I push open the heavy wooden door to Bill’s and the familiarity wraps around me like a hug I didn’t know I needed. The place hasn’t changed in years—cozy booths upholstered in worn leather line the walls. The wooden floors gleam under the soft glow of vintage pendant lights, and smoky mirrors reflect the colorful rows of liquor bottles behind the bar that’s three deep with city workers every evening. Black and white photos of old Denver hang proudly on the walls, giving the space a timeless charm that always makes me feel like I’ve come home.The air is thick with the rich scent of sizzling burgers, fresh bread, and something cinnamon-spiced from the dessert counter that usually makes my stomach grumble on cue. Today, I feel nothing. No appetite. Just a hollow ache under my ribs.
The smiling maître d’ gives me a cheerful wave. “Serena! It’s been too long. Booth’s ready.” He motions toward the corner where Mia, Harper, and Flic are already huddled together, halfway through cocktails and deep in a conversation that sounds like it might involve dramatic re-enactments.
Mia is mid-gesture, arms flailing, when she spots me. She jumps to her feet and nearly knocks over her drink. “Well, look what the heartbreak dragged in!” She flashes a wide smile, flicking her braids over her shoulder.
Harper is next, rushing me with open arms, tiny next to my height; in a cashmere sweater and skirt, she’s a walking example of this season’s must-haves. “God, we’ve missed you! You look?—”
“Don’t say it,” I warn, but it’s too late.
“—a little like roadkill,” Flic finishes, giving me a wink before her eyes soften, her expression asking me if I’m really OK. She’s wearing black, as usual—a low V-neck sweater and black jeans. Both skintight, showing off a figure that looks like she must spend hours in the gym, when I know for a fact she works too many hours running The Hay Barn to take spin classes.
Harper snorts. “In a cute, effortlessly chic way, obviously.”
“Obviously,” I throw back. “When is roadkill not effortlessly chic.”
We laugh, and I roll my eyes in mock offense, when really their banter hits me harder than I expected. Jokes and cocktails and hugs that squeeze tight are exactly what I need.
I take a seat, and Flic slides a margarita toward me. “We got you your favorite.” She leans in. “I told them to add an extra shot. Felt like you might need it.”
I smile gratefully and stir the drink with the straw before grabbing a glass of water from the jug on the table. I don’t tell my friends I’m not feeling great. They’re already worried enough. I’m sure once I’ve eaten, I’ll feel better.
Harper leans in, taking a sip of her Moscow Mule. Her face turns serious as she asks, “How are you? Really?”
The truth squeezes my throat. “It’s been hard. I miss him.” I don’t need to expand on who I mean or what happened. Through the messages flying between us, they’ve got all the details from me, and probably from Chase too, if not directly, then through Mama, Dylan, and Jake.
I hesitate, not wanting to ask the question desperate to escape, then asking it anyway because it’s killing me not to know. “How is he?”
There’s a moment of silence, then Flic replies. “He hasn’t been into the bar for weeks. Not even after games.”
All eyes turn to Harper. If we’re putting her in a difficult position by talking about her brother-in-law, she doesn’t showit. “On the surface he seems fine. He’s been showing up to dinner with weird-ass desserts and trying to act like everything’s normal. Playing silly games with Mad. The usual Chase. But it’s like he’s putting on a show. Jake says he’s never seen Chase like this. Hyper-focused on football. Not letting anyone in. Not talking about what’s going on inside his head. He said when Chase has had tough times in the past, he’s always pulled through quickly.”
“But then he’s always had Serena by his side,” Mia adds.
I blink away the burn of tears from the backs of my eyes. “I’d still be there for him if he’d let me. I… I wanted to be. But he just shut me out. I’ve messaged him too many times to count, but he never replies.” I sigh, tucking my hair behind my ears. Despite the blow dry it’s still feeling limp. “I guess I’ve been trying to accept the fact that he might not want to even be friends with me anymore.”
Flic gives a furious shake of her head. “There’s something seriously wrong in a universe where the two of you are not best friends.”
“I’m sorry,” Harper says then. “I should never have suggested the two of you fake date.”
“It’s not your fault,” I reply. “It was bound to happen at some point, right? Him and me? I mean, I’ve been in love with the guy since like forever.”
Mia gasps. “Forever, as in, in high school?”
I make a face.
“You never said,” she replies. “What about whenIdated Chase?” It’s Mia’s turn to cringe, no doubt remembering the two weeks they tried to be an item before realizing they were better off as friends.
“Killed me,” I reply honestly. “And I never said, because… I didn’t want to ruin our friendship. Which is exactly what’s happened. But even though I’m devastated, I don’t regret it.Being with Chase… even for a short time, it made me realize how bad my dating life was before. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to put myself out there again, but when I do my standards are going to be sky high.”
“As they should be.” Harper smiles then checks something on her phone. “Izzy just sent a message. She’s on her way. Told us to order her a burger.”
The server comes to take our order. The others rattle off burgers and fries without hesitation. I stare at the menu longer than I should, the words swimming a little. Nothing sounds good. I settle on a salad, a side of fries, and a sparkling water.
Izzy arrives alongside the next order of drinks. She’s glowing. Six months pregnant and her small perfectly round bump is being shown off in a tight red top, stone-washed jeans, and her usual tan cowboy boots. Her dark blonde hair is tied in a loose braid and swinging down her back as she waves a hand in greeting, weaving around the tables to reach us as the other hand rests protectively on her bump.
“Sorry I’m late! I have to pee every five minutes these days. Dylan’s threatening to buy me a travel potty.”
We laugh and scoot over to make room. Our food arrives as Izzy is mid-conversation, talking about her pregnancy. Her cravings, the weird dreams, how Dylan got emotional over a baby sock in a department store last week. The joy pours out of her. And I’m happy for her. I am. But it still stings. Izzy is living the dream I’ve never felt further from in my entire life.