Chapter 7: Buckeye Nights and New Names

I don’t remember how I got back to the office.

The night air was sharp, the city quiet. I tapped my badge, security lights humming, and wandered through empty streets until my feet led me in.

Only the long-haired female editor was there.

She looked up from her computer, blue nail polish catching the glow. A North Market tote hung from her chair.

She looked surprised. “Didn’t you take leave? Why are you back?”

She pushed her chair back, concern creasing her brow. I shrugged, unable to explain the pull that brought me here.

I frowned. “Something came up.”

I slumped into my chair, the weight of the night settling in. She waited, patient as ever.

She asked, “You seem upset. There’s a new bar nearby—they say their signature drink will make you forget your troubles. Want to try it?”

Her invitation was gentle, the promise of escape. “They’ve got a Buckeye Old Fashioned and a High Street Smash,” she added.

I was about to refuse, but then I said, “Let’s go.”

We grabbed our coats, stepping into the cool night. Her laughter echoed down the hallway, a balm for my bruised spirit.

We walked through the streets of Columbus. Her perfume lingered on my lips. My phone buzzed—a bank alert: $25,000 deposited.

The city glowed under neon signs, people spilling out of bars, music drifting through the air. A knot formed in my chest—keep it, or redirect it? I made a note to tell Savannah, to keep the money safe for her.

A few seconds later, I got a text from Marcus in Biloxi: “You know Travis likes to gamble. Since he came here, I’ve been giving him less money each month. Quietly give the rest to Savannah, behind his back—just say it’s extra money he saved for her.”

“Zelle works best—sender privacy on,” he added. The message made me smile, gratitude blooming. Some friendships survived every storm.

I smiled—Marcus was still dependable.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding and thought of that time my car died on I-70 at 2 a.m., and Marcus sent help without a second thought.

And in their eyes, I still mattered.

My shoulders unclenched, just a little.

I looked at the editor beside me and asked, “Your name is Lauren…”

Her hair shimmered under the streetlights, her eyes warm and inviting.

She finished for me: “Lauren West. My friends all call me Savannah.”

I blinked, feeling the coincidence land in my chest—how names can carry fate like a quiet undertow.

I smiled. “Nice to meet you, Savannah.”

We laughed, the night opening up before us, full of possibility.