Chapter 49 Don’t
The chorus came back— hey, what’s good, finally, damn she’s real— laughter rolling over her like a wave.
Tyler squeezed her waist once— reassuring— then leaned down to her ear again. “See? Not so bad.”
Maggie tilted her head just enough to meet his eyes. Her smile stayed fixed— perfect, practiced— but her voice came out low, only for him. “Ten minutes. I'm leaving after that.”
“Ten minutes,” he echoed, thumb brushing her hip. “I got you.”
She nodded once— sharp— then turned back to the group, smile widening into something brighter, more convincing.
Inside her chest, the bass kept pounding.
But she stayed. For now.
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'AN HOUR LATER'
The VIP section pulsed with its own heartbeat— lower lights, deeper bass bleed from the main floor, the clink of ice in glasses cutting through laughter like glass shards. Burgundy leather sectional curved around a low glass table littered with half-empty Casamigos bottles, lime wedges curling brown at the edges, and three phones face-up, screens lighting chins in blue-white flashes. The six guys sprawled across the seats like they owned the place— Dre with his dreads pulled back tight, gold grill catching every strobe flicker; Marcus nursing a whiskey neat; Jay leaning forward elbows on knees, gesturing wildly mid-story; the twins, Caleb and Corey, mirroring each other’s lazy grins; and Tyler at the center, long legs stretched out, one arm slung casually along the backrest behind Maggie.
Maggie sat rigid beside him— knees pressed tight together, cream sweater sleeves tugged over her hands, ponytail slightly frayed from the humid air. She’d been silent for the last twenty minutes, staring at the ice melting in her untouched soda while the conversation swirled around her: basketball trades, some professor’s impossible curve, a party last weekend that ended with campus security. Every few minutes she delivered a small, deliberate jab— shoulder bumping Tyler’s arm when he laughed too loud, elbow nudging his ribs when he talked over someone else. Each time Tyler paused, glanced at her with that half-apologetic, half-amused smile, then dove right back into the story.
The latest shoulder bump landed harder than the others— enough to make Tyler’s drink slosh. He broke off mid-sentence— “So then the ref calls the tech and—” and turned to her. His brows lifted, smile faltering for a split second.
Maggie stared straight ahead, jaw set, lips pressed into a thin line.
Dre noticed. His eyes flicked between them, then he leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Yo, what’s going on between you two?”
Tyler’s smile snapped back into place— soft, easy. “Nothing.” He reached over, laid his palm over Maggie’s hand where it rested on the leather beside her thigh.
Maggie yanked her hand away so fast the motion made a small slap against the cushion. She folded both arms tight across her chest, gaze fixed on the table’s edge.
Dre’s eyebrows climbed. He took a slow sip from his glass, ice clinking. “It’s something by the look of things.”
“It’s nothing,” Tyler repeated, voice tighter now. He glanced around the table— awkward smiles from the others, Jay suddenly very interested in his phone, the twins exchanging quick looks. Tyler cleared his throat, tried to pick up the thread again. “Anyway, like I was saying, the ref—”
Maggie’s elbow drove into his left side— sharp, controlled, just enough to make him flinch and squint. His breath hissed out between his teeth.
Dre set his glass down hard enough that liquid sloshed over the rim. “I’m done with this.” He rolled his eyes, leaned back, arms spread along the backrest. “What’s all this, bro? If you can’t control your bitch, she’s gotta go.”
Maggie’s head snapped toward him. Her eyes widened— shock flashing into fury in half a heartbeat. “Excuse you?” Her voice rose, cutting clean through the music. “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?”
“You, bitch,” Dre shot back, unapologetic, leaning forward so the table light caught the gold in his teeth. “You been poking at him all night like what's wrong with you?”
Maggie’s chest heaved once. She turned to Tyler— eyes blazing, waiting.
Tyler sat frozen, mouth half-open, gaze darting between her and Dre. He said nothing.
Maggie scoffed— loud, sharp, the sound cracking like a whip. She shook her head slowly, ponytail swinging. “I don’t blame you,” she said to Tyler, voice low and trembling with controlled rage. “I blame myself. For letting you convince me to come out with you. My friends have been warning me about you. I’ve been the one turning a blind eye to every red flag, hoping you might change.” She pushed up from the seat in one fluid motion, knees knocking the table hard enough to rattle bottles. “No more.”
Tyler’s hand shot out— fingers closing around her wrist. “babe—”
She wrenched free so violently his arm snapped back. “Don’t.”
She turned on her heel and strode toward the stairs— shoulders squared, steps deliberate. The group fell silent behind her; even the bass felt quieter for a second.