1 | borrowed courage
The dress was too red. Not elegant, deep. Just red—loud and a little reckless. A gamble to sit in, a negotiation to walk in.
I pulled at the hem, stared at the girl in the mirror, and barely recognized her. Black heavy boots. Sleeves that covered everything, while the rest of the dress covered almost nothing. Lipstick that looked like it belonged to someone braver and bolder.
Someone else.
It felt like a joke. But tonight I decided to tell it on purpose. Because wasn’t this what girls my age were supposed to be doing on a Friday night in New York?
Usually I would be home, editing layouts and drinking cold espresso. Today I probably would’ve too, if Ivy hadn’t dragged me out of my own head.
And somehow, that’s exactly what was happening.
Two nights ago, she texted me, commanding in the way only she could.
We’re grabbing Becky and going out on Friday. Come. Don’t be boring.
I didn’t have a reason to say no. Not one that wouldn’t sound like a polite excuse I told her too many times already.
So I said yes.
And now I was here, in borrowed courage and bad lighting, trying to find a version of myself that knew how to want this.
Outside, the city moved the way it always did. Fast, unfazed, a half-beat ahead of you, whether you liked it or not. I walked like I belonged.
I knew how I looked. Too blonde. Too polished. Predictable.
“An angel,” one professor called me a few years ago—a compliment, but not one that landed well in my head. The eyes always followed. Men catalogued, then approached—already writing scripts I hadn't agreed to perform. Rooms paused just long enough to decide: pretty, probably uncomplicated, definitely available.
Most days I hated it. Most days, I wanted to disappear under something quieter. Less easy to want.
But tonight—
I decided I didn’t mind being looked at.
So I let the dress cling, the boots stomp, and the lip gloss shine, like I meant to be seen.
I spotted them outside the club, near the velvet rope. Ivy glowed like she was born under club lights. Becky still laughed as if high school had never ended for us. I walked between them, trying to remember what that kind of freedom felt like.
The three of us clustered like old times, like we were still seventeen.
We didn’t stand in line, of course. You don’t in NYC if you’re a Hale. It never stopped being strange how that name opened doors. Stranger, how I wasn’t sure if it made me feel powerful or just… nameless.
The bouncer nodded. The door opened.
Inside, the air was thick with heat, dust, and a kind of desperate joy young people apparently craved.
The bass hit first—low, immediate, all-encompassing—then the light, pulsing hard enough to erase thought, forcing me to keep my eyes shut. Bodies everywhere, pressed so tight it was hard to tell where anyone started.
We pushed forward, instinctively clinging to each other.
“Girl, this is insane!” Ivy shouted in my ear. “You—in New York—look at you!”
I shouted, “I used to live here!”
“Still!” she grinned, grabbing my arm, voice cracking through the music. “Those boots—after all that Euro-minimalist bullshit? It’s sick!”
Becky leaned in, already swaying, off-balance. “You’re back-back?”
“That’s the idea!” I yelled. “After the whole PR mess with Peter—I figured I’d stay a while!”
They groaned—mock grief, dramatic, familiar.
“I can't believe he has a fiancée!" Becky said.
“Peter Hale, off the market. Tragic!” Ivy shouted with a mockery.
I rolled my eyes. “Please don’t sexualize my brother!”
They laughed. And I did too.
Because maybe this was twenty-six.
Clubs that smelled like too many yesterdays. Friends who remembered your braces. Confidence that burned bright for ten minutes and then flickered out.
Maybe this wasn’t me pretending.
Maybe it was me—trying.
Or maybe just a new version of me.
I wasn’t sure yet.
We barely made it three steps toward the bar before Ivy stopped short. One heel digging into the sticky floor, her whole posture shifting.
“Oh my God,” she whispered, clutching my arm like a scene was unfolding just for her. Her gaze had locked on something. Someone. “Speaking of eligible bachelors…”
I followed her line of sight.
Three guys stood near the bar. Tall, relaxed. The kind of men who didn’t need to compete for attention because they already had it. Casual confidence in different forms. Athletic builds, low-slung grins, shoulders that took up more space than necessary. But Ivy’s attention didn’t waver.
“Ryan,” she breathed, like the name explained everything. “That man is basically a golden retriever with abs. Someone’s getting laid tonight.”
Becky let out a half-squeal, half-laugh.
Ivy didn’t wait. She was already moving. Hips loose, hair tossed over one shoulder—going in like the magnetic pull between them left her no choice.
I had the brief, ridiculous thought that maybe this had been her plan all along, that everything up to this point had just been prelude.
Ryan lit up the second he saw her. His arms opened, not quite a hug but close enough. His body turned toward hers with the ease of someone who didn’t doubt how the night would go. No tension. No question. Just fun.
But instead of pulling her onto the dance floor, he paused. Turned back toward us, grinning like we were part of some bigger joke.
“These are my friends,” he said. “This is Jake. And Nash.”
Then Ivy—ever the chaos agent—looped her fingers through Ryan’s and tugged him toward the dance floor. She said something, and seconds later, they were kissing.
She kissed him before anyone could think, or breathe, or get a chance to look away.
No warning, just movement.
I blinked, too sober to find it cute—and suddenly we were just standing there: Becky, me, Jake, and Nash.
We shifted closer out of politeness—the unspoken ritual of strangers suddenly linked by someone else’s chemistry.
Jake reached out first, hand steady, grip warm. Nash followed, quieter, with a half-smile that looked more like observation than greeting, eyes darting briefly between Becky and me like he was already choosing who’d keep him entertained.
I didn’t know how to show it. But I’d already decided.
Jake.
Tall, maybe a few inches over six feet. Tousled dark hair, like he hadn’t bothered to fix it and didn’t need to. Rolled-up sleeves, forearms tanned and lean. Shirt just crisp enough to suggest effort; sneakers not cheap for sure, but not the kind you wear to be noticed. He looked… settled. Like he knew exactly who he was and had no interest in convincing anyone else.
Jake stepped into it like it had been his turn.
“You look like someone just dropped you into a foreign country,” he said, voice low. And he wasn’t wrong. I felt like an alien here.
I exhaled. “Something like that.”
He smiled—that small, crooked kind that made you wonder if he was teasing or flirting.
Then he reached out. His fingers brushed my wrist. Warm, barely there but impossible to ignore. My pulse jumped fast under his touch, and I wondered if he could feel it. The bass still pounded in my ears, but suddenly all I could hear was my own heartbeat, loud and stupid. His thumb traced a small circle against my skin, so light it could've been an accident.
But it wasn't.
And we both knew it.
“Need a guide?” he asked with a boyish smile—still close enough that I could feel the heat of his words on my skin.
I tilted my head, trying not to show it.
“Do you come with a map and an emergency exit strategy?”
“Better,” he said. “I come with access to strong cocktails.”
“Sold,” I replied, though my voice came out quieter than I meant.
He laughed.
We turned toward the bar—not touching, but every step beside him felt like a choice. Maybe he was the kind of man who could make me want to be that girl. Just for one night—at least.
Loosen up, Sarah.
Isn’t that what they always said to me?
Just for the thrill of it.
So I tried and with his smile it suddenly felt possible.
And the night was just getting started...
