I'm staring at my phone, re-reading the same two lines. Is this real or am I just too drunk?

  Robert:You up for a Vain job? Anna Joyce. They want creative. Total free rein.

  Jessie notices I'm quiet. "Earth to Emma," while waving her straw in my direction.

  Dean leans in. "You okay? You look like you're about to pitch us something illegal.".

  I hesitate, which is stupid, but also not, because the idea of telling them is suddenly fraught. Robert doesn't send us Vain jobs. Robert sends us weddings with very snobbish impossible clients, abstract feedback and a low payment.

  "Why are you making that face?" She starts recording me probably for some story that will make me regret ever befriending a compulsive archivist. I'm tilted, processing information and alcohol at the same time. I hold up the phone in their direction and shake it a little.

  Dean is watching me with one eyebrow up "Is information going to come out of your mouth? Cause I can't read that"

  "Robert wants us for a Vain shoot," I say, in one go, kind of fast letting the words hang there, not quite believing them myself.

  Jessie blinks. "Us?"

  "Yeah. Vain. Anna Joyce. Creative, no strings. His exact words."

  Dean laughs, not in a mean way, but the way you laugh when someone tells you that you've won the lottery, except the lottery is actually a coupon for free dental floss. "No way. Robert? Our Robert?"

  I shove the phone at them so they can see for themselves. Jessie grabs it, eyes scanning back and forth, then hands it to Dean who reads it out loud again, for effect.

  "I don't buy it," he says. "He's setting us up. There's gonna be a catch. Like, I dunno it's pro bono—”

  "And 'creative freedom' means we're responsible for hair, makeup, location, catering” Jessie adds

  I want to argue, but I can't. Skepticism is safer. You can't be disappointed by something you never believed in.

  Dean shrugs, but I can see the wheels turning in his head. "What's the timeline? When does he want an answer?"

  I scroll down. "He said, ‘Let me know by Monday. We are booked with other projects.'"

  Jessie leans in, voice lower and suddenly serious. "What if it's real? You know we'd kill it. Our last spread got, like, a million shares. And Robert owes us for the wedding hell."

  I don't wanna start to picture myself directing Anna Joyce through a haze of high fashion and camera flashes, because it's hard to believe any of this is actually happening. It feels like a dare. Like Robert is waiting for us to chicken out, so he can say he tried. I look at Dean, then Jessie. They're both watching me.

  I scroll back to the top of the message and reread it for the fifth time.

  "Should I text him back? Like, right now?"

  Dean grins. "Duh. But don't sound desperate. Or do, actually. Maybe desperate is what Vain wants."

  Jessie claps her hands. "Oh my god, Emma, do it! Say yes! Say yes in all caps."

  I thumb out a quick "We're in. Details?" and hit send before I can second-guess it. Surprisingly Robert replies in less than a minute: ‘Great. You'll get an e-mail with the details. You guys are perfect for this.'

  I show the reply, and for a second, we're all silent.

  Then Jessie whoops, and Dean slaps the table so hard that the empty glasses jump. We're still at the bar, still drunk, but now we're drunk people who have a Vain job. Or at least, the prospect of a Vain job. Or the illusion of one. It feels close enough to celebrate.

  Jessie orders a round of shots before anyone could talk her out of it. Dean starts speculating about the theme ‘What if we dressed her up like a chess piece?'

  I start making a list in my head of every way this could go wrong. Because hope is a dangerous thing, and I'm not sure I know how to handle it. But I let myself be excited, just a little.

  The guys are just too happy, drunk planning themes. Eventually, nature calls and Jessie vanishes into the restroom. Dean gets a text from his cousin and ducks outside to call her, promising not to get murdered by the finance bros on the way.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Which leaves me alone with my phone and a sudden, invasive sense that I should check in on Daniel. I scan the bar, expecting him to be at the far end with his friend and the two regulars, but he's not there.

  I spot him closer, at the narrow service window near the kitchen, talking to a girl in a tight black tee with a messy high ponytail and glittery eyeliner. I have never seen her before, and that's weird, because I know most of the staff by name or at least by their preferred shot. She's laughing, head thrown back, and Daniel's smiling in the way he does when he's actually interested and not just being polite. It's not threatening, exactly. Not like Daniel's about to run off with a stranger, but something in the way he's holding himself makes my insides flip, like I'm missing a critical update.

  I watch for a second longer, doing an automatic inventory: new bartender, friendly, probably harmless, nothing to worry about. Ask for info later.

  Daniel looks over and notices me, then waves, all smiles. I wave back, and for a moment I wonder if he knows I'm watching him, or if he's just being Daniel, charming by default. He mouths something—"you okay?"—and I nod, too quickly.

  The girl looks over at me, then says something to Daniel. He glances back at her, shaking his head, and they both laugh. I get that unsettling feeling.

