Page 46 of Changing the Playbook
“To terrible musicians,” she says, lifting her glass with a slightly shaky hand.
“To friends,” I counter, loading the word with everything we’re not saying.
We drink, and the night stretches ahead of us—full of possibility, guaranteed regret, and at least thirteen more terrible poets to endure. But she’s here, warm and real beside me, laughing at my stupid jokes and looking at me like maybe?—
No.I shut down that train of thought. Tonight, I’ll take whatever she’s willing to give. Because, right now, Sophie’s here, pressed against me in this small, electric way.
And, for now, that’s everything.
act 2
fourteen
SOPHIE
The bar has becomea pressure cooker, and I’m the lobster slowly realizing the water’s getting hot.
The place started busy, continued filling, and has now transformed into a standing-room-only situation. With all the tables full, people are now pressed against worn walls, drinks sweating in their hands, their attention focused on the stage.
My knee presses against Mike’s under the table. It started accidentally—the table’s barely big enough for our drinks, let alone our bodies—but forty minutes later, neither of us has moved. The denim of his jeans burns against mine through the thin fabric of my own.
And my phone sits heavy in my pocket. Usually, its weight means tethered anxiety—one text from disaster, one call from crisis—but tonight, it carries different ammunition, the poem I wrote while waiting for Mike. It’s raw, unfiltered… everything I swore I’d never say out loud.
“This guy’s really committing to the metaphor,” Mike murmurs.
The current performer—Frond Guy, I’ve mentally dubbed him—caresses the microphone while describing his fern’s‘sensuous fronds’ and generally making everyone in the bar simultaneously laugh and squirm.
“Pretty sure he wants to fuck the fern,” I whisper.
Mike’s beer goes down wrong. His shoulders shake with suppressed laughter, the movement vibrating through our connected legs. The tremor travels straight to my core, and I have to look away before I do something catastrophic.
Like straddle him.
In public.
When Frond Guy is done, Purple Hair reclaims the mic, her geometric earrings catching the stage lights. “Next up, we have Sophie P!”
My intestines rearrange themselves into creative knots. “Common name. Could be any Sophie.”
Mike’s eyebrow arches. “Sophie P?”
“Porcupine. Sophie Porcupine. Totally different person.”
“You don’t have to go up.” His voice softens. “No one’s keeping score.”
“Except Purple Hair. She seems very invested in the artistic process.”
“Purple Hair’s probably too stoned to remember who’s taken their turn on stage.” He glances at the host, who’s currently explaining to someone why cryptocurrency is a metaphor for late-stage capitalism. Or possibly the other way around. “See?”
“Point taken…”
“So? Backing out?”
The challenge sits gentle in his voice, wrapped in understanding, but it’s there. My spine straightens on instinct. “No. I’ll go.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” My phone feels like plutonium as I pull it out, checking the poem one more time. The words blur together, too honest, too much?—
