Lucky Day E-Book

Chuck Tingle

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 360

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

A statistics professor tries to a survive a series of gruesome and impossibly unlikely disasters linked to a supernaturally lucky Vegas casino, while dealing with her own erasure as a bisexual, in this chilling and quick-witted horror novel. Vera, a bisexual statistics professor, is one of the survivors of a global disaster of a new kind – the Low Probability Event. What should have been a simple family lunch turns into an absurd catastrophe raining fish, parade balloons, exploding manholes and brutally violent animal attacks. Washed up the aftermath, it's only when the handsome, but problematic, government agent Layne knocks on her door that she is offered a glimpse of meaning to life. Layne is investigating the Low Probability Event, and believes the deadly absurd events may be linked to an improbably lucky casino. As they hit the road to try and make sense of the meaningless chaos of life, only one thing is clear – what happens in Vegas isn't staying there…

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Cover

Also by Chuck Tingle and Available from Titan Books

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Impossible’s Doorstep

Monkey with a Typewriter

Charred Babel Library

Lucky Sevens

The Deep Stack

Head Like a Hole

Loose Ends

Butterfly Hunting

Hungry

Number Station

Heads and Tails

Oblivion

Poker Face

Strange Attractors

About the Author

Also by Chuck Tingleand available from Titan Books

CAMP DAMASCUSBURY YOUR GAYS

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Lucky Day

Trade paperback edition ISBN: 9781835415313

Black Crow hardback edition ISBN: 9781835417201

E-book edition ISBN: 9781835415320

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First edition: August 2025

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© Chuck Tingle 2025

Chuck Tingle asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

EU RP (for authorities only)eucomply OÜ, Pärnu mnt. 139b-14, 11317 Tallinn, [email protected], [phone]

Designed and typeset in Bembo Std by Richard Mason.

BEFORE I’m fully aware of my physical self—before I understand who or what or where I am—I reach out into the darkness. It’s a primal movement of comfort, not desperate or worried, just reflexive.

Connection is what we’re built for, and while this assertion may sound spiritual at its core, it doesn’t have to be. Whether a patch of mold crawling over tile or a pack of hairless apes starting a fire, biological organisms thrive by working together. It’s no wonder, then, that as a bodiless, floating thing, my first instinct is to hunt for someone else.

My hand finds nothing but empty sheets. The warmth I’m expecting is mysteriously absent, and this broken pattern does more to jerk me back into focus than any horrible, buzzing alarm clock ever could. Something is wrong. The rhythm of my life has shifted.

I reach a little deeper into the abyss, driven to hunt the cool, clean ocean of this vacant space. “Annie?” I sigh, stretching my body across the bed.

She’s not there. My eyes pop open.

Chirp!

I’m greeted by the sound of my phone alarm, a single, piercing digital beep. It’s short and efficient, customized so that I won’t wake my girlfriend with a full round of the traditional rattling xylophone, but it appears today this effort is for naught.

My eyes scan our dimly lit bedroom. Despite Annie’s absence, everything else is as it should be. A faint glow illuminates the blinds to my left, the brand-new day slowly churning itself into existence. Our shelves are organized, the wood floors are freshly mopped, and today’s workout fit sits waiting for me on a nearby hanger.

My jaw hurts from a long night of grinding.

“Annie?” I call out, a little louder this time as I find my voice.

My mind leaps back through time, struggling to remember any particular morning that she woke before I did. I’m the one who gets up before dawn and walks across the park, then jogs home. I’m the one who makes our coffee. I’m the one—

A faint shuffle in the living room quells my panic, and moments later a familiar figure steps into the bedroom doorway. My whole world nudges back into alignment. Annie is always a hell of a sight, but this morning her short and messy blond hair feels especially playful, and the constellations of freckles that cover her face seem even more pronounced. She leans against the doorframe and cocks her head to the side, just gazing for a moment. It’s the perfect amount of time to let me know that she’s thinking something and choosing not to speak it, but her mischievous smile is a strong hint that whatever it is would make me blush.

“Good morning,” Annie finally coos.

“What the fuck is happening? You’re up before I am?” I joke. “And you’re dressed?”

“Yes ma’am,” Annie confirms. She hesitates, then laughs, momentarily shifting gears. “I can’t believe you sleep like that, Vera.”

I glance down at my rigid pose. While one arm has extended into the empty space where Annie usually rests, the other is tight against my side. I’m lying perfectly straight and flat on my back like a corpse in a coffin, my feet pointed at the ceiling.

