The rain had started before sundown, a soft drizzle that turned the street outside into a sheet of copper reflections. Inside The Alcove, the air was cool and perfumed with citrus, the smell of spilled gin and polished wood. Piano jazz drifted from hidden speakers, a tune that sounded both modern and old, like it couldn’t decide what it wanted to be.

Belinda sat at the end of the bar beneath a ring of warm light. Her dress was champagne silk, the kind that clings to a body that knows it’s being watched. She was the sort of pretty that photographs well but looks tired up close—pouty mouth, childlike eyes, the faintest tremor of nerves at the corner of her lips. A glass of something clear and cold rested in front of her, barely touched.

She checked her phone. No messages.

The bartender—a compact man with sleeves rolled to his elbows—gave her the practiced half-smile reserved for regulars who never tip well but always drink the expensive stuff.

“Another round?” he asked.

She hesitated. “Maybe later.”

Across the bar, Monica arrived like someone who had driven there on impulse and regretted it halfway through parking. Tall, broad-shouldered in her trench coat, she wore her hair in a neat twist that threatened to come undone. The hostess’s eyes flicked from her wedding ring to her face, and Monica didn’t miss the calculation. She walked straight to the bar anyway, bypassing the restaurant side.

Two stools down from Belinda, she ordered, “Single malt. Neat.”

Her voice carried—steady, a touch husky, with that faint rhythm of New York softened by years in California.

Belinda glanced sideways. Another blonde. Older, elegant, the kind who didn’t need to check her reflection every few minutes. Monica felt the glance and returned it, coolly polite. Two cats noticing each other across the fence.

They drank in silence for a while.

When the bartender walked off, Belinda muttered, “Guess he knows who tips.”

Monica smiled faintly into her glass. “He knows who pretends not to be lonely.”

That drew a look. “Excuse me?”

“Sorry,” Monica said, without meaning it. “Long night. Bad habit of saying what I think.”

Belinda might have bristled, but something in Monica’s tone—world-weary, not cruel—made her stay. “You’re one of those, huh? The truth-telling kind.”

“Only after enough Scotch.”

Belinda gestured to her own drink. “Mine’s gin. Makes me sentimental.”

“So we’re both dangerous.”

They smiled then, small and reluctant, the kind of truce that comes before a war.

* * *

Belinda sighed, swirling the meltwater in her glass. “My dad never really got it,” she said suddenly, her voice more wistful than bitter. “When I told him I wanted to go to prom, he said he didn’t want to waste money on some overpriced dress in case I… changed my mind.”

Monica looked up. “Changed your mind?”

Belinda blinked, realizing what she’d said. “About being a girl,” she added quietly. “I transitioned when I was sixteen. He paid for most of it, but I think he always thought it was a phase. Like my whole life was some very expensive experiment.” She took another swallow of gin, almost viciously.

Monica didn’t speak right away. She just nodded. “I didn’t even go to prom,” she said finally. “Wasn’t living as me yet. I used to walk by the dress shops, look at the mannequins in the windows. I’d imagine one of those gowns—strapless, pale blue, maybe pink. I used to dream about what it would feel like to be twirled around a gym floor while everyone saw me as who I really was.”

Belinda’s eyes softened. “That’s… heartbreaking.”

“Yeah,” Monica said. “It was.” She smiled faintly. “But dreams are cheap. Rent isn’t. I dropped out halfway through senior year. Started waiting tables. Met a guy who said I was too pretty for that.”

“Let me guess,” Belinda said. “You believed him.”

“Of course I did,” Monica said. “I was twenty and starving for someone to see a woman when they looked at me. He did. Or said he did. His name was Grigor.”

Belinda leaned back. “I dropped out, too. My first boyfriend said school didn’t matter, that he’d take care of me. He didn’t. But by the time I figured that out, I’d already decided being taken care of was the point.”

Monica looked at her. “And now?”

Belinda hesitated. “Now I don’t even know what the point is.” She laughed, low and sad. “Guess that’s why I came here. Looking for someone to make me forget that I still care what men think.”

Monica raised her glass. “To fathers who didn’t know what they had, and men who still don’t.”

Belinda clinked her glass against the other. “And to dresses we never got to wear.”

* * *

Belinda set her empty glass down. “You ever think everything we do is just trying to get our fathers to say we did okay?”

Monica gave a small, dry laugh. “Mine wouldn’t have said it if I’d become a brain surgeon.”

“He was ashamed of you?”

“Not out loud. That was the problem. He didn’t yell, didn’t hit. He just… looked past me. Made sure I knew what I wasn’t.”

Belinda nodded. “Mine was the opposite. He yelled. Said if I wanted to ruin my life, he’d help me do it. Wrote the checks, but he never once called me his daughter.”

Monica swirled her vodka. “And still we keep looking for some man to fix the hole he left.”

“Speak for yourself,” Belinda said, but without much conviction. “I’m not looking. I’m—trying to reset the game.”

“New boyfriend?”

Belinda frowned. “Not exactly. I don’t even know if he’s still in town. I keep calling him the wrong name.”

Monica smiled. “You’re young. You’ve got time to get it right.”

“Forty doesn’t sound that old from twenty-six,” Belinda said. “You talk like someone who’s already been through the movie and watched the credits roll.”

“Maybe I have,” Monica said. “And you?”

“I keep thinking the next guy will read the script better.”

“Maybe we just keep casting the same kind of man because we want the same ending.”

Belinda toyed with her straw again. “You mean the one where he finally says, ‘You’re perfect just like this’?”

Monica lifted her glass in a half-toast. “That one.”

Belinda’s laugh was a whisper. “Guess neither of us has heard that line yet.”

* * *

Belinda ran a fingertip down the stem of her glass and said, “You know, I hate you a little.”

