Crossed Wires
Emma orders gin and tonic. Across the table, Brian’s fingers tap, tap, tap on his empty glass. He’s perfect. Kind eyes. Broad shoulders. Soft smile that crinkles just right. Emma imagines their life together: matching pajamas, sleepy Sunday mornings, a little dachshund with a bowtie collar.
And yet. And yet. She glances left.
Natalie reaches for the wine. Stiff posture, like a mannequin that never figured out how to be human. But he’s trying. Michael. He’s showing her something on his phone. Something dumb, probably. But the way his lips curve—soft, tentative—Emma sees it. The connection. The way he glances at Natalie like she’s made of glass. It makes Emma’s stomach twist. Makes her fingers tighten around her drink.
This is how it starts.
Or maybe it starts like this:
Brian laughs, that deep belly laugh that fills the space between people and makes everything feel less fragile. Michael nods politely, like he’s not quite in on the joke. The girls catch each other’s eyes. Brief. Just a flicker. Emma’s smile is tight, mirrored in Natalie’s half-curved lips.
Somewhere between the clinking of glasses and the waitress taking their order, it shifts. The girls slide into polite banter, while the guys trade jokes. Someone asks about a favorite movie. Someone mentions a bad day at work. Standard double-date stuff. Until it’s not.
The smiles are too sharp now. The laughter, too quick. A crackle in the air, barely there, but Emma feels it buzzing on her skin.
Or maybe it’s more like this:
Michael’s knee brushes Emma’s. An accident. A nothing. But it lingers too long. One heartbeat. Two. And she doesn’t pull away. Emma glances at him, then looks back at Brian, who’s leaning forward, making Natalie laugh. Really laugh. For the first time all night, her shoulders drop. She looks alive.
Emma swallows.
Her heartbeat’s a snare drum now, pounding out a rhythm that doesn’t make sense. Michael’s eyes—blue, like the ocean in winter—flicker to her, just once. He knows it. She knows it. It’s all mixed up.
Natalie reaches for the bread basket, but Brian’s already holding it out for her, grinning like a kid who’s figured out how to fix the world. The ease of it. The way he lights up for her.
When Emma’s hand brushes Michael’s under the table, it’s deliberate. Intentional. Like knocking over a chessboard just to see the pieces scatter.
And Natalie’s smile falters.
Or maybe it’s more like this:
The second round of drinks arrives. Gin and tonic. Wine. Another scotch for Michael. Brian switches to beer. Small changes. Minor adjustments. But something’s unraveling. Emma can feel it, like a slow tear down the center of the night.
Michael’s arm, draped casually on the back of her chair. Natalie’s fingers, absently tracing the rim of her wine glass as Brian leans in close, whispering something that makes her flush.
This is how it goes. The moment stretches. People keep smiling, talking, but something’s gone wrong. Crossed wires. Everything just a little... off.
And then Natalie stands.
“I need the ladies’ room,” she says, voice tight. Emma follows her like a sleepwalker.
The bathroom is too bright, all white tiles and cold air. Emma leans against the sink, watching Natalie’s reflection in the mirror. Watching her watch herself. Natalie’s fingers tremble on the edge of the sink. She’s like glass, cracking at the edges.
“It’s weird, isn’t it?” Emma says softly. She doesn’t know what she means. Just... weird.
Natalie’s laugh is sharp, like a knife sliding under ribs. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
Silence. Then Natalie spins around, eyes blazing. “You think I don’t see it? The way he looks at you? Like you’re some—some—”
Emma’s mouth is dry. “And Brian?”
Natalie flinches. Looks away. “Shut up.”
It’s there, hovering between them. The unspoken truth.
“I’m not the only one,” Emma whispers.
Because Brian’s looking at Natalie the way Emma wishes he’d look at her. And Michael... Michael’s smile, soft and secret, the way it wraps around Emma like a stolen kiss.
This is how it starts.
Or maybe it’s more like this:
They go back to the table. Plaster on smiles. Pretend nothing’s changed. But everything has. Brian is watching Natalie with a look that’s half longing, half pain. Michael’s hand brushes Emma’s when she sits down. Just a graze, but it’s electric. A spark in a room soaked in gasoline.
And Emma knows. She knows. One wrong move, and the whole night goes up in flames.
But then Natalie turns to her. Holds out a glass. Wine, deep and dark.
“Cheers,” she murmurs, voice steady now. Eyes locking on Emma’s. And for one split second, Emma thinks—she knows. Natalie knows. They’re in this together. Whatever this is. This mess. This confusion. This—this—
“I want him,” Emma whispers. She’s not sure which one she means.
“Me too,” Natalie breathes back. And again, which one?
It’s all tangled up now. Emma’s heart races, chest tight. But she takes the glass. Clinks it against Natalie’s.
And drinks.
Or maybe it’s more like this:
The wine is poisoned.
Emma chokes. Splutters. Hands gripping the table as the world blurs, twists. Natalie’s smile sharpens. She leans in, close enough to whisper in Emma’s ear.
“You think I’d just let you have him?” she murmurs, and now there’s no doubt. It’s Michael. The one thing Emma can’t take. The one thing Natalie won’t give up.
Emma gasps, heart stuttering. But the world’s fading. Natalie’s smile grows wider.
“Enjoy your Sunday night,” she whispers, and everything goes black.
Or maybe it’s more like this:
Emma wakes up, gasping. Cold sweat. Heart racing. Natalie’s gone. Brian and Michael are gone. The restaurant is empty, chairs overturned, dishes shattered on the floor.
And Emma is alone.
Except for the note. Scrawled in lipstick on the tablecloth, a single word:
“Checkmate.”
And maybe, just maybe, this is where it really starts.
This short story is part of my compilation of short stories, Dream City and Other Stories.
Want more? Dive into Dream City and Other Stories—a collection that lives in the shadows, that keeps you guessing, keeps you wanting just one more page.
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