I say nothing, consciously relaxing the tightness of my body.

Annie is clad in her workout gear, which consists of a ratty old Cocteau Twins tee with the sleeves cut off and light blue short-shorts that look like they belong on a ’70s track star. It’s chaotic and fun, like her, and it shows off the sway of her body as she saunters toward me.

“Need some help loosening up?” Annie asks. “There’s all kinds of things we could do before your morning walk.”

As she reaches the corner of the bed she drops to her hands and knees, exaggerating the movement of her hips. She crawls across the blankets. Unfortunately, as great as Annie looks in this position, my eyes have already moved slightly lower.

“Shoes!” I snap, pointing at the chunky white sneakers on her feet. They’re caked in dried mud, soles worn down and laces fraying.

Annie lies flat, stretching out so that her feet stay hanging off the edge of the bed. It’s just enough for her lips to meet mine, the two of us holding for a long, warm kiss. Despite the slightly awkward position, we take a moment to breathe each other in, then finally release.

“Later,” I say.

Annie nods. “This is your day,” she reminds me. “Whatever you want.”

It is my day, and as much as I appreciate the gift of Annie doing her best type-A impression in solidarity, what I’d really love is for everything to stay the same. My peace is in the pattern.

“I wanna go for my walk,” I inform her.

“Well, I’m ready,” she proudly announces, standing up again.

I follow her lead, climbing from the tangled blankets. I change into my sleek, charcoal gray workout gear and slip on the running shoes I’d laid out side by side the night before. My jet-black hair is just long enough to pull back in a tight ponytail, clean and manageable. This takes four attempts to get perfect, but the finished product has absolutely no strays.

None.

Annie retreats to the kitchen as I make the bed, taking my time to perfectly crease every edge and tuck in the sheets. I also spend a moment with some water and a paper towel, scrubbing down two faint smudges on our floor where Annie’s filthy running shoes briefly trod.

“I only schedule half an hour for this,” I remind her as we step out onto our front stoop. “We can’t take long.”

“I know, Vera,” Annie patiently confirms, thankfully more amused than annoyed by my incessant programming. At this point in our relationship, that’s a goddamn miracle.

The morning is brisk, but the slowly rising sun already feels pleasant and warm against my skin as we set out on our trek. We head down our front steps then take a sharp turn on the sidewalk, tightly packed apartments and town houses finally giving way to wide open space as our block reaches the edge of the park.

Facing north, a glorious view of the Chicago skyline opens up before us, distant buildings looming over our quaint neighborhood square. This adorable parcel of green grass isn’t quite as impressive as the grand 1,200 acres of Lincoln Park across town, but it gets the job done.

Annie goes to cross the street when a sudden movement from the corner of my eye prompts this morning’s second instinctual reaction. Again, I reach out for Annie, only this time I manage to grab her collar and yank her back as a blue sedan comes flying around the corner with a loud screech, music blaring.

The vehicle rumbles into a nearby gravel parking lot and comes to a grinding halt across two spaces.

Anger surges within me. For the briefest moment, I consider yelling out or storming over there, but I hold myself back. Somehow, I find the balance to remember the stakes of the day. I need to stay focused and pick my battles.

One action I do take, however, is to pull Annie a little closer. I slip my arm around her waist as we make our second crossing attempt, much safer this time.

Glancing over my shoulder, I catch sight of the driver opening his car door. The man hops out, head down and long, ratty hair hanging like a mop. An unkempt beard covers his face. Above him, a large green sign reads: POKER ROOM.

“Asshole,” I mumble under my breath, watching as the man hustles inside.

“What?” Annie asks, confused.

It’s then that I realize she’s already moved on. Instead of looking behind us, Annie’s focus is straight ahead. She’s charting our journey down a winding cement path, enjoying the lush, emerald green trees that line our morning walk.

“Nothing,” I reply, shaking my head.

“You thinking about today?”

“I wasn’t, but now I am.” I laugh.

“And you’re nervous?”

I nod. “Always.”

“Vera, you should be excited. You’ve been working on this book for so long.”

“I’m not nervous about the book,” I clarify.

Annie considers this, momentarily silent. A dog walker strolls past us. A delivery truck beeps in the distance. The city is waking up.

