortable.”

Her words hung in the air, sharp and pointed. I glanced at Bruce, who was chatting with Drew nearby. Was she talking about us? About how we’d fit in—or maybe how we hadn’t?

Then there was Tony. As usual, he couldn’t keep his eyes off me. Every time I looked across the room, he was staring, his gaze bold and unapologetic. It made me uncomfortable, especially since Sue didn’t seem to care. In fact, she almost encouraged it. “You should come hang out with us sometime,” Sue said casually, brushing off Tony’s blatant ogling. “We’re having a little get-together next weekend. Just a few close friends.”

“Sounds fun,” I lied, plastering on a polite smile.

Even Matt and Jessica, who had become our closest allies in the group, seemed distant tonight. They laughed and joked with everyone else, but when I tried to join in, their responses were clipped, almost forced. Jessica pulled me aside at one point, her dark eyes gleaming with mischief. “You know, Tony and Sue have been talking about you guys a lot lately.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, my stomach tightening. She shrugged, smirking. “Just that they’re jealous. You’re the shiny new toys now.”

Her words stung more than I expected. Shiny new toys. That’s all we were to them. By the end of the night, I was exhausted. Every interaction felt heavy, loaded with subtext I didn’t want to unpack.As we made our rounds to say goodbye, I caught snippets of conversations that confirmed my worst fears.

“They’re nice,” someone muttered as we passed. “But they don’t really get it yet.”

Get what? I wanted to scream. That we were just pawns in their game? That they’d invited us in only to toss us aside when the novelty wore off? When we finally climbed into the car, Bruce exhaled sharply. “Holy fuck.”

I nodded, gripping the seatbelt in my lap. “Yeah.”

He glanced at me, concern etched on his face. “You okay?”

I hesitated, then shook my head. “No. Not really.”

For a long moment, neither of us spoke. Then Bruce reached over, taking my hand in his. “We don’t have to go back, you know. None of this matters if it doesn’t feel right.”

His words brought tears to my eyes. For all the chaos we’d embraced, for all the wild adventures we’d shared, none of it compared to the simple truth of having him by my side. As we drove away, I realized something important: we didn’t need them. Whatever games they wanted to play, whatever power dynamics they wanted to enforce, we didn’t have to be part of it. Because in the end, we had each other. And that was enough.