Page 1 of Sparks Fly

1

Addison

It was Friday night.

I was fucking exhausted by the time I got home from a long day at work. My last showing ran later than I thought, and honestly, I was dangerously close to canceling my plans. Not to mention, the week had been hell, filled with back to back showings, clients who ghosted, and a steady drip of passive-aggressive emails from Lilly about wedding planning.

My phone had buzzed earlier with another one, subject line: Re: Florals (Again) and I hadn’t opened it because I didn’t need to. I already knew there would be a spreadsheet attached, color-coded within an inch of its life, with comments like “Per my last email” and “Thoughts???”

Lilly and I had been best friends since we were seven, and I swear I love my best friend, I really do, but if I had to choose between peonies and roses one more time, I was going to commit actual homicide with a spool of ribbon. We’d been planning for over a year, and I really thought that with only three months until the big day, we would have entered a less stressful phase. That the major decisions would be finished and Lilly would stop changing the floral arrangements. But shit, was I wrong.

So to say I was spent with everything that was going on right now was an understatement, but it was my brother’s 38th birthday and I promised Benji I would come to his party. If anyone deserved to be celebrated, it was him. He was my one constant, the person who had never let me down, never let me drown in work or hide behind politeness.

So, I stood in my bedroom and stared at myself in the mirror like I was trying to remember how I had gotten here. The high-neck silk blouse, tailored skirt, and nude pumps felt like a uniform that clung to me like a second skin at this point.

I peeled it off until I was standing barefoot in the middle of my room in just a bra and underwear, the quiet pressing in around me. It felt like stepping out of a costume I’d forgotten I was wearing.

I swear sometimes my whole life felt like I was cosplaying as this polished, picture-perfect version of the Addison everyone wanted me to be. The one who kept her hair perfect and her smile controlled. Who dated nice men my parents approved of and didn’t ask herself questions like, “Am I happy?” or “Is this really how I want to live my life?”

That’s why tonight I wanted to feel like myself, the real me I only let exist on nights like this. Nights with Benji in too loud bars with people who didn’t care how much money I made, or what I wore to charity events. With zero seating charts or real-estate listings in sight.

I pulled on dark jeans and a black cotton tee, then debated a pair of boots for a split second before reaching for the red heels instead. I liked the way I felt in heels, powerful. I looked good in heels and I knew it.

I pulled on my black leather jacket last. I only wore it on nights out like this. It was too bold for work and too edgy for Sunday brunch. I ran my hands through my hair and spritzed perfume onto my collarbone, then took one last look in the mirror.

I still looked curated, but closer. It wasn’t like I was expecting anyone to really look, but I was open to being noticed. I really wanted to be able to be more myself. No labels yet, but something had shifted, and even if I hadn’t said it out loud to anyone else, I knew who I was, and I didn’t want to deny it anymore.

I wasn’t straight. I’d known that since I was young enough to notice people. I didn’t know exactly what that meant. Well, not fully yet, not neatly, but I was done pretending I didn’t feel it. I had suppressed it for longer than I cared to admit, because Addison Hart was the perfect daughter.

I took on that role at nine. I had to.

Benji needed me to.

But it was time to start embracing the not-so-perfect. Going out tonight wasn’t just about showing up for my brother. It was about showing up for myself for once.

* * *

The bar was warm and packed when I arrived, dim Edison bulbs strung across wooden rafters in a queer haven that felt safe. Country music played from a jukebox in the corner while laughter and chatter rose and fell around me.

I paused near the door for a moment, letting it all catch up to me: the noise, the crowd, and the life of it all. I hadn’t been out in weeks, and my body had forgotten how it felt to be surrounded by people who didn’t need me to sell them something or be the perfect maid of honor.

I spotted Tiff first. She was perched at the bar with a glass in one hand and a shit-eating grin aimed at Blake, the owner of the bar, who stood behind the counter mixing drinks with practiced ease, a rainbow pin on their apron. Beside Tiff stood Rowan, all dimples, soft flannel, and kind eyes.

I smiled as I made my way over.

“Look who it is,” Tiff called out when she saw me approaching, lifting her glass slightly. “Boston Barbie in the flesh.”

“Shut up,” I said with a laugh as I wrapped her in a quick hug. “You look cute.”

“I am cute,” Tiff said confidently as she passed me a glass Blake had just poured. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

Tiff and I met five years ago when I sold her brother a house. We’d been inseparable ever since. She’s the one person, besides Benji, who knows me at my core.

“Barely,” I muttered as I took the tequila soda and leaned against the bar. “Between clients from hell and Lilly’s wedding, I was five minutes from faking a cold and going full ghost.”

“God, the wedding,” Tiff groaned, rolling her eyes dramatically. “How’s the bride-to-be?”

“Type-A and on the edge,” I said as I took a sip. “I got a color-coded itinerary last night for the bridal shower.”