"Seven Plates"
Friendsgiving goes awry when three of the host's exes show up in this funny, emotional story by Crystal Wall, an associate editor at Insider.
Hannah says:
For years, I’ve had this recurring nightmare that all my exes get together in one room. And actually, this summer, I was contacted by an editor at New York magazine who wanted to know if I’d participate in a photoshoot featuring a guy I dated and all his exes. (Doesn’t that sentence send a shiver down your spine?) There’s just something fascinating/horrifying about reuniting with a person you once cared about.
This week, we have a delicious story about a Friendsgiving host who gets a real shock when three of her exes arrive at her dinner party. It’s by Crystal Wall, an associate editor at Insider, and I couldn’t put it down. Enjoy!
“Seven Plates”
I’ve always preferred tables with an odd number of plates.
There’s something comfortable about it. No one has an obligation to anyone. It’s a seating arrangement of free agents who can rush into and retreat from conversation. Connection without the weight of expectation.
I set down the seventh and final plate as a sheet of snow flocks past my window. The train rattles my apartment, shaking the foundation like a magnitude three earthquake. Who knew the Midwest’s equivalent to fault lines would be “L” stations. The railing’s barely ten feet away from my bedroom balcony — Chicago city ordinances are written by Satan.
I look back at the table and purse my lips. Friendsgiving will feel different as a seventh wheel. For the first time in five years, all three of my friends are bringing actual plus-ones. And it’s my fault for setting them up.
Usually, I fill my apartment with a potluck of potential suitors for my friends. The cute cashier at the used bookstore. The random Hinge date that didn’t pan out. It became a game, but I was the only player.
Matchmaking became more of a lifestyle than hobby. Whenever I met someone new, I’d pair them with one of my single friends or coworkers, pulling a file out of my mental safe. And I was good at it. Too good, apparently.
My phone dings. Robin.
Just a heads up, our plus-ones will be there before we are.
Before I can wrap my head around those logistics, the oven timer goes off. I rush to my Pillsbury biscuits, stopping at my cupboard to smear a dash of flour on my face. No one needs to know half of this dinner came from a can. But a knock sounds at the door, and I course-correct toward it.
I open it with a fleeting smile. “Wrong–” I taste the leftover curry I had for breakfast. Holy shit. I slam the door shut.
My heart climbs into my throat. I’d pass out if not for the sheer adrenaline. I dash to my phone and call Robin.
“I swear on my left nipple if you don’t pick up this phone right now, I’ll — Robin!”
“Clarke. What’s wrong? Did you run out of tampons again?” Her voice climbs a nervous octave. “Want me to pick some up?”
“Worse. I think my exes have formed a cult and have tracked me down as their sacrifice.”
I tiptoe back toward the door and look out the peephole this time. There stand my three ghosts of exes past. Now I get why Scrooge was such a bitch.
“Not sure that’s worse, actually,” Robin says. “Let them in. Make them comfortable. They’re your guests.”
“They’re trespassers.”
“They’re your guests,” she repeats. The room drops twenty degrees — an impressive feat in Chicago. Cutting off my silent rage, she says, “Godspeed,” and hangs up.
I gape at my phone for a solid thirty seconds, my brain sweating from the mental gymnastics it takes to comprehend what’s happening. They knock again, and I pray to be smited this very moment. My words go unanswered.
I prepare for the worst, ease the door ajar, and say the smoothest opener I can muster: “Hey.”
My exes stand like a police lineup but eye me like I’m the suspect.
I gulp. “June.”
She stands closest to the door, her petite stature engulfed by her Canada Goose coat. Dark brown hair spills over her shoulders, her gaze as wide-eyed as I remember. I won’t be fooled though. The innocent look belies her psychology degree.
I look left and nod. “Clark.” Dating someone with your name is a surefire way to feel like a narcissist.