  I look down at my phone and scroll for a distraction. There's already a new e-mail from Robert, subject line: . The words blur together for a second, but I force myself to read.

  Anna's team wants initial concepts by Wednesday. There's budget for three locations, and they want YOU (all caps) to do the editing as well as the shoot. There will also be a small video for socials. NDA attached. Don't share until it's signed. Anna is ‘extremely chill.' Attached is a mood board.

  The rest is logistics: contacts, dates, a barrage of phone numbers and cryptic calendar links.

  It feels like a lot, but I let it flood me, let it push out whatever weirdness I'm feeling about Daniel and the new bartender. Work is easier. Work is quantifiable. You can measure it in deliverables, contracts, likes. I tap out a quick reply, cc'ing Jessie and Dean: ‘

  By the time I look up, Daniel and the bartender are gone. Probably back to work, or maybe she's just a float who was picking up a shift. It doesn't matter. It shouldn't matter. But I still feel it—the way my heart pinged when he smiled at her, the reflexive urge to interrogate it, to follow the thread until it unravels. I breathe out, slow, and remind myself that I don't do jealousy; it's a waste of time, and anyway, Daniel has always been like this. Friendly, accessible, a little bit too eager to make people feel special. It's why I fell in love with him.

  Jessie gets to the table. "Did you see it?" she says.

  Her cheeks are flushed, eyes wide with adrenaline or just tequila. "There's an actual mood board. Like, an actual Vain mood board and it's ."

  I nod, building excitement. "I know. I can't believe this is really happening. This wasn't in my bingo card for this year"

  She hugs me, unexpectedly fierce. "I'm so fucking proud of us."

  I let myself relax into it, let myself be held for the two seconds it takes before Jessie remembers she hates PDA and breaks the hug giggling. I wonder if she can tell that something's off with me.

  Dean barrels back in from the patio, smelling like cold air and weed, and immediately demands to see the mood board together. We cluster around my phone, heads bent together, three little moths drawn to the glow of possibility. It's a good mood board, actually. Very us—grainy, weird, hyperreal. There's a shot of a woman in a blazer eating ramen noodles, and another of a model covered in gold leaf, mouth open in a silent scream. I feel a flutter of something that might be pride.

  There's a point in every night out, when the real world catches up, and the bar lights start to feel less like a mood, and more like an interrogation room. When the music dips and the staff starts making small but pointed gestures about the remaining customers. Most of them are herding toward the door, except for a few stray couples who look like they might just sleep where they're sitting.

  Jessie and I collect our stuff, half-missing a scarf and a charger cable and not really caring, and stumble outside with Dean. The air is shockingly cold, a punch after the greenhouse humidity inside. I realize I haven't been outside for hours.

  Jessie yelps, then tucks her arm into mine. "It's Siberia out here."

  "It's almost spring," I remind her, though I'm shivering too. Dean lights a cigarette and offers us one, but we shake our heads.

  "Should I wait for your taxi?" he asks, and Jessie and I nod emphatically.

  I check my app. "It says it's five minutes away."

  Dean glances at me, “cool”. And it hits me that, for all his sarcasm, he's always the one who waits to make sure we get home. Even when he's the drunkest. Even when he has somewhere else to be.

  The three of us huddle together near the curb, pretending we're not cold. Someone's playing old salsa from a second-story window, and it floats down in little bursts. A voice sings:

  ?? Todo ha sido puro teatro… Tu actuación ha sido magistral. ??

  Jessie rests her head on my shoulder. She's not as drunk as before, but her eyeliner has started to travel, and she's giggling at things that aren't even jokes. "This is it, huh?"

  "What's it?" I twirl my arm around hers.

  She makes a vague gesture. "Everything. Like, this is what it feels like to be on the edge of something."

  Dean scoffs, but he's smiling. "Jess, you're drunk on hope."

  She sticks out her tongue at him, then laughs. "So? Maybe I am."

  "I hope we don't blow it," I say, quieter than I meant to.

  Jessie squeezes my hand. "We won't. You'll keep us together. You always do."

  I don't correct her, even though it's not true. If anything, I'm the reason we fracture sometimes.

  Our car pulls up. The driver's playing reggaeton, and the inside smells like coconut and disinfectant. Jessie climbs in first, then I turn back to Dean, who stubs out his cigarette and is giving us a mock salute.

  "Text when you get home," he says. "I'll still be up."

  He meant it, and I wonder if he knows how much that matters. Probably not. We're all a little bad at saying the real things.

  I get into the car, and the driver pulls away. The city streaks by in yellow and black, and I look back through the window as Dean shrinks into the night, hands in his pockets, looking after us.

  Jessie leans on me, murmuring about mood boards and concept lists and how we're going to crush it, and I let her voice fill up the empty space. I close my eyes and let the car take us home.