Anne of Manhattan by Brina Starler

Pub night out! Sat, @ Kindred Spirits, 10pm. Bring Fred.

Amusement lifting one corner of his mouth, Gil read the text from Diana that had just come in, the vibration loud enough on the library study desk to have a girl halfway down the table from him glaring. He lifted his shoulders into a shrug, mouthing “sorry,” before starting to pack up.

Bossy, D. How do you know I’m not already working the bar?

He kept one eye on the wide marble steps of the library he jogged down as he typed. It wasn’t uncommon for students to slam directly into each other on campus, heads bent over their phones, but he tried not to do it himself. Nothing like trying to explain away a black eye from walking into a traffic post—Fred would never let him live it down.

Are you?

No. BTW, the shop’s open until 12, but I can ask Fred if Lacey can close. Hit you up later.

He lasted another five minutes but paused just before ducking down the stairs to the subway, his self-preservation skills losing the battle against not being a slightly obsessed weirdo. As always.

Who else is going?

Whyyyyyy do you ask? HMMMMM??

What?

What.

YOU’RE MAKING ME GO INTO THE BAR I WORK AT ON MY NIGHT OFF, JUST TELL ME FFS.

Yikes, okay, calm your moobs. Prob not Phil, b/c night shift. A couple of my friends from Parsons. You, Fred, meeeeeeeee.

Fuck. She was going to make him ask. Somehow, Diana had always been able to look right through him and call him on his bullshit. Why he thought that would change just because he hadn’t seen her in six years, he didn’t know.

Anne too?

Yes, lover boy.