Digging his hands deep into his damp jeans, he strikes the comfortable posture of an aspiring stand-up comic. The look alone gives me war flashbacks. He dragged me to every indie comedy venue in the city. I still can’t hear the words “audience participation” without my acid reflux triggering.
Some situationships must end.
And finally, there’s—
“Blair.”
Her name falls out of my mouth like a prayer.
She catches it with a smile. “Hey, Clarke.”
She tucks the side of her raven bob behind her ear and takes her time looking me up and down, from the cowlick in my bangs to the hole in my slippers. Every inch of me she eyes roars awake.
A down coat and T-shirt hangs from her shoulders, above the silk skirt I constantly told her I loved. A tattoo peeks out from under her tights, just above her Doc Martens. That’s new.
I look down at myself, still in sweatpants and my sleep shirt. I imagined if I ever had to face my exes again, I’d at least look hot. Thirty seconds in, and this experience is already more humbling than my first time ice-skating, and that’s saying something.
I cut my ego death short by opening the door wider. “I assume you didn’t come here to loiter.”
They file in like this isn’t straight out of some fucked-up alternate reality. June and Clark settle on my loveseat but cling to the opposite ends. At least I don’t have to worry about my exes moving on with each other.
I swallow my pride. The only way I’ll make it through this day alive is on autopilot. “Drinks?” I offer. “Your usuals?”
Ever since I had my first boyfriend during sophomore year of college, my mom insisted it’s best practice to memorize my dates’ coffee and drink orders. Little did she know how much mental real estate that would take. We don’t all get hitched to our second monogamous partner and call it a day.
June nods, but Clark holds up his hand, “No thanks. I’m not drinking until my next show. Bogs down my creativity.”
Some exes are lessons, others are mistakes.
I nod. “Right.”
Blair pulls a wine bottle out of her tote. “Mind if I open this?” Chianti. My favorite.
“Sure.” I turn so she can’t see my blush and beeline toward the kitchen. Blair goes to open a drawer, and I say, “Second one to the right.”
“I know.” She finds the wine opener without trying. “Good to see some things don’t change.”
My cheeks burn hotter, so I turn toward the other end of the counter and busy myself with June’s Moscow mule. I don’t realize my hands are shaking until I pour too much vodka. She always liked her drinks on the strong side anyway.
Blair grazes my arm, and I jump as a jolt of energy licks across my skin. She takes a step back as an apology but still looks satisfied. Holding two wine glasses, she hands me one. “I poured you a glass.”
I accept it too quickly. Some tastes hold memories, and the sensation of Chianti on my tongue brings me back to our Saturday date nights. They’d always start with wine and a movie and end with tousled limbs and sheets. I ache at the thought.
Watching me take a long sip, she asks, “How have you been?”
I bristle at the question, loaded with insinuation. Like I should’ve moved on in the past year, got promoted at work, dated new people — not scroll through her Instagram every time she posted something new.
“Good.” I shrug. You?”
“I’ve been better.” She stares at me, not bothering to be subtle.
There’s a trace of vulnerability in the crease between her brows. I last saw it a year ago when she told me something between us wasn’t working. Both of us knew what, but neither dared to say.
I’ve heard enough about my parents’ divorce to know those conversations never go well. They usually end in a torrential downpour of honesty, then regret. Words are both fleeting and dauntingly permanent. So when the brown line pulled into the station, it was either grab that train or endure fifteen more minutes of rejection waiting for the next. There was more we could have said. Should have said. But I’ve always preferred saying too little over too much.
Too prideful to follow, she watched me through the closing doors of the “L” with that same crease. I almost forgot it. Until now.
She might have swallowed her pride to come here today, but I need at least five business days’ warning before I’m expected to engage in open and honest communication. I twirl a spoon in June’s mule and sidestep. “I should get back. I don’t want the others to think I have favorites.”
Blair smiles at my sore attempt at a joke but takes a long pull of wine.