“You know, you can always wait,” Annie finally says. She’s extending an olive branch, being the merciful, patient, loving partner that anyone would kill to hold so close at a moment like this, and all those qualities are exactly why I can’t take her up on her offer. She deserves better.

I shake my head. “I’m doing it today.”

Annie can’t help the way my response makes her lips curl up at the corners. The grin is such a genuine display of joy that she immediately glances down, covering it up. She nuzzles her body even deeper into mine, her head pushing hard against my shoulder.

The sun has finally made its grand entrance, sitting low on the horizon and painting the sky with a streak of brilliant pink across what’s left of the night. We’ve reached a little glen at the far end of the park, a place where our path opens onto a small courtyard with some benches and a modest centerpiece fountain trickling away. This is just about where my morning walk transitions into a run.

“Look!” Annie shouts, suddenly breaking away from me and crouching down.

She returns with a grimy copper penny between her fingers, holding it up for me to see.

“Heads,” she announces. “It’s your lucky day.”

“I feel so much better about coming out to Mom now,” I state dryly.

“What could go wrong?”

When I catch sight of the penny’s date, however, the faintest sparkle of childlike excitement ignites within me.

“My birthday year,” I say, nodding at the coin.

“What are the chances?” Annie chirps, her eyes widening a bit.

I laugh, moving to press onward until I notice the expression on her face. “Oh, you actually want to know.”

I can see now what Annie’s doing, but I don’t deny her efforts. This is my day, after all, and if my girlfriend wants to pretend she’s interested in my probabilistic ramblings for the next twenty-four hours, then who am I to stop her?

“Well, the very first United States pennies were minted in 1793,” I explain. “Which was . . . two hundred and thirty-three years ago.”

“Then the odds of you finding this coin are one in two hundred and thirty-three,” Annie interjects, jumping ahead.

“Not really, no,” I counter, unable to help myself. “Most people think like that when they’re calculating odds, but we don’t exist in a vacuum. It’s not just about my birth year, because that’s only one variable. You have to factor in us going for a walk between the specific times that someone dropped this penny and the potential future when you pick it up. Also, some years they produced more pennies than others. The fact that we’re near a fountain probably bumps up the odds significantly, since people toss coins in, but you also have to consider the fact that older pennies are taken out of circulation. On the other hand, the popularity of financial apps and payment services has led to a steep decline in physical currency, which means even less coinage, which means a lower probability of finding small change, and I’m sure the fact that we’re in a metropolitan, tech-savvy area only amplifies that effect.”

I could go on, but I fumble when I notice the checked-out look on Annie’s face. She’s trying her best, forcing a smile and nodding along out of kindness and encouragement, but I’m smart enough to see through it.

“Let’s just call it one out of two hundred and thirty-three,” I offer, my love just enough to numb the discomfort of this approximation. I take the penny between my thumb and pointer finger, then draw it in for a better look.

Annie accepts. “I’m just impressed you knew the first pennies were minted in seventeen-ninety-whatever.”

“Ninety-three.”

“Yeah, that.”

“I used to collect coins when I was little,” I explain. “It kinda got me into numbers and probability. There was this book that told you which ones were rare and why. I had a whole collection.”

“That’s very cute,” Annie says. “Are you about to tell me we have a million-dollar quarter tucked away in our closet?”

I shake my head. “Mom made me spend them. Said it was a waste of time holding on to spare change instead of thinking about real money.”

“How old were you?”

“Five.”

Annie is silent.

“I had these little gold star stickers,” I continue with a laugh. “I’d put them on all the coins in my collection. That way, I’d know which ones were for keeping and which ones were for spending.”

My girlfriend’s expression falters. Her gaze is no longer one of mind-wandering absence, but dialed-in intensity. “Are you fucking with me?” she asks.

“I don’t . . . think so?”

Annie grabs the coin from my hand and turns it around, shoving it back in my face so I can see what’s on the tails side.

It takes a moment to understand what I’m looking at, but when my eyes finally finish negotiating with my brain I feel an odd sense of disappointment wash over me. On the back of this penny are the barely visible remnants of what appears to be a sticker, the shape eroding over time but leaving a faint white residue. It’s been worn down to just three points now, but it certainly would appear that long, long ago, a full gold star was here.

My face scrunches up without my permission, brow furrowing and jaw tightening.

I’m vaguely aware that my reaction is unusual, and this suspicion is confirmed by Annie’s rapidly souring expression. She clearly expected me to burst with excitement, like I’d just witnessed the prestige of some decades-long magic trick.

