Chapter 1
After the Last Call
An introduction
Every bar has a last call.
At The Last Call it comes at a quarter to one, when the lights come up over the long walnut bar and the brass goes gold and everyone who has been pretending all night suddenly has to decide who they’re going home as.
Most people never notice the man at the end of the bar. The one on the same stool he’s had for years, with a smoked Old Fashioned and a lazy smile and a different girl every night. The one who always says yours and never mine.
And most people never notice the girl behind it. Not really. The one with the purple in her hair and the grey-green eyes, who can make a drink bloom from midnight blue to violet in your hand. The one who smiles at every stranger and has told almost nobody why she crossed an ocean with one suitcase.
He noticed.
That was the first mistake.
What happens when the girl who has sworn off leaning moves in with the man who has never once let anyone stay?
At first, it’s sticky notes on a fridge. A pineapple sweet left by a kettle. Six bottles of sparkling water rolling across a kitchen floor. Two strangers learning each other’s mornings, one good morning at a time. A rule, written in careful capitals:
I don’t go into yours. You don’t go into mine.
This is a story about the last call, and what comes after it.
About what happens when the lights come up and there’s nowhere left to hide. About confessions that come too late, and some that come far too early. About doors that stay closed, and one that finally opens. About the fights you only have with someone who matters. About the difference between being looked after and being seen.
It’s about two people who stopped believing in happy endings a long time ago, and learnt, the hard way, to trust only friendship.
It’s about what they’ll risk to keep it.
And what they’ll lose if they do.
