A Test Of Loyalty

Nadia stands in the living room, watching Tara scroll again, thumbs working like they have somewhere better to be. Another night staring at that screen, and something twists in Nadia's chest. "Who is it?" she asks, sharp enough to cut glass. Tara sighs, the practiced sigh of someone who's said the same words too many times. "It's no one, babe. I'm just catching up with people." She flashes the phone at Nadia, some old friend's post about a barbecue. "See?" Nadia doesn't see. She sees every glance that lasts too long in restaurants, every late text, every laugh that feels too eager. "We get married in six weeks. You're really telling me I can trust you with strangers who DM you at 1 a.m.?" Tara stands, presses her palms against Nadia's shoulders, soft but steady. "I would never do that to you. You're it. You're forever." She kisses Nadia's forehead, like that settles it, like the argument hasn't scraped the same nerve raw for months. Three nights later the city smells like rain as Tara pushes into the cafe. Her hands smell like antiseptic from work when she reaches for the cup, and then the shape in line ahead makes her freeze. Jessie. Same leather jacket, same dark ponytail cutting between her shoulder blades. Their eyes meet in the chrome drip trays. Jessie looks like the floor dropped out from under her for a second, then her mouth curves. "Hey stranger," Tara manages. Apologies tumble out like she's been holding them behind her teeth. "That last night… what I said—I shouldn't have—" Jessie touches her arm, an old habit, fingers cool from the rain. "I appreciate it. Really. You want to sit? Coffee's on me." The offer hangs between them, heavier than any goodbye they ever got. Chairs scrape. Steam curls from paper cups. Old stories slip out easy, like they'd both been saving them for the right listener. "So who gets the ring?" Jessie finally asks, chin tilted, watching Tara's hands. Tara glances at her thumb rubbing the rim of the lid. "Her name's Nadia. Six weeks." Jessie smiles small, like the information landed somewhere soft. Then her boot nudges Tara's under the table, and the corner of her mouth lifts in a different way. "My loft is five blocks. We never finished that conversation, remember?" Tara's breath catches. The ring on her finger presses cool against the cup. Jessie says it must be fate, running into each other like this. She says it like fate can fit in the space of an afternoon. Tara feels the word "no" dissolve before she can find the shape of it. Her phone stays face-down. Six weeks stays six weeks. Outside the glass the rain goes soft, almost quiet, as if the city itself has decided to look away.