I hand off the mule to June, and the door handle twists. Robin pops a smiling face in, ginger curls bouncing. But before she can say so much as a word, I lunge toward her, shoving her back out and slamming the door behind us.
Robin’s grin fades, guilt taking its place. Her freckles backdropped with a blush, she glances at Frankie and Anise holding dishes beside her.
“Can I put this down inside?” Frankie’s got the low and calculated tone of someone who survived three years of law school. Even on her day off, she sports a slick bun and dress pants. “Green bean casserole is heavy.”
I cock my head. “I thought you were bringing mashed potatoes.”
“I’m cutting carbs.”
Somehow, today got worse.
“No one’s going inside until I get answers.” I say. Hopefully those answers come quickly — my building’s insulation is less evergreen than the landlord promised, but she’s successfully avoided my texts for two months now. I look at Anise, hoping they’ll crack first. “Well? Did your partners undergo some kind of Freaky Friday body swap or did Punk'd get a much overdue revival?”
Anise scratches their curly pixie. “Which would be a more convincing lie?”
“This is illegal,” I say.
“It’s not,” Frankie says. “I’d know.”
“Look.” Robin steps toward me. “You’ve set us up, so we’re returning the favor.”
“That’s what this is?” I gape. “Revenge?” I figured my friends didn’t love my yearly game, but they all won in the end. The least they could do was bring their actual partners as planned. I wanted to admire my craftsmanship.
“More of an intervention,” Frankie says.
I look to Robin for clarity. “What does she mean?”
“You’re a vulnerability vacuum,” Frankie continues. “You run away the second anything gets real. You had to confront that sooner or later.”
The prospect is almost laughable. Almost. “June has her counseling license, so you can ask her — this is a fucked attempt at exposure therapy. Besides, I like being single. I can only be accountable for one person, and I’m already a handful.” No one protests. I need new friends.
“It may not feel like it, but this is a favor,” Anise assures me. They’re delusional.
I exhale. “Look, I know I messed up with June.”
“You broke up with her over fro-yo,” Robin deadpans.
I shrug. “She loves fro-yo.”
“Exactly.”
Accepting guilt, I raise my hands. “Fine. I didn’t think it through. I’ve learned. But,” I lower my voice, “Clark? Seriously? Did I not drag you guys to enough improv shows?”
Anise says, “He’s the encouragement. To show you how much you’ve grown.” No rebuttal there.
My throat tightens around my next words. “And Blair?”
Even Frankie falls silent. Robin finds the words first. “Like Anise said, we’re doing you a favor.”
This is betrayal. “She broke up with me.”
“You didn’t give her the chance to,” Frankie says. “You caught the train.”
“Because she was breaking up with me!”
“Was she? Plus it’s been a year, and you’re still not over her.” Robin’s honesty is salt in the wound. “But maybe you don’t have to be.”
I’ve fended off that thought for thirteen months. The odds of coming back from the conversation at the station weren’t zero, but weren’t optimistic, either. I’ve never been great at betting on myself. It’s better to cash in while you’re ahead.
The consequence is the perpetual seed of doubt. And today, everyone’s watering it.
Anise’s nose wrinkles, and they cock their head. “Is something burning?”
I curse and launch myself back inside. My security deposit is worth more than my pride. Plus these biscuits are my only hope of carbs. I open the oven and, in my haste, reach for the tray without a glove.
“Shit!” I drop the tray, and the biscuits spill around me.
June and Clark stare in my direction, but Blair’s already on her feet. She darts to the kitchen and digs through my freezer for an ice pack.
“I’m okay,” I lie, dropping to my knees to collect the biscuits.
Robin lifts me by my arm. “Hey.” She squeezes it, offering comfort. “Finish getting ready. We’ll set up the food and salvage these biscuits, okay?”
I nod, reluctant, and walk past Blair toward my room. She trails behind me. “You need to ice it.”