That’s not what happens, though. Annie understands that a coin returning after all these years would be rare, but I doubt she has a grasp on just how rare that would be. I can’t bring myself to use the word impossible, because technically speaking it’s not correct (and technicality is my specialty), but the scenario she’s laid out is certainly standing on impossible’s doorstep. These odds are something to be measured in orders of magnitude, not ordinary numbers.

Suffice to say, where others might see a miracle, I see yet another moment when I’m forced to be the asshole who rains on everyone’s parade.

“That’s not mine,” I tell her flatly.

“Are you kidding me?” Annie shouts, throwing her hands up. “A gold star!”

“I’m sure other people have put stickers on pennies.”

“This is your exact sticker,” she cries, opening my hand and shoving in the coin, then manually closing my fingers around it.

I shake my head. “It’s almost unquantifiable how unlikely that is,” I inform her. “You don’t understand.”

She just stares at me, pouting.

“This is literally my job,” I remind her.

Annie finally breaks. “You are so annoying,” she says, rolling her eyes. She leans in and kisses me, quickly untying all the tension I’ve been cultivating. “You’re lucky we’re celebrating your book today.”

“Are you gonna make me keep this stupid penny?” I ask.

“Up to you,” she says, kicking back into gear and continuing past the fountain. “Let’s go.”

“That’s my line,” I counter. “I don’t know how I feel about you being this on the ball.”

“Just wait until tomorrow!” Annie calls back. “I’ll sleep until noon and have cold pizza for lunch!”

As Annie continues ahead I hesitate, staring down at the coin in my hand. Taking in this little round piece of copper, I picture its hypothetical journey over the years, imagining it riding in other pockets and dancing through countertop change jars just to return to its rightful owner by some incredible, surreal coincidence.

I suppose there is a little magic in that idea, but wonder is hardly the emotion creeping through me. Instead, I can’t help the unexpected sense of dread that’s slowly twisting my stomach into knots.

Annie is getting farther ahead by the second, so without another moment’s hesitation I toss my lucky penny into the fountain.

I don’t make a wish.

*   *   *

Gazing into this mirror, most folks would see a twenty-seven-year-old woman in a slick, well-tailored blazer with a stark white button-up underneath, the fabric neat and pressed and perfect in a way that’s so subtle it barely registers. They’d see a professional.

The secret is simple enough, just taking that little bit of extra time to steam and iron my clothes even if they don’t appear to need it—especially if they don’t appear to need it—because the details matter.

My dark hair is cut sharp at the shoulders, so precise it makes my typically rounded face seem slightly more angular. I like this because it makes me look, not better in a broad sense, but neater.

Anyone who burst into this restroom would find a woman who has something figured out, defying her youth and becoming a force of nature, or maybe some elemental force of success, years before she’ll reach her thirties.

Statistically, I’m way ahead of the curve, and I should give myself a little praise for that, but instead my mind is unable to tear away from a runaway tuft of hair at the top of my head.

What they see is a badass self-starter who’s already made a mark and will only rocket higher from here; what I see is an awkward cowlick.

I turn on the faucet and get my hand a little wet, then reach up and press down this renegade tassel jutting playfully from the edge of my razorlike center part. I push gently at first, then harder when this doesn’t do the trick.

A bit more water seems to help, but by the time I’m satisfied with my hair I glance down to find that my perfect white shirt now features an awkward splash across the front.

“Fuck,” I snap, my hazel eyes going wide.

I glance around to discover there are no paper towels left in this tiny restroom, so I’m forced instead to hurry over to a hand dryer. I slam the shiny button with my palm, producing a loud metallic clang followed by the roar of hot air rolling across my chest.

I pull out my phone and note the time. We’re still on track to order food by noon, but not by much.

Once my shirt is sufficiently dried, I turn back to the mirror and start the whole process again, checking my hair but also my makeup. I admire my shirt’s crispness for a second time, as well as the smooth, fashionable fit of my skirt. The starkness of my outfit looks good against the dark green floral wallpaper behind me.

I intentionally loosen my jaw, which I’ve been clenching so tightly that I actually notice a faint ache in one of my back teeth.

Whether it’s your fit for a book launch party, or a penny traveling around the country for two decades just to end up at your feet, every little thing matters. It’s a cosmically grand truth to consider, but the longer I let it marinate, the more terrifying it gets.

