"You're not listening, Evie," Kenzie snaps as she slams a fresh glass on the bar. "I am listening," I say, and I let the lie sit like a coin between my teeth. "You're listening with the exact same face you had in Q4 board meetings," Kenzie says. "Blank, polite, hostage to a spreadsheet." "Then buy me another drink and we'll talk spreadsheets," I answer. I reach for the menu and my fingers fumble. The server looks at me like I'm supposed to know what I want. I don't. "Marcella," Kenzie says, using my actual name the way the rest of the world uses it: heavy and dangerous. "You came out. That already counts for a medal." A man at the end of the bar leans in. "You look like you could use company," he offers with a grin practiced on a dozen other women. I turn toward him. "I said I'm waiting," I say. He laughs like he's made a clever discovery. "Waiting for what? A call, a text, a miracle?" "All three," I say. I let the words be sharp. The bar smells like citrus and whiskey and the hope of desperate people. He reaches—slow, deliberate—toward my knee. "Hands off," Kenzie says. "You okay, love?" the man asks Kenzie, embarrassed by being called out. His hand freezes. "She said she's waiting," Kenzie repeats, louder. "That means don't touch." The man's face flushes. He opens his mouth and