Maci | The Fog

Emma whistles when she sees me, her grin wide enough to split her face.

“Damn, girl. You look hot. I LOVE the ink.”

“Thanks, Emma,” I reply, grinning back. “You look amazing as always.”

And she really does. Emma is so pretty it’s almost offensive. At 5’11, she towers over me like some kind of ethereal goddess, and she keeps joking she’s going to carry all 5’2 of me around in her pocket. Somehow, she makes it sound endearing rather than patronising. Her sharp bob, sleek and immaculate, would look severe on anyone else, but on her? Perfection. It frames her sculpted cheekbones and elegantly arched brows like a portrait, and that blood-red lipstick she wears is basically a weapon.

Against her flawless porcelain skin, it’s bold enough to stop traffic. Everything about Emma screams confidence and grace, even as she leans against the bar, laughing at Ethan. Graceful, magnetic, utterly untouchable. She’s the person who walks into a room and turns every head.

I feel like a dumpy milkmaid next to her. But then she flashes me that wide, genuine smile, the kind that makes you feel seen, like you matter. It’s impossible to feel inadequate around Emma, even when she could pass as a Vogue cover.

“Pfff, whatever, babe. We’re both hot, accept it.” She nudges me playfully, her grin softening the edge of her words. God, I love Emma.

We both turn our attention to the solo bartender, who is valiantly juggling five orders at once, when I sense someone slither up next to me. There’s no other word for it, it’s the distinct sensation of someone invading your space without permission. I turn, and there he is, Ethan, too close and far too smug. I instinctively step back, my shoulder brushing against Emma’s arm for stability.

He eyes me from head to toe, his gaze lingering on my shoulders and arms. His smirk replaced as his nose scrunches like he’s smelt something bad.

“Pity about the tattoos,” Voice dripping with fake regret. “Ruins the look.”

For a second, I’m too stunned to respond. Did he seriously just…?

Emma’s laughter slices through the air. “Pity about your personality. Ruins fucking everything.” Her tone is dripping with venomous charm, and I can practically see the words slap him across the face.

My lips twitch despite myself as I glance at her. She’s got that dangerous smile plastered across her face, her red lips curling in a way that promises violence, verbal or otherwise. Ethan falters, his smirk slipping as he visibly calculates whether she’s joking or about to annihilate him.

I decide to pile on, because why not?

“You know, you’re right, Ethan. The tattoos do ruin the look, for the wrong person trying to get close. Lucky for me, that’s not a problem tonight, or ever.”

My tone is sugary sweet, but the jab lands, judging by the way his face tightens.

Ethan’s jaw works, the muscles in his temple flexing as he visibly bites back whatever trashy comeback he was about to throw out. He knows better than to keep poking this bear with Emma by my side.

With a muttered, “Enjoy your drinks,” he slinks off, tail metaphorically between his legs.

Emma grabs my arm and drags me further down the bar, ordering us a round of shots and two obnoxiously bright cocktails.

“Fuck him,” she mutters before throwing back her first shot. “Tonight’s about us, babe.”

We clink glasses, flashing each other over-the-top grins as we down the tequila in one go, the burn spreading down my throat and settling like warmth in my chest. I chase it with the cocktail and feel the knot of tension in my shoulders unravel.

“Oh, it is on, M,” Her eyes sparkling with mischief. “We’re getting so smashed tonight. I’m talking dancing-on-the-bar, forgetting-our-names level smashed.”

“Fuck yeah, we are!” I shoot back, and she lets out a laugh so deep and unrestrained it makes me want to join in.

The second shot goes down easier, the alcohol weaving its magic. The music thumps and for once, I don’t feel like I’m on the outside looking in. Emma’s laugh is contagious and a piece of my armour peels away to let her in.

“To being tattooed and fabulous,” Emma declares, raising her glass dramatically as if we’ve just conquered the world.

“To never taking Ethan’s bullshit,” I reply, giggling as I clink my glass against hers.

This? This feels like living.

Time disappears in a blur of laughter and tequila fuelled stories. Emma’s telling me about the absolute train wreck that was her last ex, complete with reenactments. By the time she gets to the part where he couldn’t get it up because she had cooked dinner without him, I am doubled over with tears streaming down my face.

Yep, we’re tipsy.

Chris bailed early, mumbling something about “getting too wild” and needing to prep for some sunrise hike tomorrow. Lame. Ethan, unfortunately, is still lingering, a persistent bad vibe in human form. His gaze flicks to me every so often, and it’s feels like static under my skin.

Emma must sense it too, because she grabs my hand, pulling me toward the packed dance floor. The music is pounding; the bass reverberating in my chest as she weaves us through the crowd.

“I don’t dance,” I shout over the beat, already feeling the self-conscious heat creep up my neck.

Emma turns to me, grinning wickedly as she raises my hands above my head.

“You do tonight!” she yells, and then she starts to move.

