Chapter 8: In Which Friends Pry, Truth Slips, and Messages Matter More Than They Should
“You’re spiraling,” Jane said over brunch, stabbing her pancake like it had personally offended her.
“I’m not spiraling,” Lillian replied, sipping her iced coffee. “I’m just... brunching with regret.”
Jane raised a brow. “Regret named Mason?”
“He was nice,” Lillian said quickly. “Smart. Well-dressed. He didn’t talk about crypto or CrossFit. Honestly, I should be thrilled.”
“And yet you’re acting like you ghosted a rescue dog.”
Lillian sighed and slumped forward, her cheek hitting the table with a dramatic thud. “I was mentally somewhere else the whole night.”
Jane’s silence was not judgmental. It was worse: patient.
Lillian turned her head slightly, cheek still squished against the wood. “I kept thinking about work.”
“Work?”
“Okay—Oliver.” She groaned and covered her face with both hands. “God, don’t say anything.”
Jane leaned back, smiling way too smugly for someone not drinking champagne. “I knew it.”
“You don’t know anything.”
“Oh, I know enough. You’re obsessed with the way he uses commas and you think his forearms have opinions. You’re in trouble.”
“I am not in trouble,” Lillian said, trying to sound dignified with pancake crumbs on her blouse. “I am maybe... intrigued. Which is inconvenient. But not permanent.”
“Mmm.”
“It’s not. It’s like temporary insanity. A stress-related hallucination.”
“Oh, that’s what we’re calling attraction now? Hallucination?”
“It’s a side effect of fluorescent lighting and prolonged exposure to arrogant men.”
Jane just grinned and took another bite of pancake.
There was a pause. Lillian narrowed her eyes.
“You’re being quiet.”
“I’m always quiet when you’re spiraling. Why interrupt the performance?”
Lillian groaned again. “I walked straight into that.”
“You leapt into it.”
Then Jane cleared her throat. “I should probably tell you something.”
Lillian straightened, sensing the tone shift. “Why do you sound like you’re about to confess to a crime?”
“Because you might kill me.”
“Jane.”
“I’ve been... talking to Chaz. For a few days now. Okay, a week. Fine—since the bar.”
Lillian blinked. “You—wait. Chaz?”
Jane winced. “I didn’t know how to bring it up. You were so anti-Oliver, and Chaz is basically his platonic life partner—”
“Jane.”
“I know, I know.”
“No, it’s okay,” Lillian said after a beat, sitting up straighter. “Seriously. I’m not mad. I feel like a terrible friend now. You shouldn’t have felt like you had to hide that from me.”
“I just didn’t want to make things weird.”
“You dating Chaz doesn’t mean the four of us are going to double date and rent matching couple’s cottages in Vermont. I can survive. It’s not like we’re all going to be hanging out.”
Jane made a face.
Lillian’s eyes narrowed. “What was that face?”
“Nothing.”
“Jane.”
Jane hesitated, then sighed. “Chaz is Oliver’s plus one for Avery Thorn’s dinner party.”
Lillian groaned. Loudly. “Of course he is.”
“I know,” Jane said, already laughing. “I’m sorry. Kind of.”
“So what, I’ll be stuck making polite conversation while you and your tall, smug himbo flirt over wine and goat cheese tartlets?”
Jane smirked. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It is when I have to dress up and make small talk with a man who once called me simple.”
“Fair.”
“I am not emotionally equipped for this.”
“I think you are.”
“You’re biased.”
“I’m also right.”
Lillian buried her face in her hands. “This is a betrayal.”
“It’s mutually assured awkwardness.”
“I hate everything.”
Jane nudged the plate toward her. “Here. Emotional support pancake.”
Lillian took a bite. Chewed. Sulked.
And eventually... smiled.
There was something about Jane’s unfazed loyalty that grounded her. That reminded her she could survive things—bad dates, awkward dinners, office tension, maybe even complicated men with unreadable eyes.
When Jane stepped away to take a call and pay the bill, Lillian reached for her phone. She hadn’t opened the app in days.
Group Chat: A Very Austen Affair
There it was.
A notification she hadn’t tapped on all week.
She hesitated, thumb hovering over the icon. Then tapped.
---
FitzWill:
Ever feel like you’re trying to play it cool but every choice makes it worse?
The message blinked at her like a quiet dare. She stared at it, feeling the thump of her pulse in her fingers. And finally, finally replied.
---
LizzyB:
Yes. And then you start second-guessing your second-guessing, and suddenly you’re planning an escape to the Scottish Highlands.
FitzWill:
Ha. I had you down as more of a Cornwall runaway type.
LizzyB:
Too romantic. I’m in my messy era.
Which I guess explains… everything lately.
FitzWill:
Same. There’s someone. Complicated.
I didn’t expect it.
LizzyB:
Same. Again.
I thought I hated him.
But now I’m not sure I don’t just… see him too clearly.
FitzWill:
That’s worse than hate.
LizzyB:
I know. It means you can’t pretend you don’t care anymore.
There was a pause.
Then:
FitzWill:
I’m glad you’re back.
LizzyB:
I didn’t really go anywhere.
FitzWill:
I noticed when you weren’t here.
LizzyB:
I noticed, too.
---
Lillian set her phone down slowly. A soft ache pulsed at the back of her throat.
She hadn’t said his name. Neither had he.
But it didn’t matter.
Somehow, they always ended up finding each other in the dark.
---
Later that evening, Oliver sat alone at his desk—glasses on, sleeves rolled, and a glass of bourbon he hadn’t touched in nearly half an hour.
Technically, he was working. The manuscript was open on his screen, pages full of tracked changes and red margin notes. But the words weren’t sinking in.
He’d read the same sentence three times.
The office was quiet now, the kind of stillness that only comes when the world outside forgets you exist. Only the faint buzz of the desk lamp and the creak of his chair broke the silence.
He reached for his phone.
New Message — LizzyB
His chest tightened.
He opened the app.
And read.
Twice.
He didn’t smile. Not fully. But the tightness in his shoulders eased. Something settled behind his ribs—small, steady, and annoyingly hopeful.
The glow of the screen lit his face as he leaned back in the chair.
She was still here.
Still talking to him.
He didn’t reply right away.
For now, it was enough to sit in the dark and know that she was out there—typing into the void, into him, and reaching past everything they weren’t supposed to feel.
And somehow, impossibly, he was reaching back.