Chapter 1: The Dare That Changed Everything

I hit up a bar with my best friend for our college reunion, and before I knew it, we were deep into a game of Truth or Dare. Naturally, I managed to lose five out of ten rounds. Classic me.

The whole place was buzzing—indie rock thumping from the jukebox, neon beer signs stuttering overhead, and that unmistakable sticky-sweet smell of spilled whiskey clinging to the air. Mariah, who’s been my ride-or-die since freshman year (seriously, we survived orientation together), kept nudging me every time I hesitated, and the rest of the crew howled whenever I tried to dodge a question. It was one of those nights—where the years melted together, the past and present tangled up, and I remembered exactly why these people felt like home. God, I’d missed this.

Final round, and—shocker—I lost again. I’d already copped out with Truth five times, so the table wouldn’t let me off the hook. It was Dare or nothing.

The whole group started chanting, slapping the sticky tabletop, and even the bartender shot me a wicked grin from behind the counter. I groaned, my cheeks burning from a mix of beer and sheer humiliation, but there was no way out now, I guess. "Come on, Laur!" Mariah hollered, raising her glass. "No more chickening out!"

That’s when the red-haired girl who’d been chilling in the corner stood up. Under the flickering neon, I caught a sly, mischievous smile tugging at her lips—she paused, letting the moment hang—

"Text Mason Grant and say—get—back—together."

She sauntered closer, drawing out every word, and as she hit the last syllable, I finally got a clear look at her face. My heart did a weird flip.

She moved with this cocky swagger that totally clashed with the rest of the bar—like she’d just strolled out of an indie movie, all attitude and zero apologies. Her hair was nearly orange under the blue lights, and her eyes glinted with trouble. I blinked, trying to place her, and then—bam. It hit me like a cold splash of beer.

Sometimes you think you know what’s coming, but then you actually look—and it just knocks the wind out of you. My stomach dropped.

My jaw fell open. "Harper Whitman!" I blurted, and her grin went full Cheshire Cat.

For a split second, the whole table froze, heads swiveling toward us. Everyone knew Harper’s reputation—she was the kind of girl who could get away with murder if she just flashed that smile. I’d only ever seen her at company parties, lurking in the background, eyes sharp and knowing.

Harper Whitman: little sister of my boss, Sebastian Whitman. Ever since Sebastian confessed to me, she’s been popping up to shoot daggers my way every now and then.

Honestly, it was sort of adorable. Harper would show up at my desk, arms folded, giving me the world’s worst stink-eye, then vanish before I could even say hi. All bark, no bite—but she sure knew how to liven up a room.

Even though she always looked like she was up to something, all I ever really got from her was this almost cartoonish, over-the-top college kid energy—the kind of foolishness that only comes with being young and totally unfiltered.

She reminded me of my old dorm girls—loud, messy, but with a heart of gold. The kind who’d tape your door shut as a prank, then show up with pancakes the next morning and act like nothing happened.

"What? Can’t handle it?" Harper shot me a look, eyebrow arched.

She leaned in, dropping her voice to this fake-conspiratorial whisper. "Don’t tell me you’re scared of a little text. Come on, Evans, you’re braver than that."

I looked around our booth—everyone was practically vibrating with anticipation, some of them way too into it.

Mariah was biting her lip, barely holding in her laughter. The guys were already pulling out their phones, probably ready to immortalize my embarrassment on Snapchat. I felt like I’d just been plopped onto an episode of The Bachelor.

Resigned, I pressed my forehead, let out a dramatic sigh, and pulled up Mason’s profile. My thumbs hovered, then I typed out the dare:

"Get back together."

My hands shook a little as I hit send. It felt like the whole bar was holding its breath, waiting for the drama to drop.

He replied almost instantly:

"You broke up with me, and now you want to get back together?"

I held my breath, screen off, feeling a dozen pairs of eyes drilling into me—including Harper’s.

I could practically feel Harper’s stare trying to set my hair on fire, but I kept my face blank, refusing to give anyone the satisfaction of watching me squirm. The tension was so thick, it was like we were all waiting for someone to yell "Cut!"

My eyes accidentally met Harper’s. She instantly looked away, pretending nothing happened and coughing into her drink, awkward as hell.

She grabbed her beer, taking an extra-long sip, trying to play it cool. "So, how’d it go?" she asked, voice pitched a little too high to be casual.

A couple more message notifications buzzed. Flustered, I cranked the volume all the way down, praying nobody noticed.

Fumbling with the buttons, cheeks on fire, I blurted, "No... no reply..." Lying through my teeth and hoping no one would call me out.

The attention finally faded. Mariah swooped in to change the subject, and Harper pouted, clearly annoyed she’d been denied her entertainment but not quite bold enough to say anything.

Mariah shot me a look that screamed, "You owe me big time," then started talking up the next round. Harper slumped back into her seat, arms crossed, but I could see the gears already turning in her head.

She sank into her seat, and I let out a long, shaky breath, sinking into the booth cushions.

The air felt a little lighter, but my heart was still doing somersaults. I pressed my palm to my chest, trying to steady the wild rhythm. Nights like these always left me feeling raw—stripped bare in a way only old friends and old wounds could manage.

I met Mason back in freshman year of high school, and we started dating our first year of college.

He was the golden boy—varsity soccer, student council, the kind of guy who could charm a teacher into canceling a quiz. We clicked instantly, and by the time college rolled around, it felt like we were unstoppable. Or so I thought.

We dated for five years, and just when everyone was placing bets on us getting married, we dropped the bomb and broke up on our fifth anniversary.

The group chat blew up for weeks. Friends sent me worried texts, half-baked memes, but nothing really helped. Five years is a lot of history to unravel.

The reason? Simple: I started feeling like I wasn’t good enough for him.

Sounds dramatic, I know. But it’s the truth. I watched him soar while I felt stuck, always running to catch up, never quite getting there.