I pause with my hand on the door, then turn back to look at her again, avoiding her eye. The second I look at her, it’s over for me. I’ll turn to stone and she’ll have me right where she wants me.
I accept the ice pack, gripping it in my burnt palm. “Thanks.”
When I enter my room, she follows behind me. “Door open or closed?”
I flinch at the question, my pulse climbing. “You decide.” She closes it, and I’m too excited about it. Blair can’t know that, so I busy myself at my vanity, letting my hair out of its rat’s nest of a bun.
Through the mirror, I notice Blair slip into her comfortable patterns. She sits against my headboard, boots hanging off the bed. The sight twists the dull knife of déjà vu. She points at my snake plant across the room. “Is that the same one?”
I smile despite myself. “No.”
I’m pretty sure she laughs first, but it’s hard to tell. We both fall into a fit of giggles. “They’re so hard to kill!” she insists.
“Tell that to the plant.” I face her. “It’s not my fault it was so high-maintenance.”
She quirks a brow, finding a challenge in what I said. “You could stand to be a little more high-maintenance.”
Chewing the inside of my cheek, I head to my closet and ask, “Who’s to say I’m not?” The corner of Blair’s grin twitches, and I flick through my clothes to find her favorite dress. Two can play at this game. Her pupils dilate at the green velvet number, and I swear, for a moment, she glares. I lay it down, begin to pull up my shirt, then look at her. Expectant.
She doesn’t flinch. “I’ll turn around if you want me to.”
I hold her gaze for a beat before pulling off my shirt. Blair’s eyes trace over my torso toward my chest. I struggle to maintain my composure. If I’d had any heads up, I would’ve worn a nicer bra. My hands tremble as I lower my sweats to my ankles. Her stare follows.
Slipping the dress over my head, I have no idea where she’s looking. The thrill of that bubbles in my chest. But when I pull it down, our eyes lock.
“Zip me?” I turn around.
Refusing to look away, she gets to her feet and circles around my bed to me, like a lioness prowling toward her prey. She grips my waist with one hand and uses her other to pull the zipper up. Taking her time, she drags her middle finger up my spine. My ears ring.
Then, she uses both hands to spin me toward her, our faces mere inches apart. Her warm breath — the familiar hint of spearmint — brushes across my forehead. Her eyes drift to my cheek. “You’ve got—” She licks her thumb and drags it along my skin. I nearly pass out, but steady myself by holding her eye contact like a challenge. She holds the finger up. “Flour.”
“Figures,” I breathe out.
At the station, Blair said she wanted more — needed me to open up more — but I didn’t know where I could find “more” to give. Now, it seems, she’s determined to draw it out of me. Crack me open with manicured hands and a lip-glossed smirk.
I stare at her thumb and grind my teeth to keep me tethered to this plane of existence. This is why exes shouldn’t be in the same zip code, let alone room. She tilts her head down, and I glance at her hands, then back into her dark eyes.
Her gaze falls on my lips. It’d only take one more inch to remember how she felt. Tasted. What it was like to be wanted by her. Temptation puppets me, leading me to her, but my brain catches up with my body too soon. I jump back.
She glances down and away, anywhere but at me.
I shake my head to reorient myself, bringing my hand to my chest to make sure I’m still breathing. “I should get back out there. I’m hosting, and all.” I brush past Blair back toward the door.
“You’re running away again.”
Her words hurl into my gut.
The second I hand myself back over to Blair, wrap myself back around her finger, I give her the chance to hurt me again. I had always been the one to end things. It’s easier to get over what you can control. And after that moment at the station, when I felt my stomach drop and heart follow after one sentence, I resolved to keep it that way. So I bite my tongue and walk out the door, choosing my pride. Again.
Blair swallows her own, catching my hand. “Clarke, will you just–”
“Ready to eat?” Robin’s smile falters when she sees our faces. She holds out the basket of biscuits from her spot at the table. My usual seat. “Frankie managed to grate the worst bits off.”
