AI The thermal bag’s plastic liner crinkled when Rory set it on the scarred wooden bar top. The smell of steamed pork dumplings and fried ginger clung to her hair, sharp and sweet, and she swiped at a fleck of soy sauce that had smudged the hem of her Golden Empress polo. Outside, the London rain tapped a steady rhythm against the fogged windows, and the green neon raven sign above the Raven’s Nest flickered once, sending a slash of lime light across the maps tacked to the walls—old naval charts of the Thames, faded photos of Soho in the 1970s, faces she didn’t recognize.
Silas leaned on the bar, his left leg shifted slightly to take weight off his bad knee, polishing a pint glass with a rag that smelled like beer and lemon . The silver signet ring on his right hand caught the amber sconce light as he moved, and he hummed a low, off-key tune under his breath. “That’s the last drop for the night?” he asked, his voice low, rough around the edges from decades of smoking and late nights.
Rory nodded, shoving a crumpled five-pound note Silas had pressed into her palm into the apron pocket stitched to her waist. “Guy at table seven forgot the hot mustard. Thankfully I had a spare packet in the bag.” She glanced at the clock above the back bar: 11:17 PM. Her shift ended at midnight, but she’d already finished all her deliveries, so she could grab a drink before heading up to her flat.
She turned to scan the bar for an empty stool, her shoulder-length black hair falling forward over her bright blue eyes, and froze.
At the far end of the bar, tucked into the shadow of a black-and-white photo of a crowd outside a 1980s punk show, sat a woman she hadn’t seen in six years. Her hair, once a tumble of chestnut waves down her back, was cut into a sleek, sharp bob that skimmed her jawline. She wore a tailored charcoal blazer over a plain white t-shirt, no flashy jewelry except for a tiny silver owl pendant dangling from a thin chain around her neck. Rory’s chest tightened. That owl. She’d molded that pendant out of clay in their pre-law art elective, fired it in the university kiln, and gifted it to Zoe for her 21st birthday. Zoe had worn it every single day back then.
The woman looked up, and their eyes met. Her own brown eyes widened , and she set down her half-empty gin and tonic with a sharp click. Her lips parted, then curved into a thin, tight smile.
“Rory?” she said, her voice softer than Rory remembered, edged with a wariness she’d never heard before. “Is that really you?”
Rory’s throat went dry. She took a step forward, then another, her delivery apron fluttering slightly when she moved. “Zoe,” she said, and her own voice sounded foreign to her own ears, thick with an emotion she couldn’t name. “God, I thought you were still in Cardiff.”
Zoe pushed herself off the stool, and Rory saw that she was taller than she remembered, her shoulders squared in a way that spoke of confidence, but her hands still twitched slightly when she folded her arms across her chest. “Moved to London six months ago,” she said, nodding at the empty stool next to her. “Can I buy you a drink? Or whatever you’re having here.”
Rory glanced at Silas, who was now pouring a glass of whiskey behind the bar, his gaze flicking over to them for a split second before he turned back to the shelves of liquor. She nodded, and pulled out the stool, her knees knocking slightly when she sat down. The bar was warm, but she suddenly felt cold, like she was back in her Cardiff flat, staring at the wall after Evan had yelled at her for staying out too late with Zoe.
Silas set a pint of lager in front of Rory, and a fresh gin and tonic in front of Zoe, then retreated to the far end of the bar, leaning against the oak bookshelf that hid the secret back room. He gave them a small nod, like he was giving them space, and Rory appreciated that. She’d never told anyone about what had happened with Evan, not even Eva, when she first moved to London. She’d just showed up at Eva’s flat with a single duffel bag and a crescent-shaped scar peeking out from the cuff of her sweater, and Eva had driven her to London, and they’d found the flat above the Raven’s Nest three months later.
Zoe stirred her gin and tonic with a straw, the ice clinking against the glass. “I saw your name on the delivery receipt earlier,” she said, nodding at the thermal bag that was now sitting on the end of the bar, the Golden Empress logo printed in gold on the side. “Carter. I thought it might be you. But I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure.”
Rory picked up her pint, took a long sip, and felt the lager burn going down her throat. “Yeah, that’s me,” she said. “Been working deliveries for Golden Empress for the past two years. Live upstairs from here.” She nodded at the ceiling, and Zoe’s eyes widened slightly .
“Silas’ bar,” she said, and Rory nodded . “I used to come here when I was in London for work trips. I always liked the maps on the walls. Thought they were weird, but cool.”
Rory laughed, a dry, quiet laugh. “I live in the flat above the back room. The one behind the bookshelf. I didn’t know about the secret room until a month after I moved in. Silas caught me trying to fix a leaky pipe behind the bookshelf, and he just opened it up. Said I was trusted enough now.”
