Fangs, Fate & Other Bad Decisions novel Chapter 62

Chapter 62

seven o’clock rolls in like a tipsy aunt–loud, unpredictable, and wearing too much perfume.

Gemma arrived about 30 minutes ago, carrying a tote bag large enough to moonlight as a toddler’s sleeping bag, and started laying out tonight’s book club snacks like we’re about to host high tea for the Queen. If the Queen enjoyed hoxed wine, off–brand cookies, and literary gossip, that is,

I’m standing in the break room, scrubbing the same clean mug for the third time in the sink, when I catch my reflection in the side of the kettle. My under–eye circles are developing their own personalities. Between Thane, the dress, and the fact that I’m now apparently starring in my own rom–com where the male lead is an emotionally stunted control freak with commitment issues, I’m barely functional.

Gemma swings in from the reading room where she’s been wrangling folding chairs, her voice already in motion before the door even clicks shut behind her, “You look like a woman one bad plot twist away from snapping.” Then, as she thrusts another two chairs into my hands like they’re the solution to everything, she adds, “Here…channel that inner chaos into something more productive than washing clean mugs.”

fine,” I mutter as 1 adjust my grip and follow her back into the reading room.

“Uh–huh. And I’m the queen of subtlety. Just go with it. Rearranging furniture is cheaper than therapy and more satisfying than murder,” she adds as she unpacks paper plates and napkins.

I sigh, but I start shifting the chairs around anyway.

By seven–thirty, the store is alive with the kind of chaos that only comes from passionate readers hopped up on sugar and passive aggression. There are seven of them tonight, not counting Gemma who likes stirring shit like it’s a sport. They’re already deep in an argument about whether the morally gray love interest in the book of the month deserved redemption or should’ve been left to rot in a conveniently placed narrative pit.

“He’s misunderstood!” Carol argues, holding her wine glass like a torch, the ruby liquid spilling over the rim, and onto her white cardigan without

her noticing.

from her seat as she stares Carol down, “You can just ‘sad backstory‘ your way out of

“He murdered her dog, Carol!” shouts Denise, slightly rising fr canine homicide!”

Gemma leans toward me, her shoulder bumping mine as she whispers, “This is why I come. The books are fine, but the people? Five stars.”

I want to laugh. I do. And for a second, I manage it. It bubbles up unexpectedly and sharply, as if my body had forgotten it could still do that without him. But the moment fades as quickly as it came, and I’m back in my head, wondering if Thane is sitting somewhere right now, completely unbothered. Or worse, bothered but stubborn.

Gemma again tries to distract me when she whisper–asks, “Was it Martha who brought that cheap boxed rosé again?”

*She brought cupcakes,” I say, nodding toward the box on the snack table.

Without finesse, Gemma swings her head in that direction, asking. “Are they the good kind?”

“They’re frosting’s thicker than my trust issues,” I deadpan.

My reply makes her eye me before she comments, “You say that like you’ve been wronged.”

I smile slightly and shrug nonchalantly, replying, “Just my usual personality.”

By eight–thirty, the club has devolved into a collective therapy session fueled by red wine and rage.

I mostly over in the background, refill glasses, chuckle at their bickering, and watch the way these women tear each other’s opinions apart like – wolves – but with affection. I also nod through multiple conspiracy theories about plot holes and publishing Industry corruption, and smile like I

don’t feel like I’m unraveling cell by cell.

This store may be a mess, and my life may be a raging dumpster fire, but book club night? It’s a reminder that some things still feel like community.

Gemma gives me a look as she’s collapsing the folding chairs and propping them against the wall, then asks, “You s yourself tonight? You look like you might walk straight into a storm drain and call it a day.”

sure you’re okay locking up by

A few minutes later, she hugs me a brief squeeze laced with sharp affection–and promises to text if she remembers any good book puns to cheer me up. I lock the door behind her and stare out at the quiet, dimly lit street for a long moment.

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