“My hero,” I grumble. Blair drops my hand and beelines to the seat between Frankie and Anise. Cursing every higher power that can hear me, I slide down in the chair right across, sandwiched between June and Clark. I glare at Blair, then ask, “Can you pass me the gravy?”
Leveling my stare, she does, her fingers grazing mine in the pass off. Despite my best efforts, I’m still ignited by her touch.
The rest of the table comes alive, everyone stacking their plates with a traditional Thanksgiving spread. Anise makes small talk with June, though Frankie doesn’t even look Clark in the eye when he asks for the butter. I almost feel bad for my exes, roped into this elaborate scheme to murder my ego. Except for Blair. By the way Robin smiles, darting her eyes between the two of us, she was always part of another plan.
“The turkey smells awesome, Clarke,” Robin says.
“Thanks. I ordered it from Costco.” I take a long sip of wine.
“Smart enough to know your strengths,” Blair chimes in.
I shake my head with a tight smile. “What can I say? I was raised on Lean Cuisine and canned chili. It’s not my fault I have the largest apartment.”
“Do you remember that year you burnt the cranberry sauce?” Robin laughs.
I lower my head into my hands. “I didn’t know liquids could burn.”
“Is that the year you met Drew?” Robin points to Anise.
They nod, lips pulling into a grin. “Sure was.”
“And Travis,” Frankie says. She looks at our confused expressions. “The Northwestern grad who talked about game theory for two hours and thirteen minutes. Not that I was counting.”
“Travis Walsh?” Clark perks up. Frankie nods, a little too excited to see where this goes. He beams. “He’s in my troupe!”
Sarcasm at the ready, Frankie slaps her hands on the table. “You don’t say!”
“Small world,” he notes.
I snort. “Actually, that’s just River North.”
“Clarke, you used to live in River North,” June says.
“I’m capable of change.” I glower at her and take a bite of the burnt biscuit.
Blair shrugs. “Could’ve fooled me.”
I meet her eyes, heat rushing up my neck. People love to say the line between love and hate is blurry, and that’s especially true for exes.
Robin looks between us and clears her throat. “Why don’t we go around and share what we’re thankful for? I’m thankful for–”
“I have changed,” I say. The emotions of the day were the flint, but Blair lit the match. “Just not how you wanted me to.”
Robin adds, “Maybe another icebreak–”
“You think you’re better off because you can walk away from your feelings?” Blair pushes. She’s testing me and knows it.
Embarrassment warms my cheeks more. “I’ve actually gotten into jogging, so.”
“Deflection,” June sighs.
Clark nods. “She does that a lot.”
“Okay, hold on now.” I hold up one hand to each of them on either side of me.
“Care to finally share what you’re feeling?” Blair asks, glass to her lips.
Her smug expression revs my pulse, and I jump to my feet, shoving the chair out from under me. “Sure!” I start. “I’m hungry, for one. Because the only carbs on this table are charcoal. I’m overwhelmed because my best friends thought this disaster would be a better intervention than a conversation.” Anise takes a bite of turkey, and Frankie grimaces into her gin and tonic. “And I’m flustered and angry and heartbroken because — honestly, Blair — I never wanted to see you again. I was moving on. And God knows you’re not an easy person to move on from.” My breath shortens, catching in my throat. “So yeah, sorry if I don’t celebrate when my ex walks back into my life looking like she’s ready to ruin it.”
Blair blinks at me, her face etched with a mix of emotions — the most salient being regret. I must look the same, wishing more than anything I could take those words right back.
This is why I always say too little.
I dip my head. “Sorry. I…I need a minute.”
Robin already on my heels, I bolt to my room. The two of us fall into it, and she shuts the door behind her. Her expression bears a mix of guilt and disappointment. I sink onto my bed, resting my head in my hands. “Did I really say all that?” Robin confirms my fears with a nod. “This is the price I pay for being vulnerable, Dr. Brené Brown be damned.”