Holy shit, she’s awful. Like, epically bad. Emma flails like one of those inflatable tube men outside car dealerships, but the way she laughs, completely unbothered. It’s impossible not to join her. I give in, letting the rhythm of the music guide me, swaying and laughing so hard my cheeks ache. The crowd around us fades away until it’s just us, two women letting loose in the middle of it all.

After what feels like hours, my throat is dry, and I lean into Emma, shouting over the music.

“I’m going to the bathroom. Next round’s on me!” I shove my card into her hand before disappearing into the crowd.

The hallway to the bathroom is a sharp contrast to the chaos of the bar, narrow, dimly lit, and suffocatingly stuffy. Miraculously, it’s empty. I stumble inside and as soon as my ass hits the porcelain the night hits me.

Yep, I’m drunk.

Manually breathing, I focus on the sound of the muffled music pounding through the walls. After a quick pee and some mental coaching, I wash my hands and pull out my phone. No messages. No missed calls. But I’m looking at Thorne’s last text, again.

'He suits you.'

Three stupid words. Why am acting like they’re the Dead Sea Scrolls? Giving my head a shake, I shove the phone back into my purse. Not tonight, Thorne.

By the time I’m back near the bar, I’m determined to grab one last drink, maybe some water, and call it a night. That resolve is tested when Ethan steps in front of me, his smirk already in place. He’s holding out a cocktail, the same one Emma ordered earlier.

“Here. It’s on me,” he says, his tone overly casual.

I hesitate, my instincts flaring for just a moment. He notices.

“Look,” he says quickly, his expression softening in what I assume he thinks is charm. “We haven’t talked all night, and I just wanted to apologise if my comment earlier came out wrong. You’re still hot; tattoos just aren’t my thing, is all.”

I blink at him, disbelief clearly etched on my face, the tequila gives me courage.

“Good to know, Ethan. I’ll be sure to get ‘Not Ethan’s Thing’ tattooed right across my forehead. Just for you.”

I snatch the drink from his hand and step around him before he can reply.

Emma’s at the bar waiting, her eyebrows practically touching her hairline as I approach.

“Sorry, Maci,” she says, leaning in conspiratorially. “I couldn’t stop him. He insisted on buying us both a drink and…well, they’re free drinks.”

Her unapologetic shrug makes me laugh, loud and unrestrained.

“Free booze is free booze,” I say, raising my glass.

We clink glasses with matching grins, tossing the drinks back in unison. The burn barely registers, the alcohol buzzing through my veins as Emma grabs my hand again.

“Dance floor. Now.”

Her fingers laced tightly in mine, she drags us into the throng of bodies on the dance floor. Do I Wanna Know? by the Arctic Monkeys starts through the speakers. Whoops ripple through the room and people move toward the floor. The song is electric, vibrating through the soles of my boots and into my bones.

Emma throws herself into the music with abandon, her arms in the air, giving her best impression of a stripper who’s been cursed with two left feet. It’s terrible, and I love her for it. I laugh so hard, trying to mirror her freedom and just let go.

For a while, I do. My body sways to the rhythm, the bass syncing with the beat of my heart. I feel good. Actually, good. Free, like for the first time in forever I’m not holding a piece of myself back. It’s one of the best nights ever. Twenty-five years old, and this is rare. I’m ancient and my soul has been withering from the damage, shrinking in on itself to survive.

Emma pulls me back to the moment, her hands grabbing mine as she spins me around. I try to focus on her, on her laughter, but as I stop, the world doesn’t stop with me.

The floor pitches, and I stumble, catching myself just in time. What the hell? My pulse thunders in my ears, the sound rushing like waves in a storm. My vision blurs at the edges, the room tilting and swimming, faces distorting into a kaleidoscope of colours and movement.

Emma’s hand grips my arm, steadying me, and I force my eyes up to hers. Her smile falters, and concern floods her face.

“Maci, are you okay? You don’t look so good.”

I try to answer, but the words stick in my throat. My head is so foggy, someone’s pulled the plug on all my thoughts. I manage to glance toward the bar, needing to anchor myself, but instead, my gaze lands on Ethan.

He’s watching me.

A smirk on his sweaty face. I blink hard, trying to see straight, but when I look again, he’s gone. Vanished like he was never there. Shit, I can’t tell if I imagined him.

“I need…” My voice comes out thick and slow, not my own. “I need some water. Or, I don’t know. I just, I need to go to the bathroom.”

Emma’s hand tightens on mine, but I tug away, the motion too clumsy to be convincing. I force a smile that feels lopsided, wrong.

“Won’t be long,” I mumble, the words sticking like glue.

Turning toward the bathroom, I’m wading through mud, each step getting heavier. The air is suffocating, the music too loud. My arms are disconnected, body foreign and uncoordinated.

Every time I try to focus on something it slips away. Breating is hard, coming in shallow gasps as biles rolls up my throat. Something’s wrong. Something is so wrong.

The fog in my mind thickens, and the thought claws through with brutal clarity: I don’t think I’m going to make it to the door.