Friday Reset
By eleven-thirty at night, Gwendolyn Darcy had somehow reached the stage of heartbreak where she was comparing herself to a twenty-six-year-old influencer through kitchen lighting and half a bottle of pinot noir.
The girl’s name was Claire Sommers.
Claire Sommers had glossy dark hair, tiny gold rings on every finger, beach photos in Greece, and an engagement ring currently occupying Gwen’s entire phone screen.
Gwen stared at the photo from her kitchen counter while eating cold dumplings straight from the takeout container.
The wine bottle sat beside her laptop. Already open. Already low enough to stop pretending it was “just one glass.”
Adrian looked happy in the photos. Not guilty, not conflicted—just easy, sun-lit happy.
Her apartment was in its usual post-work collapse: laptop still glowed from the dining table beside tomorrow morning’s unfinished campaign presentation, laundry basket vomiting clothes near the couch, one work heel by the door and its partner God-knows-where.
She kept scrolling.
Claire had posted a carousel.
The first picture was the proposal itself. Adrian on one knee somewhere near a vineyard at sunset. The second was Claire crying prettily into both hands. The third was a close-up of the ring.
Gwen hated that she zoomed in.
Not because she wanted the ring.
Because she wanted proof he had terrible taste.
Unfortunately, Adrian had apparently developed excellent taste after ruining her life.
Her thumb moved before she could stop it, clicking into Claire’s tagged photos, then Adrian’s profile, then an old picture from three years ago where she and Adrian were still together.
Gwen stared at her own face for a long moment.
She looked younger there.
Not physically, exactly. Less tired around the eyes and... hopeful.
The sound of her phone buzzing against the counter startled her.
AKIRA: u alive?
GWEN: physically yes
Three dots popped up right away.
AKIRA: good enough what are we spiraling about tonight
GWEN: nothing
Gwen snorted, a little too loud. She glanced back at Adrian’s face, then at her own reflection in the dark kitchen window. She was thirty-two with a good job and decent skincare. Still somehow the woman who gave seven years to a guy who wore beanies indoors. The wine glass sat empty beside her, doing its quiet job.
The phone buzzed again.
AKIRA: wait omg are you back on the documentary ex’s page
GWEN: He’s engaged
Thirty full seconds passed.
AKIRA: oh okay that’s actually psychotic of him
Gwen laughed. Not because it was funny, but because hearing somebody else call Adrian psychotic felt weirdly comforting.
AKIRA: come tonight
GWEN: No
AKIRA: please everyone there is mentally ill but like… in a hot way
GWEN: That sentence should get you canceled
AKIRA: gwen i’m serious. you need actual human interaction before you become one of those women who starts a podcast after heartbreak
Gwen looked around her apartment, at the wine bottle, at the cold dumpling, At Adrian smiling beside another woman like he hadn’t once spent years acting allergic to commitment.
Then she looked at the clock.11:42 p.m.
The wine had loosened something just enough. Fine. Whatever. She could at least leave the house.
GWEN: What do i wear to this heartbreak anonymous
AKIRA: OH MY GOD whatever you’re wearing is fine you’re not getting recruited into a cult
GWEN: that sounds exactly like what cults say
Moth & Flame looked exactly like the kind of place where someone got emotionally devastated over acoustic music.
Warm lights glowed behind fogged windows while late-night customers lingered downstairs with laptops and half-finished drinks. Music drifted faintly through the glass.
Gwen stood outside for almost two full minutes, the cold air had sobered the buzz in her head.
People passed behind her on the sidewalk. A couple walked by laughing. She immediately hated both of them.
Her phone lit up.
AKIRA: upstairs btw if you leave without coming in I’ll genuinely curse your bloodline
Gwen sighed and shoved her phone into her coat pocket.
The staircase to the second floor creaked under her boots. She could already hear voices upstairs. Laughter. Someone arguing loudly about texting an ex. She almost turned around.
Then a woman’s voice drifted through the half-open door.
“If he says he’s ‘not emotionally available’ but still watches your stories in under three minutes, that’s definitely sending mixed signal…”
Arguments erupted inside.
Gwen signed.
Okay. Maybe slightly interesting, she thought.
She pushed the door open and nine people looked at her immediately.
Jesus Christ.
For one horrifying second, nobody spoke.
The room itself looked unexpectedly cozy. Old couches and armchairs crowded around low coffee tables littered with mugs, fries, cocktail napkins, and mozzarella sticks. Warm amber lamps cast soft light across exposed brick walls covered in local artwork.
The people looked even more intimidating somehow because they all seemed comfortable already.
A blonde woman in a camel coat looked Gwen up and down with sharp interest.
A ridiculously handsome man sitting cross-legged in an armchair offered her a sympathetic smile.
A guy wearing a beanie lifted a hand lazily in greeting while eating onion rings.
And near the center of the room sat a brunette woman.
“Gwendolyn Darcy?” she asked.
Gwen nodded, maybe a beat too enthusiastically.
“I’m Cara Whitmore. Glad you made it.” Something in Gwen loosened slightly at the lack of weirdness in her tone.
Cara tilted her head toward an empty spot on the couch. “Sit wherever. We’re discussing emotional crimes.”
Gwen sat carefully. The guy next to her immediately slid a basket of fries toward the middle of the table to make room.
“Lucas Bennett,” he said casually.
She glanced at him. Up close he had messy brown hair, a faded denim jacket, and kind eyes. The type of face that became more attractive the longer you looked at it instead of all at once.
“Gwen Darcy.”
“You looked like you almost bailed three different times on the way up,” he added, studying her for half a second.
“I did.”
“Respect.”
A laugh slipped out of her too quickly.
Okay. She was definitely still tipsy. Lucas noticed it too. Not the laugh specifically. Her.