My best friend eases beside me, gripping one of my hands in hers. “Never damn our lord and savior ever again. Did you ever watch her TED Talk I sent you?”
I closed the tab three minutes in. “I skimmed it.”
Robin quirks a skeptical brow. Against all odds, my shoulders shake with laughter. Hers do, too.
“I’m proud of you,” she says, filling the silence. “Maybe it wasn’t the most eloquent go at self-expression, but you did it.”
“And then excused myself like a five-year-old.”
She squeezes my hand. “Baby steps.” I scoff, but nod. She adds, “I’m sorry, by the way. You were right. Maybe we shouldn’t have opted for the nuclear option. We just thought, since you’re a nuclear person and all, that—”
“I get why you did it,” I say. “I mean, I still detest it. But I get it.”
Robin’s mouth pulls into a lopsided smile. After a beat, she asks, “Was I wrong, though? About Blair, I mean.”
Even her name sets me on edge. I close my eyes. “No. I…I think I messed up. Again, apparently.” I knew getting on that train meant the end of us — it would also mean less collateral damage. But maybe some people are worth the mess. The hurt. They’re worth wading through the murkiness until you find something solid again.
Robin stands. “Then go fix it this time.”
I shake my head. “She hates me.”
She lowers into a sorority squat to be eye level with me. “Maybe. But also, maybe not. She showed up today, after all. There’s only one way to find out.”
“Stalk her Twitter to see if she subtweets me?”
Robin levels a glare, and I put my hands up. “Fine. I’ll talk to her.” The words are still sour in my mouth, but less nauseating. I suppose that’s growth.
Frankie inches my door open, Anise peeking their head in, too.
I glare at them, but can’t blame them for eavesdropping. “I’m accepting financial compensation for this evening via Venmo, Zelle, and Andy’s gift cards.”
“Blair left.” Frankie wades past my humor to my intent. “They all did.”
Anise forces a smile. “We made them take home dessert, though!”
I stand. “How long ago?”
“Give or take, four minutes,” Frankie says.
“Shit.” Blair takes the brown line. A train comes every six minutes. I turn on my heel, not bothering to grab my coat, and rush toward my fire escape the real estate listing called a “balcony.”
I step outside and am reminded that, despite my ambitions, it’s still winter in Chicago, and no god complex can change that. The cold air whips across my face, piercing every pore on my body. Why did I opt for a revenge dress? I should’ve taken the high road — namely, a turtleneck and jeans. Snow clumps in my hair, matting it to my face.
But I care less the second I see Blair across the way at the “L” station, June and Clark lingering by her. She tugs her coat tighter around her, bracing against the wind chill.
“Blair.” My voice gets lost in the wind. “Blair!” My throat burns, but it’s worth it. She turns around, confused. Her features soften, but concern overtakes them when she notices my bare legs.
“What are you doing?” She yells back, walking up to the gate to get closer. We’re ten feet apart now. If I could jump the distance, I would.
“I’m sorry!” Standing bare, both emotionally and physically, I fight against my clamoring teeth.
“What?” More than likely, the lake breeze drowned me out — though there’s a slight chance she just wants to hear it again. But, after a year of waiting in silence, I’d tell her whatever she wanted.
“I’m sorry!” I wrap my arms around myself to brace another gust. “Please don’t make me say it again.”
When she opens her mouth, she’s drowned out by the train pulling into the station. Fear grips my muscles. Even my shivers still.
There’s a moment of uncertainty. I prepare for her to turn around and catch the train. I’d understand. Nobody would blame her. Living through this moment on the other side, I understand the full extent I messed up. The extent of what I need to make up.
But despite this — maybe, in spite of it — she takes another step toward me. A desperate laugh of relief spills out of me, and I step up to the very edge of my balcony. Despite the sub-zero temperatures, warmth nestles in my chest.
