Dedicated to Vee—because she read ALL THE PLOT & approved of it & pushed/encouraged me to do this when I wasn't super sure. You're an amazing friend & I'm super grateful to have you in my life! ♥

♥

♫ I'll never get over
Never get over not getting under you ♪
(Nick Jonas—Under You)

Coralie slammed the glass so hard on the counter, a bit of foam toppled over and splashed into the bowl of peanuts and trickled onto the customer's greasy, dirty hands. "Thanks, but no thanks," she said, extending her hand. "Cash or card?"

The drunken fool slouching on the barstool smirked as he dished out a few bills; but the other drunken idiot beside him slapped his hand.

"I-I got it, man," he thrust his sticky debit card into Coralie's palm, "keep that change for her tip." There was a certain malice to his tone, like he'd poisoned the money and looked forward to seeing her skin turn blue later, when pocketing said tip.

She rolled her eyes at the crumpled, damp wads of what she assumed were ones, and winced as she wrapped her fingers around the card. "Are you starting a tab?"

Both drunken morons moseyed off without answering her, so she swiped the card and charged a few other patrons with it, as revenge for their crudeness.

Calling me Queen Elsa—real fucking original.

"Was that necessary?" The delectable yet disdainful voice of Delilah came from the back-room. Appearing at the threshold, the overhead lights flickering over her tanned skin, she flipped her luscious raven locks to one side. "Come on, Cora." She huffed as she marched over to the sink and started rinsing off a wine glass. "He wasn't that rude, he just asked for your number."

"And I didn't want to give it. Staying celibate, remember?" Coralie groaned as she spun and leaned against the register, staring out into the abyss of cocktail-drinking debauchery. "What are you doing here?" She attempted to mimic the famous Delilah hair-flip; but her shorter and less than obedient ice-blonde curls instead fell over her sweat-slicked forehead. "Didn't you quit?"

"I did." Delilah set the glass down and grabbed a fistful of the foam-soaked peanuts, elegantly slipping them into her mouth. "But I told Rog I'd stop by for my last check, and you looked... overwhelmed."

Coralie peered out at the blurs of pink and blue and crimson-colored hair cramping before the counter. Vibrant green wristbands whizzed up and down, swishing and fist-pumping to the sick beat. Several sets of glazed eyes stared back at her, reminding her why some nights she hated living in the ever-spontaneous, ever-eclectic city of San Francisco.

"Please tell Rog to never host another night like this."

Delilah's high-pitched giggle pierced through the blaring techno music. "What, you don't like the DJ?" She licked her baby-pink glossed lips as she gaped across the way at the podium where DJ Drew's booth was set up. "You don't like his remixes?" She bobbed her head to the rhythm, but her wrinkling nostrils gave away her own displeasure.

Coralie tapped her shoulder. "Get out of here, before Rog sees you. He probably left your check in his office." She twirled to the register and took a deep breath of the perspiration and alcohol imbued air. Most nights she enjoyed her bartending job, but on these nights, she wished she were in her Lower Pacific Heights flat, tucked under the covers, clutching her notebook while listening to BANKS.

The Swirled Lady was usually one of the most "hip" spots in the Financial District. But when the owner, Roger, improvised to boost sales, it transformed into a slippery-floored, dimly lit, make-out-in-a-corner prom dance-party. College boys—like the two who had tried to ask her out—slumped at the counter demanding cool, crafted beers. And girls with their tits hanging out of their tops requested violet-hued cocktails with names Coralie couldn't even pronounce.

Was she too old for this scene? Everyone said that the thirties were the new twenties, but Coralie didn't feel it. She'd turned thirty a few months prior, but instead of getting better, her life took yet another turn for the worse. As if she hadn't had her fair share of crap in the past few years.

Half expecting her obsessive, manipulating, clingy ex-boyfriend Jayden to be hiding in the throng of partiers, she squared her shoulders and twisted to the patrons, readying herself for another idiotic request.

"What do you—" she froze, eyes widening as the man before her smiled, taking her in, his features so clear and calm compared to the tranced dancers nearby.

"Coralie?" His hazel gaze sparked with interest as he relaxed his posture and sank onto a vacant stool. "Is that... is that you?"

