Linda sat at the bar, fingers loosely wrapped around a glass of bourbon, though she’d barely taken a sip. The dim lighting cast sharp angles over her face.

Across the room, she were laughing. A warm, easy kind of laugh, the kind Linda had heard before, but never quite like this. Because this time, it wasn’t directed at her. It was for someone else.

Linda’s grip on her glass tightened, just for a second, before she forced herself to relax. She was better than this. Petty jealousy wasn’t her style. And yet, her gaze kept drifting back, sharp as ever, watching the way the woman's hand lingered a second too long on someone else’s arm.