On the platform, June and Clark take a step toward Blair, even more intrigued than before. I look to June.
“I’m sorry!” The words ease a weight I didn’t know I was carrying. “I shouldn’t have been intimidated when you called out my bullshit. And I shouldn’t have ruined frozen yogurt for you — I didn’t ruin it, did I?”
June’s lips quirk into a grin. “No. I’m two punches away from my next free cup.”
I return her smile and look at Clark. “I’m sorry I broke up with you over text the night you flopped your new standup routine. I should’ve waited until at least the next morning.”
He lowers his head toward me in resigned approval, rolling his eyes.
I look to Blair, wiping a sheet of snow from in front of my eyes. I want to see her. I’ve wanted to see her every day for thirteen months. “I’m so sorry I got on that train. I’m sorry I never called. I’m sorry that sometimes I forgot to reply to texts and fell asleep while watching movies together and didn’t clear the dishwasher.” Blair’s grin grows with every passing apology. It fuels me. “And I’m mostly sorry it took me this long to say it, because I already lost thirteen months with you, and I’m not willing to lose any more. I can’t pretend to feel nothing when I feel everything for you.”
Blair beams. I wait for her to say something, anything, to let me know I’m not alone in this. That she also regrets every second we’re not together. And she does the best possible thing she could — she points to the ground below.
I don’t care if my landlord sends me a passive-aggressive email. I scale the fire escape down the two stories and hop to the ground.
“Clarke!” Robin calls out from my floor and throws down my coat. I barely catch it, but gratefully shove it on. That’s a little win compared to the look on Blair’s face when she peels out of the “L” station, her lips spread wide and nose red. It takes all my self-control not to throw myself at her. She also employs restraint, stopping inches away from me.
“Hey,” I breathe out.
“Hi.” She grabs my bare hand in her gloved one. She leans in with a subtle smirk. “Can you say that all again? I couldn’t hear you over the train.”
For a moment, I think I might faint. But she laughs, and that feeling bleeds away. She cups my cheek, then pulls me in. She doesn’t care that my lips are chapped and icy. She shoves her mouth on mine like there’s no other choice.
And like exes do, we fall back into it.
It’s familiar yet refreshing. My chest explodes with flurries, and my senses the cold dulled come alive. Her lips are as soft as I remember and still taste of Smith’s Rosebud Salve.
She sets her free hand on my waist and pulls me even closer. I melt into her, desperate for every ounce of her heat. I intertwine both my hands with hers. When she pulls away, I gasp in icy air. Finding old habits, I lean back in, but she stretches away with a smile.
“Want to catch the next train back to my apartment?” she asks, pulling my hand to her lips and kissing away the frostbite. Hopefully it works, for both our sakes.
I look up at my friends congregating on the balcony, watching me, then back to Blair. She waits for my answer, even though she knows it. I shrug, taking a step back toward the station but tugging her with me. “They can handle the cleanup.”
Next week on Heartbeat, get ready for a short story from Karis Rogerson, a writer in New York City.
Follow Heartbeat on Instagram at @storiesbyheartbeat for upcoming behind-the-scenes sneak peeks at Karis’ story!
Three quick things from Hannah:
If festive romance is your thing, Lindsay Lohan’s new movie, Falling for Christmas, is very cute! It is (obviously) super trope-y: she’s an heiress with amnesia who falls for a financially struggling widower with a heart of gold.
My dating advice column took a wild turn last week when someone wrote in with this question: Help! I Hooked Up With My Boyfriend’s Friend & Fell In Love With Him.
I know crypto is both boring and complicated, but! I’ve been so intrigued by the story of this crypto gazillionaire whose polycule of ten roommates in the Bahamas helped keep his company afloat until it flamed out spectacularly. Tom Brady and Gisele Bündchen were involved, too, and there’s a theory that their divorce is connected to this scandal. Who will write this novel? Free idea.
What did you think of this week’s story? Let us know in the comments below!