She sensed her cheeks heating as she nodded. Of all the people to waltz into her bar, it was the guy she'd had a slight crush on in her early twenties, when part-timing at one of the prominent start-ups in SoMA.

He had the same wavy chestnut mane, the same dimpled smirk, the same punk-rock t-shirt and ripped shorts style as before. And the same glow swiping over his face as he watched her.

"Michael, hey," she said, biting her lip and averting her gaze. "Fancy meeting you here."

Fuck. That was stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

She imagined the two inebriated idiots from earlier were studying her now, preparing to hurl their preppy beers at her, wondering why she hadn't been so nice to them.

"I had no idea you worked at this bar," said Michael, resting an elbow on the liquor-coated counter as he angled closer. His voice was the same sweet melody that had inspired a handful of Coralie's crushing songs. The same docile tremor that had kept her thinking she should have mentioned she was attracted to him back in the day.

"Yeah, been here for a while, now." She batted her lashes, certain that a clump of mascara had likely stained below her eyebrows and strands of her hair stuck to her neck. "What brings you here?"

Michael scrunched his nose and glimpsed left and right before grabbing the peanut bowl. "These. I hear they're the best in town."

They'd never been so close, not even when she ran errands for his photography company or dropped his mail on his desk or ate her lunch a few chairs down from him. But here, only a counter smelling like vodka and citrus disinfectant spray separated them.

And he looked at her like he'd never seen her before, like he was trying to capture her eyes, her face, her body to memory. Was he flirting with her? Or being his usual friendly, funny self? She never could tell, even in those days, when he walked by her and spat out some hilarious comment that she guffawed at. Or when he whizzed past her in the break room, on his skateboard—he didn't believe in formal attire or formal behaviors.

"Nah," he set the bowl down and pointed at the row of rainbow liquor bottles behind her, "here for a co-worker. His photos are being featured in a magazine which by default promotes the company, so we're out to celebrate. And he asked me to order another round of who-the-fuck-knows-what for the gang." He rotated, motioning towards a few guys huddled around a table, in deep discussion.

Coralie pinched her lips.

Michael doesn't drink, that's right.

"Are they picky? I can whip up something real quick." She side-glanced at Marion and Isabela, at the other side of the bar, both handling a group of intoxicated girls being hit on by a few underage-looking guys.

Before letting Michael respond, she rotated to the shelf to her left. She snagged Jägermeister, peach Schnapps, and cranberry juice—red-headed sluts were a fan-favorite.

She spotted herself in the mirror lining the wall, and though her mascara hadn't gotten too out of control, her unfortunately too-small bra wasn't doing a great job at supporting her breasts, and it showed. So she readjusted her top and resumed mixing and pouring.

Once done, she returned to Michael. "How many do you need?"

He flashed four fingers. "And a Shirley Temple, for me?" A few peanut crumbs rested on his lips, and for the briefest of moments, she imagined herself licking them off.

No... no boys. No kissing. Not for a year.

She and Jayden had broken up only four months ago, so she wouldn't let this cute and intriguing guy take her off the market so soon. She had to at least attempt to last six months—and that alone would be a record.

After concocting his Shirley Temple, she seized a tray from under the counter. "You're all set." She deposited the drinks and grinned at him, sensing heat sprawl from her chin to her temples.

The DJ's new song was so loud it thrummed in her scalp and sent uncomfortable vibrations down her spine, and she wasn't sure he'd heard her.

But he grinned back, and pulled the tray to him. "Hey." He dug into his pocket and handed her two twenties—and his iPhone. "Would you put your number in there? I feel like we should catch up, or something. We haven't talked in years."

As she grasped the bills, she stared at the phone, her jaw about to drop. She almost said we never really talked and almost blurted out that she hated iPhones and had no clue how to use them and almost screamed that no, she couldn't give her number because she had to stay celibate. Yet her mouth wouldn't move. Something within her urged her to take the device and press the buttons on the screen and save her digits in his contacts.

"Sure. Let's chat."

He winked, shoved his phone into his pocket, and took hold of the tray as if it were light as a feather. With a quick nod, he scurried off to his friends, disappearing behind the crazed dancers.