I turn and leave the restroom with my shoulders back and my expression playful. From around the corner I can hear my friends chatting excitedly, their voices cascading over one another in the joyful din of this hip Chicago diner.

“Well, where the fuck is she?” someone calls out, teasing and enthusiastic despite the biting words.

I exit the hallway and throw my arms open in an exaggerated gesture to mark my return, my sudden appearance prompting a cheer from the table of my dearest friends.

“There she is!” comes another eager voice, that of my buddy Kevin who’s seated at the far end.

I can see now that our waitress is hovering nearby, a notepad gripped in her hand as she dutifully anticipates further instruction. She’s already an absolute saint for dealing with a party this large, and I certainly don’t want to cause her any more trouble.

“I’m ready, I’m ready,” I announce, signaling the woman to start. “Just get to me last.”

I sit down in an open chair next to the one member of our brunch who is noticeably older than the rest, a tall, poised woman who bears a striking resemblance to myself.

“Your friends are so nice,” my mother gushes in my ear.

I open the menu, scanning my choices and nodding along to Mom’s high praise.

Maria Norrie is a ferocious woman, the kind of mother who’d do anything for you, but is also frightening thanks to this exact quality. When I was younger, I was utterly terrified by the prospect of disappointing her—so terrified that disappointment never arrived.

There was one time in high school when I’d snuck out to smoke some weed with the kids down the block, a rare opportunity due to the fact that I’d just moved and didn’t have many friends yet. Somehow, my mother realized I was gone, and she was waiting quietly in the kitchen when I snuck back in through the side door. She didn’t say a word, just stared like a quiet specter of death, and that was enough for me to never sneak out again.

Now that’s power.

Mom’s strict nature left me with plenty of issues, enough to opine my way through three different therapists over the years, but it also shaped me into a well-oiled success machine.

Fortunately, Maria has softened with age, vaguely transitioning into the warm, caring mother I always yearned for, but somehow that’s even more frustrating in the grand scheme of things.

Regardless, the fear lingers. Maria’s been down from Lake Geneva for three days now, and I don’t feel any closer to finding my nerve around her. I’m finally starting to realize that the confidence may never come, and I’ll just have to push through today’s conversation without it.

Mom drives back to Wisconsin tomorrow, and time gives no fucks whether I’m ready or not.

The waitress suddenly realigns my focus, sidling up next to me as she reaches the end of her order sheet. “You know what you’d like?” the woman questions. The name ACORN CAFÉ is emblazoned across the front of her shirt.

I hesitate, staring at the menu and struggling to keep this cascade of options from boiling my already deep-fried brain. It’s not just about which food item I should purchase, it’s about the thousand other ridiculous things that come along with this seemingly innocuous choice. If I order a large plate, will my mother say something to make me feel weird about it? If I order a salad, will she tell me that I haven’t respected the momentous nature of this special occasion?

The book isn’t even out until Tuesday, for fuck’s sake. We’re doing this because she’s in town.

Annie, who sits directly to my right, leans in close. “Celebrate,” is all she says, then winks.

I turn back to the waitress. “I’ll get the breakfast burger,” I decide, “and another mimosa.”

As the waitress leaves I catch my mother’s expression shifting into an immediate frown, her true feelings caught from the corner of my eye. Very quickly, however, something extraordinary happens. Maria’s face pulls itself back into position, gradually becoming an accepting, almost excited nod.

“That looks good, Vera,” she announces. “I should’ve ordered that.”

It’s a new day for the Norries, apparently. Maybe our pattern, after all this time, has started shifting and mutating into something new.

These changes come slowly, so small and incremental that I didn’t even notice them until, one day, I woke up with a sweet, semiprogressive mother my friends actually like who doesn’t make me feel like trash for ordering a breakfast burger on my stand-in publishing day.

Annie scoots back and stands, quickly drawing the attention of our packed table of friends. There’re ten or so of us gathered around this little corner of Acorn Café, but somehow Annie has no problem focusing all the light in the room.

She’s got something special, a loud, freewheeling counterbalance to all my rigid plans and patterns. That’s why I love her.

“Alright, alright,” Annie begins, hoisting her bright orange mimosa into the air as a hush falls over the rest of us. “I just wanted to take a moment and recognize the reason we’re all here.”

Annie nods toward me, flashing a slightly bucktoothed smile that brims with so much charm I actually feel my breath catch for a moment. As she turns the full heft of her attention my way it feels as though I’m staring directly into the sun, in awe of her power. It takes everything I’ve got not to turn away and avert my eyes, but the longer I hold this position, the more an uncontrollable smile widens across my face.

