Page 76 of Love Me Stalk Me
I hesitate, considering the offer, the tension in my shoulders easing at the thought. The idea of salty chips, tangy lime, and Amanda's unfiltered commentary sounds like the perfect antidote to this awful day.
Like exactly what I need—to get out of my head,to spend time with someone who knows me and loves me anyway, to eat and drink and forget about Evan and work and all the complications of my life, just for a few hours. To laugh until my sides hurt, to feel normal again.
But also, after today, all I want to do is curl into bed and pretend I don't exist. To wrap myself in blankets and disappear from the world, at least until morning. To process everything that happened, everything I learned.
And maybe talk to Caleb.
I immediately tell that part of my brain to shut up. To stop going there. To stop thinking about how hand felt on my back, the way his eyes softened when he looked at me, the way he shared his own pain to make me feel less alone.
Except that wasn’t Caleb.
That was Callahan.
Jesus. I did it again. Ikeepdoing it—blurring the lines between the code and the man. Between the fantasy and the flesh.
The AI is a distraction, nothing more.
Amanda sees the hesitation in my expression, reads it with the accuracy of someone who’s known me for years.
“Don’t even think about bailing,” she warns, pointing a threatening finger at me. The obscenely large diamond on her index finger which she proudly bought herself catches the light as she gestures. “We are getting drunk. We are eating our weight in chips. We are talking shit about your ex.”
"We haven't broken up," I correct automatically, the words hollow even to my own ears.
"I said what I said," she replies, crossing her arms over her chest, raising an eyebrow in challenge. Her expression dares me to contradict her.
"Fine," I mutter, already feeling a small spark of anticipation despite my exhaustion. "But you're buying the first round."
Amanda claps her hands together, victorious.
"Yes! Okay, get ready, bitch. We are going out tonight."
SOMEONE BETTER MOP THE FLOOR
IZZY
Amandaand I stumble into the bar, already cackling, the neon glow buzzing around us. The place is packed with Friday night revelers, bodies pressed close in that familiar weekend ritual of escape and celebration. Music thumps hard enough to rattle the ice in my drink, vibrating through the floor and up into my bones. The bass line provides a steady backdrop to conversations that grow louder as the night progresses, everyone competing to be heard over the noise.
I am 100% committed to drinking just enough margaritas to forget today ever happened. The memory of Evan's humiliating comments, Monroe's leering, and my unexpected emotional breakdown in front of Cal—all of it needs to be washed away with tequila and lime.
Amanda, ever the professional bad influence, orders us a pitcher to start. Her credit card slaps onto the sticky bar top. The bartender—bearded, tattooed, and clearly appreciative of Amanda's low-cut top—nods and gets to work, lime juice splashing, ice crackling in the blender.
And that's how I find myself—one oversized margarita deep, salt crusting on my lips, tequila warming my veins like liquid courage—confessing something to her that I probably shouldn't. The alcohol loosens my tongue, washing away inhibitions I normally keep firmly in place.
"I haven't had sex with Evan in... a while." The admission slips out between sips, surprising even me with its candor.
Amanda, mid-sip, practically lights up like a human firework. Her eyes widen comically, margarita frozen halfway to her mouth. "Define 'a while.'"
I wave my hand vaguely, the motion sending my drink tipping dangerously close to the rim. "Long enough that I have zero desire to start again." The words feel surprisingly freeing, as though naming this truth aloud has released something long trapped inside me.
Amanda gasps like I just told her I renounced men altogether.Her perfectly glossed mouth forms a dramatic 'O' of shock. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"
"I'm saying that if he tries to touch me, I feel actively repulsed." I take another gulp of my drink, staring at the salt rim like it holds answers to questions I'm just beginning to ask myself. The tequila burns pleasantly down my throat, warming my chest. "Like, full-body cringe."
Amanda slaps the table so hard that our drinks jump, droplets of margarita splashing onto the worn wooden surface. "YES. Welcome to your feminist awakening!"
I snort, nearly choking on my drink. The carbonation bubbles up my nose, making my eyes water. "That's not?—"
"No, listen." She points at me like she's about to deliver a life-altering TED Talk, her finger hovering inches from my face. "You're realizing you don't need a man to get you off. You've been choosing yourself over his mediocre dick. That is growth. That is power. That is breaking free from the patriarchy."
