For all her outward chaos, Fizzy is always on time. This punctuality, in fact, was the first hint I had that much of her “hot mess” persona is only an act. The second hint was the highly detailed list of terms her team sent me, and ever since then I’ve only ever known her to be entirely dependable. So the fact that she is forty-five minutes late to the wrap party has me worried.
And apparently, I’m not the only one. Brenna materializes at my side, her gaze fixed on the stairs leading up to the space we’ve booked at Stone Brewery for tonight’s event. The crew mills about, sipping drinks, nibbling food, chatting. But even though we’ve all been here long enough to be loud and a little rowdy, there’s an undeniable vibe that the party hasn’t yet started.
“Where is she?”
I shake my head. “Dunno.”
“Have you texted her?”
“I haven’t,” I say. And I haven’t, but not for any good reason. At least, not for any reason I can tell my assistant. I haven’t texted Fizzy because the longer she fails to appear, the more I grow worried something bad has happened to her, and the longer I put off knowing exactly what it is, the longer I can maintain my life as I know it, with sanity intact.
I become aware that Brenna has leaned over to get a good look at me at the same time I register I’m staring at the stairs up to our party space like a sniper tracking a target. Inhaling sharply, I bring my pint glass to my lips.
“You okay?” she asks.
“Fine.”
“You look a little tense.”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yep.”
“Okay, cool, because I think I just saw her walking through the restaurant.”
I bolt forward, reaching the railing in two long strides, curling one hand around the wrought iron and staring down into the busy restaurant. Almost immediately, I spot her messy bun and her bright smile as she bobs through the crowd near the bar. Everything inside me unclenches; adrenaline washes through me, hot and frantic. As Fizzy weaves through the room, she’s stopped by a woman wanting to take a picture with her.
“She’s safe,” Brenna says, again having materialized silently at my side.
“What? Of course she is,” I mumble distractedly, frowning down at where two men approach, waiting for their turn. They stand far too close.
“It’s just,” she says, tapping the back of my hand with the tip of her finger, “you’re gonna break that railing.”
I loosen my grip but don’t take my eyes off what’s happening in the bar below. Not that I should worry; Fizzy is nothing if not self-sufficient. When they catch her attention, she lets them take a photo and then politely but firmly shakes her head at whatever they ask next, pointing to the stairs. I track her the entire time she jogs up to us.
As she steps into view, everyone turns and a roaring cheer begins and then sort of… tapers off as we take in her appearance. It’s not a formal party—this isn’t the kind of event with fancy champagne flutes being carried on trays or the expectation of cocktail attire. Even so, casual Fizzy is usually more polished than most of us at our best. Today her hair isn’t just in a messy bun, it looks slept on and tangled. Her clothes look slept in, too. She looks tired and pale. Concerned murmurs shimmer across the group.
That is, until a smile breaks across her face like the sun rising, and she shouts, “I am an auntie!”
The cheers break out anew, a roar really, and everyone rushes forward to surround her. Fizzy disappears in the circle of bodies and I try to soak this moment in because I’ve been in the business long enough to know that not every crew is this tight, not every project is this magical, and when this type of chemistry exists, it’s something to be treasured. But I also know that the magic is her, that she’s taken this group of strangers and built a family. Isaac is here, Evan is here, yes—but so are Dax and Nick, Jude and Colby. Contestants who have been eliminated have come back because even if they aren’t on the show anymore, they’re still part of this thing that we all created.
I watch Fizzy hug everyone, show photos of the newborn on her phone, and the impulse to burst forward and monopolize her time takes an unexpected back seat to the pride I feel watching her command the room and be so adored. Maybe there is a way for us, after everything ends. Maybe it won’t be a scandal if we come together in a few months; maybe us falling in love won’t tank the credibility of a second season of the show. I know it isn’t true, but I yearn for her with a tight, simmering ache, this slight, scrappy, ball-busting woman who has my heart and my mind and my entire fucking body wrapped around her smallest finger.