Annie loves doing this to me. I told her to play it cool until I had a chance to talk with Mom, but Annie’s roguish nature has gotten the best of her.

Still, despite my mother’s great intelligence, she’s just too old-fashioned to pick up on the subtext of our glances and gestures.

“We’re all so proud of you,” Annie continues. “It’s kinda frightening how much you’ve accomplished—and I know you hate being recognized for it—but now here we are with the youngest mathematics professor in U Chicago history, and, after this Tuesday, a published author!”

“Statistics and probability professor,” I chime in, “but close enough.”

Annie begins to tilt back her drink, then hesitates. I can tell she wants to say something more, to let the aching love within her spill out just a little further and give the world a peek. She’s on a very sincere wavelength, and the drinks are only adding to the warm, fuzzy feelings that bubble up within her.

Annie’s freckle-framed lips part ever so slightly, but I immediately shake my head with the faintest, almost imperceptible movement.

The timing of these things is important, because everything is important. I didn’t get into this position by fucking around and letting the chips fall where they may. I got here by understanding that every infinitesimal detail can tip the scales in enormous, earth-shattering ways. Nudge Theory is this very idea in practice, but usually the term is used to describe massive corporations cutting corners or politicians edging out the competition by a fraction of a polling point.

In the United Kingdom, analysts found they could convince people with outstanding tax bills to pay up when they used language specifically designed to make it seem like everyone else had already paid. This small change in wording on their government forms prompted a 15 percent bump in responses. If organ donation programs are an opt-in service, approximately 15 percent of people will join. However, if you’re automatically enrolled and given an option to opt out, only about 10 percent of people will leave.

To be honest, there’s a lot of bullshit in the field of choice architecture, and these very studies have been pulled apart, criticized, and debunked in a variety of ways. It’s pop science from airport books rather than hard data, but that doesn’t make it obsolete.

It’s still worth considering the fact that little movements can have big results.

If Annie spills the beans right now, the statistical odds of my mother accepting our relationship are slim. As much as it hurts to shake my head and move Annie along, the nudge is important.

I mouth a single word to her: No.

“To Vera!” my girlfriend shouts without missing a beat, finally throwing back her mimosa with a massive swig. This prompts the rest of our crew to follow suit with cheers of their own.

Annie returns to her seat.

“That was really sweet,” I offer.

Her response is a forced smile, the sign of someone who’s trying desperately to keep her real emotions at bay, at least for the time being. She knows Maria will be out of our hair by tomorrow afternoon, at which point she’ll drive back home and we won’t have to think about it anymore.

Unfortunately, that’s just not good enough. I can’t bear to see her feeling this way, to see that incredible light within her dimmed and trembling.

I’m so focused on Annie that I barely notice a brewing chant from the rest of my friends. It’s a single word repeated playfully, at first, and then with growing intensity as they start rapping their palms against the table and clinking their glasses.

“Speech! Speech! Speech!” they rumble, louder with every passing round until, eventually, other patrons start glancing our direction.

“Okay!” I finally shout, leaping to my feet in an effort to calm them down.

The table relents, falling back into silence as their eyes come to rest on mine.

I take a moment to look from one smiling face to the next, then clear my throat. “Thanks. Uh. Wow,” I stammer, still collecting my thoughts. “I guess I’ll add that the real people we should be recognizing today are the two point eight million American fraud victims who are taken advantage of every year.”

Expressions falter slightly, but my friends manage to hold it together. They care about the publication of my book, but not the book itself.

“Yeah Vera!” Kevin shouts from the back, his lone voice forcing me to crack the faintest smile.

“I know it seems kind of silly how much this stuff matters to me,” I admit. “Everett Vacation and Entertainment have done an incredible amount of damage to good, hardworking people, and I’m just so glad this book is finally coming out. They say the house always wins, but . . . this is a win for us.”

From the seat to my right, Annie reaches out and places her hand against my leg, a gesture of reassurance and pride.

“We love you!” someone cheers.

The whole table laughs.

“I love you, too,” I reply. “I know I haven’t been the greatest friend while working on this book. I’m not making excuses, it’s just . . . I’m sorry. Thanks for sticking with me and helping me push through to the other side. I won’t forget it.”

