CASS

The thing about endings is they sound better with music.

A saxophone played soft and slow near the hostess stand when Mara said, “I don’t think we should keep… whatever this is.”

Her hands lay flat on the linen like she was steadying the table—or herself. The kind of calm that comes after a decision you’ve practiced in the mirror.

I swirled the ice in my glass, studied the ceiling. “Because I didn’t text back fast enough?”

“Because you don’t text back twice,” she corrected, a wry smile tugging at her mouth. “And because you left at two in the morning and called it an ‘Irish goodbye, but with kisses.’”

“That’s not even accurate. I said ‘Dublin Dash.’” I pressed a hand to my chest. “My wordplay is the only thing I take seriously.”

She laughed, then caught herself—like she’d promised not to. People do that around me. Forget, just for a second, that they came to draw a line.

The server dropped the bill. I reached first. She didn’t argue. When you’ve dated long enough in the city, you learn the choreography of clean exits: no fights, no loops, no paperwork.

“I did have fun,” she said, smoothing the napkin in her lap. “You’re… easy.”

“I’ve heard the opposite.” She rolled her eyes. A win, considering I was losing the rest of the night.

Her phone lit up. She checked it, then slipped it away. “And for what it’s worth? I like the name.”

I paused, pen hovering. “What name?”

“Cassandra.” She tapped the corner of my card where the machine had printed my full government humiliation. “It’s pretty.”

I made the kind of sound that only people with regrettable birth names make. “It’s Greek.”

“Like the myth.” Fold, fold—her napkin became a square. “Prophet of doom. Fitting.”

“Wow. Dragged by folklore.” I signed and slid the leather folder back to the edge. “Take care, Mara.”

She kissed my cheek—because we were adults, and because I made breakups painless. Then she was gone.

Three rules. Hygiene for the heart:

Rule One: Never stay. Beds are for sleeping—I own one at home.

Rule Two: Never text twice. If it needs saving, a conversation wouldn’t help.

Rule Three: Never repeat. Same person, same trap.

Call it efficient. Call it cowardly. It works.

The hostess stopped by with the receipt copy and my card poking out. She was new—I’d have remembered the silver ring through her thumbnail.

“Here you go, Mr. Westcott.” She gave me the look people give when they recognize you but haven’t decided from where. “Want your copy?”

“Save a tree.”

Her eyes lingered on the name. “Cassandra,” she read, careful not to laugh. “That’s… nice.”

“My mother’s fault,” I said. “She loved tragic women and unique baby names.”

“And you go by Cass.”

“Mercy for Starbucks baristas everywhere.”

“Shame.” She slid a napkin toward me. A name and number in perfect block letters. “Tragic men make for good stories.”

I pocketed it because I’m polite and, apparently, a cliché.

Behind her, Eli lifted a hand from the bar without turning. He does that—lets me come to him. Never pulls the leash.

I took the long way: past the band, past a couple arguing quietly, past a mirror that always adds five pounds of regret. Eli had claimed two stools like territory—one empty, one occupied by his broad-shouldered, don’t-start-with-me presence. His hair was doing the thing where it tried to be respectable and failed in an expensive way.

“Did you do the decent thing?” he asked as I sat.

“As defined by who?” I nodded at the bartender. “The Pope? My therapist? The comments?”

“Decent’s universal.” Eli sipped his club soda like it had personally offended him. “You cut it clean?”

“Clean as a whistle.”

“Whistles aren’t clean. Saliva tubes. Ever seen a slow-mo video—?”

“Why are you like this.”

The bartender slid me a whiskey and a look that said: no bringing the internet here tonight, please.

“To endings,” I said, clinking Eli’s glass before taking a sip.

Eli scanned the room over my shoulder. He’s subtle about it—thinks that makes him better than me. “So. Friday’s open?”

“Stream.”

“Saturday?”

“Also stream.”

He smirked. “The Church of Cassanova.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“You branded yourself.”

“They branded me.”

“The ‘they’ being ten thousand people online who send you animated hearts and ask about your jawline routine.”

“It’s SPF and hydration.” I drank.

We let the saxophone scold the room in peace. Eli’s got this thing—he makes silence feel like a third party at the table. No pressure to fill it.

“You going to text Mara?” he asked eventually.

“I said ‘have a good night’ when she walked out. Mutual nod. No punctuation. Rule Two.”

“Rule Two is cowardice in a tailored coat,” Eli said. “You hide behind laconic like it’s armor.”

“Use words like laconic in public and you’ll start attracting men in tweed.”

He smiled. Then turned, elbow on the bar, body angling like he was about to say something real.

“You know what I think, Cass?”

“Oh boy.”

“I think you need to stop breaking girls’ hearts before one of them breaks yours.”

I spun the rocks glass, watched the last cube drown. “Eli, that can’t happen. No one can break me.”

“Everyone falls in love, Cass.”Eli said. “ It’s like gravity. Like fact.”

“Gravity’s optional if you never jump.”

“You don’t jump. You hide.”

“Semantics. That thing called love? Not happening.”

Eli tilted his head. “Want to bet?”

Of course he’d turn feelings into a wager. I didn’t answer. He tapped the bar—twice, like a starter pistol.

“One year,” he said. “I bet that you will fall in love within a year"

“And if I don’t?”

“My Porsche keys go home with you.”

That earned him a grin. “If I win, I am getting your baby?” I said, just to hear him say it.

“My baby’s all yours. Deal.”

I stared. Eli doesn’t bet the Porsche. Ever. “What’s in it for you?”

“Nothing,” he said, too quickly. “I’ll be perfectly happy seeing you in love.”

“Bullshit.” I leaned in. “Really—what do you want?”

He shrugged. “Since you insist: if you fall in love, you owe me a favor.”

“What kind of favor?”

“I’d prefer to leave it… ambiguous.”

I studied him. Then the sweat ring under my glass. Then the bar, which suddenly felt like a stage.

“Fine. But the favor expires a year from today.”

“Bet,” he said, stretching out his hand.

We shook. The bartender slid two clean napkins down like we’d just signed a treaty.

I leaned back, warm from the whiskey and the wager. “So what—pick someone and speedrun heartbreak?”

“You’d try to make it easy,” Eli said. “Which is why you don’t get to pick.”

But I was already scanning—habit. The room shimmered with half-lit stories: couples, loners, a loud table that screamed office happy hour gone rogue. My eyes caught on a brunette seated across from us, alone. Brown eyes like a dare. There was a pull. I didn't say it. I didn’t have to.

She noticed me looking.

Didn’t look away.

Dangerous.

I moved on—blonde on the left, big laugh, engineered neckline. My usual type. My usual exit strategy.

“Nah,” Eli said, tracking my gaze. “No blondes. You’re trying to play it safe. Not get attached.”

“Easy is efficient.”

“Efficient is lonely.” He tipped his chin toward the room. “I’ll pick. And she’s not going to be some random girl at the bar.”

I drummed my fingers on the wood. The wager thrummed under my skin.

“Fine,” I said. “Dealer’s choice.”

Eli raised his glass, all smug satisfaction.

The night, very politely, held its breath.