Zoe smiled, a little wider this time, and Rory felt a weight lift off her chest. They talked for a few minutes about the bar, about the rain, about the terrible curry they’d had at a takeaway shop near Cardiff university, when Zoe’s smile faded. She leaned forward, her elbows on the bar, and her voice dropped so low the jukebox’s Billie Holiday track swallowed it. “Two hours. I waited two hours at the Old Library Gallery. For your exhibition opening. You texted me ten minutes before it started, said Evan had a fever and needed you to take care of him. I drove past your flat later, and his car wasn’t there. It was the first time I’d ever seen you lie to me.”
Rory’s fingers tightened around her pint glass. She looked down at her left wrist, where the crescent scar peeked out from the cuff of her polo, and Zoe’s gaze followed the movement. Zoe reached out, her hand hovering over Rory’s wrist, like she wanted to touch the scar, but hesitated. “The time you fell off your bike into the storm drain,” she said. “Twelve years old. I stayed at the hospital with you for six hours, even though I had a math exam the next day. Bought you sour jelly babies, even though you hate them. You gave them all to me later.”
Rory chuckled, a wet, shaky sound. “You knew I hated them. You just wanted to watch me complain.”
Zoe’s smile was soft now, no longer tight with wariness. “I did. You’d make these ridiculous faces when you ate them. I still have a photo of you, mid-complaint, with jelly baby crumbs all over your chin.”
Rory’s throat tightened, and she looked away, at the maps on the wall. “I didn’t lie about Evan,” she said, his voice quiet . “Not exactly. He said I couldn’t go. Said that if I left to go to your show, he’d leave me. And I was scared. I didn’t want to be alone.”
She felt Zoe’s hand close around her wrist, gentle, familiar , and she didn’t pull away. “I should have tried harder to reach you,” Zoe said. “I sent you emails, letters, texts. You never replied. I thought you’d cut me off on purpose.”
Rory shook her head, and she felt a tear slip down her cheek. She wiped it away quickly , embarrassed. “I deleted all your messages. Blocked your number. Threw away every letter you sent me. Evan said you were a bad influence, that you made me stop focusing on my studies. I believed him. Until the night he hit me. And then I packed my bag and left. Eva picked me up, and we drove to London that night.”
Zoe’s eyes filled with tears, and she squeezed Rory’s hand. “I’m glad you left,” she said. “I’ve been worried about you for so long. I saw the news article about the abusive ex in Cardiff, the one who’d been arrested for assault. I didn’t think it was you, until I saw your name on the delivery receipt. I couldn’t believe it was you.”
Rory glanced at the silver owl pendant around Zoe’s neck. “You still have the owl,” she said.
Zoe touched the pendant with her fingers, a small smile crossing her face. “I never took it off. Even when I started working at the solicitor’s office. They told me to take it off, said it was unprofessional. I told them to go to hell.”
They talked for another hour, about the things they’d missed, about the friends they’d lost touch with, about the time they’d snuck into the university pool after hours and drunk soda while floating on the inflatable flamingos they’d bought from a charity shop. Rory told Zoe about Eva, about how she was now running a plant shop in Brixton, and Zoe told Rory about her new flat in Hackney, and how she was planning on quitting her job as a corporate solicitor and opening a small art gallery in Soho.
When the clock struck midnight, Rory stood up, and she picked up her delivery apron from the bar, where she’d draped it over the stool. “I should head up to the flat,” she said. “Eva’ll be wondering where I am.”
Zoe stood up too, and she reached into her pocket, pulled out a business card, and handed it to Rory. The card had the name of a solicitor’s firm on it, but scribbled on the back was Zoe’s personal phone number, and a note that said Call me. Anytime.
Rory tucked the card into the inner pocket of her apron, and she squeezed Zoe’s hand one last time. “I will,” she said. “I promise.”
Silas walked over to the bar, his left leg favoring his right as he moved, and he flipped the “closed” sign on the front door. The silver signet ring on his right hand glinted as he reached for the doorknob. “See you tomorrow, Rory?” he said, and he nodded toward the stairs leading up to her flat.
“Thanks for letting me linger, Silas,” she said, and he waved his hand, his face softening into a quiet smile.
“Anytime,” he said, and he closed the door behind them.
Rory and Zoe stood on the sidewalk, the rain dripping off their coats, and they hugged each other tight. Rory could smell the sandalwood perfume that Zoe had worn in college, and she could feel Zoe’s heart beating against her chest, fast and warm.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Zoe said, pulling away from the hug.
“Good,” Rory said, smiling . “I’d like that.”
Zoe waved, and she walked down the sidewalk, her boots splashing in the puddles, her bobbed hair glinting in the green neon light of the Raven’s Nest sign. Rory watched her go, until she turned the corner and disappeared. Then she turned and walked up the stairs to her flat, the business card safe in her apron pocket, the weight of six years of regret finally lifted off her shoulders.