"Nice," said Delilah, coming out of nowhere and startling Coralie with a not-so-subtle hip bump.

Regaining her balance, Coralie sighted Delilah's hot-pink high-heels and clicked her tongue. "Is it Mission night?"

Fixing her ruby halter and pulling on the golden necklace she wore for luck, Delilah shimmied side-to-side, swaying to the tunes. "Don't wait up." She kissed Coralie's cheek and shuffled out from behind the bar, squeezing by a gathering of dazed dudes who ogled her perfectly proportioned ass in her perfectly sized jeans.

Checking her own ass—which was delightful, all her exes and former hook-ups had promised her—Coralie picked up a rag and wiped down the counter.

"I never do."

***

As she fished out her keys and shuffled into her and Delilah's dark, incense-infused apartment, Coralie sighed. She could barely feel her legs and her arms were sore from all the bottle tipping, glass handling, spill cleaning moments of the night.

She flipped on the switch by the door and collapsed into the knitted blanket covering the velvet couch a few paces away. The softness of the fabric soothed her as her eyesight adjusted to the light and fixed on the framed picture of the Golden Gate Bridge hanging above her.

She'd begged Roger to let her leave at midnight, but midnight had come and gone, and next she knew it was one-thirty, she had a raging migraine, and the sight of anything bright blue or purple made her want to vomit. The party-goers complained and stumbled out as Roger screamed at the DJ for going over his allotted time; a typical Saturday night.

She considered staying right there, in a curled position on the cushions, with her shoes dangling off her feet and her head pressed to the soft pillow, when her phone pinged.

It wasn't the sound she usually received from comments on her YouTube videos—that was more of a chime. And it wasn't the chirping Twitter notification, or the quick beeps for Instagram.

No, this was from Facebook—and at this hour, that had to mean a message from someone back home. In London.

A million different ideas scattered throughout her brain. Her grandma, maybe? She'd recently learned how to send messages on Facebook and tended to forget about the eight-hour delay. Or it could have been Bella, her estranged best friend who liked to forward funny memes at all hours of the day and night. A tiny slither of her begged for it to be Benjamin, her first love, that she'd tried to stay in contact with since they broke up after she moved to California for college. She always hoped he'd say something about her songwriting or praise her voice, or even that he'd claim that he'd discovered it first.

But when she unlocked her phone and the screen lit up, she felt herself slipping off the couch. She'd have been less surprised to see a message from her anti-social media ex Victor, or even her very first boyfriend, Frederick. Hell, she'd have expected stupid Jayden to have found a way to communicate despite being blocked from her profile. But this person, and these words, were the most unexpected, impossible option.

The simple yet resonating sentence was in response to a story she'd posted earlier that day, when sharing a song she wrote. It was video of herself asking her friends to go support her on YouTube; nothing new.

Ryan Bennett: You're still as beautiful as before, Cora.

She held her breath. Ryan fucking Bennett? Six foot two hunk of a male with the funniest jokes and the wittiest comebacks? God-like man with light brown skin and eyes like the ocean? Delicious specimen of muscle and brains and fancy suits and shirts unbuttoned to show the top of his chiseled chest? Dreamy father of two gorgeous girls and husband to a gorgeous supermodel wife, living in London... where Coralie had left him twelve years ago?

Ryan Bennett, her former best friend, her confidante, her long-lost fantasy—her one that got away.

Immediately, she dialed the first number she could think of, forgetting that the recipient was likely having mind-blowing sex with one of her current conquests somewhere in some ridiculous condo overlooking the Financial District.

"Love?"

On the other end, Delilah grunted at the use of her middle name. "What the fuck, Cora—"

"Ryan messaged me. On Facebook. Ryan." Coralie propped her legs up against the couch and rested her head on the carpet, breathing in and out, wishing she hadn't stopped the meditating exercises her mom had taught her.

"Ryan?" Delilah moved about—as if pushing someone off her—and moaned. "Wait—Ryan... as in RyRy? Who lives in London? The one you have wet dreams about because in some parallel universe you think you two are meant to be or some shit?"

"Yes," Coralie cringed atDelilah's rudeness, "RyRy. He said I was beautiful. Ryan saidI was beautiful."

♥♥♥