Chapter 13: Drinks
The booth in the back corner of The Printer's Devil was too small for eight people, but nobody seemed to mind.
I wedged myself between Lisa and a guy named Marcus who talked exclusively about his unpublished novel. Across the scarred wooden table, Beck sat between Lynn and Derek, nursing a glass of white wine and looking more relaxed than I'd seen her.
"So Fin." Lisa leaned closer, voice raised above the bar noise. "What's your story? You kind of appeared out of nowhere."
The question I'd prepared for.
"Freelance writer," I said. "Moved to the city a few months ago. Needed structure for the creative stuff, so—workshop."
"Where from originally?"
I'd rehearsed this too. Pulled details from the original Fin Coulson's social media history, things that could be verified if anyone bothered checking.
"Connecticut. Suburbs. Nothing interesting."
"Connecticut's not that boring," Beck said from across the table. Our eyes met for a moment. "I grew up on Long Island. Basically the same energy."
"Suburban trauma solidarity."
She laughed—a real one, surprised out of her. "Exactly. We should start a support group."
The conversation shifted. Someone asked about MFA programs, and the table erupted into the familiar writer's debate: Is formal education worth the debt? Can creativity be taught? Who's the biggest fraud in the industry?
I participated enough to stay visible, not so much that I'd be remembered as dominant. The Social Invisibility was easier in groups—I could let attention slide off me while still being present, part of the texture without being the focus.
Beck's phone buzzed twice during the first hour. She checked it both times, smiled at the screen, typed quick responses. Joe, almost certainly. Building the habit. Making himself essential.
Around nine, Lynn excused herself for the bathroom. The shuffle of bodies left me suddenly facing Beck with no one between us.
"Your piece was really good," she said. "The displacement one. I meant to say something after class but you disappeared."
"Early morning the next day. Had to get home."
"Fair." She traced a finger around the rim of her wine glass. "It felt personal. The way you wrote about not recognizing your own hands."
The observation was sharper than I expected. She'd paid attention. Really listened.
"It was," I admitted. "Based on a weird experience I had a few years ago. Woke up one day and nothing felt... mine."
"Dissociation?"
"Maybe. I don't know what to call it." The truth hidden inside a lie. The best kind of cover story.
"I write about that sometimes." Beck's voice dropped, more intimate now. "The feeling of being a stranger in your own life. Like everyone else got a manual and you're just improvising."
"That's exactly it."
We sat with that for a moment. The bar noise faded to background static.
"What are you working on now?" she asked. "For workshop, I mean."
"Something new. Still rough." I'd spent three nights on the piece—not the original Fin's words this time, but something pulled from my own experience. The awakening in the alley, translated into fiction. "What about you?"
"The novel that won't die." She laughed, self-deprecating. "Three years and counting. Every time I think I've figured it out, the whole thing collapses."
"What's it about?"
Beck hesitated. The question meant something to her—sharing the answer was an act of trust.
"Loss," she said finally. "How we carry people who are gone. The way absence shapes us more than presence sometimes."
The words landed strangely. I was carrying someone gone—the original Fin, whose life I'd stolen, whose words I'd borrowed, whose face I wore every day.
"That sounds heavy."
"It's supposed to be cathartic." Her smile was crooked. "Some days it just feels like reopening wounds."
"Maybe that's the point. Catharsis doesn't work if you're protecting yourself."
Beck's eyes met mine again, and something shifted in her expression. Recognition, maybe. The look of someone who'd just been seen.
"Yeah," she said softly. "Maybe you're right."
Lynn returned, sliding back into the booth with fresh drinks. The moment dissolved into group chatter, but something had changed. A thread connected us now—thin, fragile, but real.
At ten-thirty, Beck's phone buzzed again. She read the message, typed a response, and her whole body language shifted. Warmer. Distracted.
Joe had her attention now. Whatever we'd built in that conversation was already being overwritten.
I finished my beer and stood. "I should head out. Early morning."
"Already?" Lisa looked disappointed. "We were just getting started."
"Next week," I promised. "I'll pace myself better."
Beck looked up from her phone. "Good to talk with you, Fin. See you Thursday?"
"Wouldn't miss it."
I dropped cash on the table for my drinks and walked toward the door. Didn't look back. Looking back would be memorable.
Outside, the night air was cool against my face. I walked two blocks before letting myself breathe properly.
The conversation had worked. I'd established myself as someone worth talking to—thoughtful, relatable, unthreatening. Beck had opened up about her writing, her fears, the things that made her vulnerable.
But Joe was already texting her. Already occupying the space I was trying to fill.
I bought a coffee from a cart vendor who was just starting to pack up for the night. The first sip was too hot, burning my tongue. I drank it anyway, walking the extra blocks home.
Beck wasn't just a file anymore. She was a person—smart, insecure, genuinely talented. Someone worth protecting for reasons beyond the cosmic mission.
The math was getting complicated.
Caring about the people you were trying to save made the work harder. Every conversation was both real and performance. Every connection was genuine and strategic.
I finished the coffee by the time I reached my building. Tossed the cup in a trash can and climbed the stairs to Fin Coulson's apartment.
In my Memory Palace, I added new details to Beck's file. Her laugh. The way her eyes softened when discussing writing. The nervous habit of tracing her wine glass.
But I also added the image of her checking Joe's texts. The smile that wasn't meant for me.
Two men building relationships with the same woman. One through manipulation and stalking. One through manipulation and... what? Concern? Mission parameters?
Was I really that different?
The question sat heavy in my chest as I fell asleep.
Author's Note / Promotion:
Your Reviews and Power Stones are the best way to show support. They help me know what you're enjoying and bring in new readers!
You don't have to. Get instant access to more content by supporting me on Patreon. I have three options so you can pick how far ahead you want to be:
🪙 Silver Tier ($6): Read 10 chapters ahead of the public site.
👑 Gold Tier ($9): Get 15-20 chapters ahead of the public site.
💎 Platinum Tier ($15): The ultimate experience. Get new chapters the second I finish them . No waiting for weekly drops, just pure, instant access.
Your support helps me write more .
👉 Find it all at patreon.com/fanficwriter1