The plan was simple: drink, dance, forget.
Alma’s idea, obviously. “We’re not dying martyrs of academia,” she’d declared, eyeliner sharp and grin sharper. “We’re young, hot, and underpaid, let’s be tragic in style.”
“Hell yeah!” Nat whooped, raising her glass.
So that Saturday night, Abbie found herself in a club downtown, surrounded by Alma, Francis, Nat, Gina, and Trevor, a swirl of perfume, neon, and bad decisions.
The music thumped, lights strobed, and the air tasted like vodka and sweat. Abbie didn’t love clubs. Too loud, too close, too alive. But she’d learned to like them. Nights like this were loud enough to drown out memory.
Alma had already pulled everyone to the dance floor, laughing wildly as she spun strangers around. Abbie followed, nursing her second vodka, sharp, clean
