A Little Reckless
It was Angela’s idea.
Of course it was.
"You need a night off," she'd said, arms crossed, daring Amanda to argue. "No grading. No work talk. Just… existing. Preferably with good wine and worse dancing."
Amanda had opened her mouth to protest—to rattle off a thousand reasons why it was a terrible idea—but Angela had already pulled out her phone, thumbs flying, making reservations at a tiny wine bar downtown before Amanda could catch her breath.
And somehow, on Saturday night, Amanda found herself standing outside a place called Velvet, clutching her purse like a lifeline and trying not to bolt.
Angela emerged from the cab wearing ripped jeans and a slouchy black sweater that slid off one shoulder, a mischievous smile curling her mouth. She looked impossibly confident. Alive.
Amanda tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and forced herself to smile.
"Ready to live a little, Lehan-Canto?" Angela teased, bumping their shoulders together lightly.
"Define 'a little,'" Amanda muttered.
Angela just laughed and tugged her toward the door.
The bar was dimly lit, all low red lights and exposed brick walls. A jazz trio played in the corner, the music weaving through the chatter and clink of glasses. The air smelled like wine and something sweet Amanda couldn’t place.
Angela snagged them a small table near the back, plopping down with an easy grace Amanda envied.
"First round's on me," Angela declared, flagging down a server. "You’re drinking something fun tonight. No sad teacher wine."
Amanda rolled her eyes but didn’t protest.
Minutes later, they were sipping glasses of something dark and rich, and Amanda was laughing at a story about Angela’s disastrous attempt to build Ikea furniture without instructions.
"You don't understand," Angela said, solemnly pointing her wine glass at Amanda. "I still have three extra screws. Three."
"That’s… horrifying," Amanda managed, giggling.
Angela grinned. "Honestly, it’s part of the chair’s charm now. Like Russian roulette, but with structural integrity."
Amanda laughed harder than she had in months, the sound startling and wild in her own ears.
Angela watched her, something soft and unguarded flickering across her face.
"You should laugh more," she said quietly.
Amanda’s cheeks flushed. She looked away, swirling the wine in her glass.
They drifted into easier conversation after that, the wine smoothing out the edges between them. Talk of books, movies, childhood disasters. Angela confessed she once got banned from a mall Santa’s line for asking "too many existential questions."
Amanda confessed she used to color-code her stuffed animals by "emotional support level."
Angela laughed so hard she nearly fell off her chair, and Amanda found herself laughing too, breathless and dizzy with it.
Later, when the band switched from jazz to something slower and dreamier, Angela slid out of her chair and held out a hand.
Amanda blinked at it, heart thudding.
"Come on," Angela coaxed. "One dance."
Amanda shook her head automatically. "I don't—"
"Doesn't matter," Angela said, still holding out her hand, palm open, patient. "It's not about being good. It's about being here."
Amanda hesitated for a beat longer.
Then she set her wine down and took Angela’s hand.
Angela’s fingers curled warmly around hers, grounding and electric all at once.
She led Amanda to a tiny corner of the dance floor where a few other couples swayed, the music curling soft around them. Angela rested her hands lightly on Amanda’s hips, smiling like she wasn't scared of anything.
Amanda’s hands hovered awkwardly before she settled them on Angela’s shoulders, trying to ignore the way her skin prickled at the contact.
They swayed slowly, not really dancing so much as moving to the rhythm of the room, the wine, the closeness.
Angela leaned in slightly, voice low. "See? Easy."
Amanda swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. "You're trouble."
Angela grinned against her ear. "Told you."
Amanda laughed, breathless, and let herself relax into it—into Angela’s hands, into the warmth coiling deep in her chest.
The song wound down. They didn’t pull apart right away.
Amanda could feel Angela’s breath on her cheek, the steady thrum of her heartbeat through the thin fabric of her sweater.
For a heartbeat—just one—Amanda thought maybe.
Maybe she could lean in.
Maybe she could close the last inch between them.
Angela pulled back first, her smile easy but her eyes too knowing.
"Come on," she said, tugging Amanda back toward their table. "We’re not done terrorizing this bar yet."
Amanda let herself be pulled along, heart pounding, wondering if Angela could feel the shift between them as clearly as she did.
Later, when Amanda lay awake in bed, the buzz of wine and laughter still warm in her blood, she would replay that almost-moment over and over, wondering what might have happened if she hadn’t hesitated.
Wondering what might happen next.