in the ring / harry styles

27--Happy Hour

The glow of the campus fades behind me as the Uber speeds toward the city's center, and I lean back against the seat, barely noticing the lights whizzing by. My phone buzzes repeatedly in my hand, but I ignore it, feeling a knot in my chest tighten each time a new notification lights up. Emilia and Lynn. I know they're worried, calling and texting, asking where I am, but I can't answer. I can't bring myself to face anyone right now. Not after everything that just happened.

The phone buzzes, and I glance down, unable to stop myself from checking this time. It's Harry:

Harry: Why aren't you answering? Where are you?

I close my eyes, guilt pressing in. I want to text him back, to say something reassuring, but I feel like I can't breathe. Right now, my emotions are a mess, tangled with everything I'm still feeling about Jake, and somehow, that knot gets tighter each time I imagine Harry's face on the other end, waiting for my reply.

Jake's voice, his stunned face, the torn letter drifting to the floor—all of it replays in my mind on a loop, filling my head until I feel like I'm suffocating. My own voice rings out, hard and cold, as I told him about Harry. The words I'd spoken felt final, but the ache still lingers, twisting around memories of him, of us. The thought that I'd once believed he could change, that I'd let myself get drawn back in for so long—it fills me with a kind of dull, simmering rage I can't shake.

The Uber pulls up to a bar on the edge of the downtown strip. I've passed this place before but never gone inside. It's a little rough-looking, with neon lights buzzing over the entrance and a faded "Happy Hour" sign taped to the door. A part of me knows this is a bad idea, but I shove that thought away, climbing out of the car and heading toward the door, hoping a drink might just drown out the gnawing ache inside me.

The moment I step inside, the atmosphere shifts, swallowing me up in a low hum of voices, clinking glasses, and the faint scent of stale beer mixed with cigarette smoke. The lighting is dim, casting everything in murky shadows, and I can see a couple of men at the bar watching as I walk in. Ignoring their glances, I make my way to a far corner, sliding into a booth that's just out of view.

When the bartender comes by, I don't even think. "Whiskey," I say, the word tumbling out without hesitation. The bartender raises an eyebrow but shrugs, bringing over a glass that feels too heavy in my hand as I lift it to my lips.

I take a sip, the liquid burning its way down, and I lean back, closing my eyes. The warmth settles in my stomach, dulling the edges of everything swirling around in my mind. I let out a long breath, trying to let the anger and hurt drift away, even if it's only temporary. But as the minutes pass, the whiskey barely takes the edge off, and my mind keeps flashing back to Jake, to his face when I told him I was done.

Maybe I overreacted, a small, nagging voice in my head says. Maybe I should have let him explain.

But another voice, colder and sharper, cuts through that thought. He had plenty of chances. He knew exactly what he was doing.

Lost in my thoughts, I barely notice a group of men enter the bar, their loud laughter cutting through the low hum of conversation. They're all dressed in leather, with patches and tattoos covering their arms. They're grizzled, older than most of the other patrons, and their presence shifts the energy in the room, making it feel somehow smaller, tenser.

One of them, a guy with a thick beard and a smirk that makes my skin crawl, catches sight of me and nudges his friend, nodding in my direction. I shift uncomfortably, my fingers tightening around my glass, feeling their eyes on me like a weight.

I finish my drink quickly, signaling to the bartender for another, but when it arrives, I just stare at it, my stomach turning. What am I even doing here? The thought creeps in, but I brush it away. I just needed a break, just needed to get out.