I raise my glass and tilt it back, allowing yet another glorious swig of sugary citrus mimosa down the hatch. I can certainly feel it now, and while I don’t typically enjoy the sensation of being drunk, this buzz is actually helping me to chill the hell out and enjoy today for what it is. We’re here to party, after all.

Maria leans in, pulling my attention to the left. “I like your roommate.”

I tense up, searching for any extra weight within her declaration. The word roommate is historically loaded in queer circles, but I can’t fathom my mother being aware of that fact. If Mom is dropping hints, that could potentially reframe the conversation I’ve been dreading this entire trip, but as I hold her eye I sense no bridge being extended between our worlds.

She just likes Annie, which is fair. I do, too.

“I’m so happy for you, sweetheart,” my mother continues. “I told everyone back home about your book. They’re all buying a copy.”

I laugh. “Thanks, Mom. I’ll need all the help I can get.”

Maria hesitates, shifting in her chair a bit. “Someone tells me you’ve found a little helper right here in the city. A new boyfriend?”

Here we go.

I scan the table, hunting for the culprit who might’ve accidently slipped some confidential intel to my mother. My friends aren’t used to keeping things tight-lipped, as we don’t typically have someone’s parent sitting in on these tipsy little brunches.

Whoever it was didn’t leak the whole story, but at this point it might not matter. Maybe this is the opening I’ve been looking for.

I can feel my body flushing with heat and my heart speeding up, as though I’m cresting the hill of a rollercoaster.

“Fiancée, actually,” I finally announce, forcing the pithy correction through my lips.

Maria’s eyes go wide. “Sweetheart, no. What? That’s so . . . impulsive.”

The two of us stare at each other for a moment, a looming sense of dread creeping through my veins. Years of examples have taught me to fear the rest of this interaction, but then again, this is the new and improved Maria Norrie, a woman who has shed the trappings of her own toxic upbringing and entered a tolerant, enlightened era.

She’s angry, I can tell, but she’s doing everything she can to brace against those crashing emotional waves. The ship of her mind is taking on water, but she’s also sealing off various blast doors, accepting defeat in some ways but insuring her survival in others. Eventually, Maria seems to ease herself into calmer tides.

Instead of rage, a flicker of curiosity glimmers behind my mother’s eyes.

“Well, who is he?” she asks, glancing around the table.

Oh boy. All hands on deck.

There’s a lump in my throat, some last stand by the part of my brain that would rather put off this conversation forever. I force my words past it.

“Who is she?” I counter.

Mom’s expression shifts rapidly, bouncing through three distinct emotions. At first she actually smiles, a hint of laughter bubbling up within her upon hearing what would only make sense as a silly little joke. Next comes fury, with a hint of disgust, a brief flare of heat before her better self can jump in and wrestle back the reins.

My mother lands somewhere I didn’t expect, however: denial.

“You’ve always been impulsive, but not that impulsive,” Mom states, breezing past my admission as though it never even occurred. “You need to get serious about finding a real relationship, Vera.”

“I just told you I’m engaged,” I say, doubling down.

Mom leans in closer, lowering her voice to the point that I can barely hear her. “You’re not gay, sweetheart. You’re experimenting.”

I shake my head. “No, Mom.”

Her denial is unrelenting. “This is normal in college.”

“I’m a professor,” I scoff.

My mother lets out an exasperated sigh, pulling back a bit to reassess the situation. She looks at me, then Annie—who is deep in conversation with someone else—then back at me. A scowl has worked its way across her face.

“I don’t see my daughter for six months and suddenly she’s a gay?” Mom exclaims, a little too loud and oozing with skepticism.

“Bisexual,” I snap.

Instant relief floods her body as her doubts are finally confirmed.

“Vera, bisexuals don’t exist,” she counters, her voice tinged with laughter.

I’ve somehow managed to remain calm this entire time, but there’s something about my mother’s choice of words that immediately sends my already wobbly house of cards crashing down. Maria has said things to me containing exponentially more vitriol than this throwaway line, but maybe that’s what makes her statement so brutal. She really, truly means it.

What I’ve built with Annie is deeply important, but it will never be enough to satisfy people like my mother. A furious and belligerent rejection might’ve felt better in this moment, because at least I’d know she was taking me seriously.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I suddenly growl, emotions boiling over and making themselves known.

“Language,” Mom retorts.

“Get the fuck out of here,” I spit, loud enough for the whole table to awkwardly stop what they’re doing. The cheerful conversations that had once disguised our little sidebar have now fallen away, revealing the raw, seething nature of our confrontation.

Mom says nothing, frozen in place.

“Go,” I rumble.

It’s only now that I can see the tears welling in her eyes, the emotional whiplash between these timid revelations and my sudden anger proving too much for her after all.

Mom stands abruptly, grabbing her bag and turning so hard that her foot catches the leg of our table and generates a sudden, rattling bang.

Now the whole restaurant is watching, din falling away to highlight the horrible sound of my mother’s frustrated sobs. As cathartic as it felt standing up to her like this, the second I see the emotional torment it’s causing her my demeanor shifts. I snapped back in an effort to defend myself, and that’s not something I regret, but it was never my intention to hurt her in return.

“Aw, fuck,” I groan, scooting back my chair and hurrying after Mom.

She’s already made it halfway out the door.

Annie reaches over and squeezes my hand as I go, one last moment of reassurance.

I barrel out of the restaurant, frantically calling after my mother as she hustles away from me down the sidewalk. The late morning light is crisp and golden, shining between towering buildings all around us as I jog to catch up with her.

There’s plenty of other people out here on the bustling streets of downtown Chicago, but in this new setting my mother’s wild sobs are drawing much less attention than they were at the restaurant. The folks passing by don’t give her a second glance, too concerned with their own metropolitan business on this clear spring day.

Someone is giving a speech at the park across the street. A busker sits on a nearby corner, drumming enthusiastically on his upturned bucket. Two tourists ask someone for directions, then point at their phone map in a state of confusion.

There are thousands of stories unfolding in this city, and ours is just one more.

“Mom! Stop!” I scream, finally giving my voice enough authority that she has no choice but to listen.

My mother halts in the middle of the sidewalk, her tall form looking somehow meek and small next to the towering brick wall beside us. She slowly turns around to face me, struggling to regain a shred of emotional control.

“I’m sorry,” Mom blurts. “I’m trying to support you, but this is so much, Vera. It’s so much.”

“What is?” I ask. “I’m fine, Mom. Actually, I’m great. Look at this life I’ve made for myself. You really think this is something you need to cry over?”

She glances away momentarily, her lips tight and quivering. In this unexpected moment of silence, I notice Mom’s eyes drifting across the street to the park, her gaze wandering over a broad assortment of gathered protesters.

“The world’s changed a lot,” she says. “I’ve changed with it, I really have, but there are some things inside us that are . . . consistent. People have patterns, Vera. This little phase is something everyone goes through, at some point, but you can’t let it derail you. You’re on a great path.”

I scoff. “I understand patterns, Mother. That’s literally my job.”

Mom’s eyes widen a bit, her jaw somehow tightening even more. “Your father had his little midlife crisis, too” she hisses. The anger she’s worked so hard to contain is now boiling behind every word. “Everything was just right, then he left us.”

“I’m twenty-seven,” I remind her.

“You’re on a perfect track. One little slip is all it takes before . . .” She trails off.

“Before?” I ask.

“The partying. The late nights. The sex stuff,”

“Mom, I love Annie,” I exclaim, cutting her off.

“No, you don’t!” she growls, shaking her head as she grows even more confident in her denial. “You’ll see. I know you think you do, Vera, but girls these days are just looking for something. I’ve heard all about it on the news, this bisexual thing. More and more young people identifying as bisexual or transgender.” A literal shudder courses through her body. “These things aren’t real, Vera.”

My mother hesitates slightly, even more kernels of some deep, primal fear popping within her.

“This is going to affect the rest of your life,” she finally continues.

“It’s who I am!” I yell, cutting her off and relieving myself from this torrent of utter bullshit.

“It’s not,” Mom snaps, giving me the distinct realization that we’re running in circles now, spiraling down a drain without a plug in sight. “This isn’t the little girl I raised. I love you so much, Vera. I want you to be happy, but you of all people should know this is a trend. I have to put my—”

Mom stops abruptly, her swollen red eyes drifting over my shoulder as her expression shifts into one of bewilderment.

I’m annoyed, of course, but when Mom’s sight line remains transfixed on the scene behind me I can’t help turning around and looking for myself.

It’s started to rain, which is certainly unexpected given the blue skies above. The drops flicker as they cascade down, glinting like silver and bouncing awkwardly when they slap the pavement. They’re slightly larger than usual, and oblong in shape.