Monica smiled. “Why’s that?”

“You’ve got that whole grown-woman elegance thing going. Like, you actually know which colors go together. I have to hire someone with taste to dress me. Otherwise, I end up looking…”

“Too expensive?” Monica offered.

Belinda grinned. “Too slutty.”

Monica’s laugh was low and genuine. “You do not.”

“Oh, come on. You totally think so.”

Monica raised both hands in surrender, still smiling. “Maybe just a little. But you pull it off. I never had the body for those little slip dresses.

Always built more for suits than satin.”

Belinda studied her. “You’re tall, though. And those shoulders? That face?”

“Face took work,” Monica said. “FFS, three rounds of laser, a little filler when I remember.”

Belinda nodded. “Worth every penny. I got the boobs. Figured I could buy the rest later.”

They laughed together, the kind of laugh that needs no reason except the relief of being understood.

Monica smoothed a hand over her blouse. “It’s funny. I used to hate shopping with Grigor. He’d follow me around and say, ‘You’d look good in this,’ and it was always something his mother would have worn. When he stopped noticing what I wore, that was worse.”

Belinda’s smile turned crooked. “If he stopped noticing, you should’ve started pretending to cheat. That’s how men know they still matter.”

“I’ve never cheated on him,” Monica said. “Not once. I wouldn’t even know how.”

Belinda stared. “Seriously? You’ve been married how long?”

“Seventeen years.”

“And you never even—wow. How’s he supposed to know when to be jealous if you don’t give him a reason?”

Monica laughed. “You’re terrible.”

“I’m practical.”

“I think you just described my marriage,” Monica said, still smiling.

* * *

Belinda lifted her drink. “You know what’s funny? We’ve been sitting here for hours talking about men, and not once have I wondered what it’d be like to be with a woman.”

Monica smiled faintly. “Neither have I. Not once.”

Belinda leaned in. “Maybe that’s our problem.”

Monica laughed. “You think so?”

“Maybe we’ve been aiming the wrong direction.”

“Sweetheart,” Monica said, “I’m way too old to start experimenting.”

Belinda’s smile was mischievous. “You don’t look too old for anything.”

That earned her a long look. They both laughed, too loud for the hour, then quieted.

For a heartbeat, they just sat there, hands close on the bar top.

Belinda’s pinkie brushed against Monica’s. The contact lingered.

Monica didn’t move away. “We shouldn’t be doing this in a bar,” she said.

Belinda tilted her head. “No? Where should we be doing it?”

Monica’s eyes flicked toward the front door. “There’s a hotel next door.”

Belinda grinned. “Is it an expensive one? I wouldn’t want to be slumming.”

“In L.A.?” Monica said. “There are only two kinds of hotels—too expensive and too dangerous.”

They laughed again, helplessly. When they caught their breath, Monica waved down the bartender.

“Can you call us a cab?”

While he was gone, Belinda murmured, “Um… I might need to borrow your card. Mine got declined earlier. Long story.”

Monica frowned. “But you said your family—”

“They’ll fix it. They always fix it. Just… not tonight.”

Monica smiled, shaking her head. “You’re trouble.”

“Always,” Belinda said. “You like it.”

They finished their drinks—Belinda unsteady, Monica steadying her as they left.

The cab ride was short, the kind where city lights turn into ribbons. Halfway there, Belinda leaned her head on Monica’s shoulder.

“You smell nice,” she said.

Monica laughed. “You’re drunk.”

Belinda turned her face up. “A little.”

The kiss happened like a sigh, soft and brief.

The driver said nothing.

They pulled up beneath the awning of a tall, glass-fronted hotel. Inside, the lobby glowed in cream and gold.

Monica paid. Belinda clung to her arm like she belonged on someone’s arm.

Upstairs, the room was all clean lines and quiet. Floor-to-ceiling windows, the ocean glinting faintly beyond the roofs of West L.A.

Monica stepped onto the balcony. “There’s UCLA, right over there. Grigor got his PhD there.”

Belinda squinted. “I fucked a professor of philosophy once.”

Monica snorted. “Of course you did.”

Belinda laughed, then yawned, and they both fell onto the bed—shoes still on, laughter turning to silence, to warmth, to nothing at all.

The city outside kept shining long after they were asleep.

* * *

The curtains glowed thin gold when Belinda blinked awake. Her head ached, her mouth tasted like gin and sleep. She was still in last night’s dress, one strap twisted, mascara smudged just enough to make her look tragic.

Beside her, Monica stirred, sat up slowly, and groaned. “God. What time is it?”

“Too early for real people,” Belinda muttered. She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling, then at the silk jacket draped over the chair. A faint dark streak marred one cuff. “Ugh. Bar grime. That’s disgusting.”

Monica smiled faintly. “It’s not that bad.”

“It’s vile,” Belinda said, but without heat.

They sat in silence for a while.

“Shower?” Monica asked.

Belinda shook her head. “If I start, I’ll never stop. And I don’t have anything clean to wear anyway.”

“Same here,” Monica said. “Looks like we’re doing the walk of shame in business casual.”

Belinda smirked. “Speak for yourself. Mine’s designer casual.”

They both laughed softly.

Belinda reached for her phone. “I’m calling my mom,” she said. “She can send an Uber. She likes pretending she’s still saving me from things.”

Monica scrolled through her contacts. “I guess I should call Grigor before he decides I’ve vanished.”

Belinda raised an eyebrow. “You think he noticed?”

Monica smiled. “Let’s find out.” She pressed call and turned slightly away.

Her half of the conversation was a string of short replies—“Yes… I know… I’m fine… No, I stayed with a friend…”—then a long pause.

Her expression softened. “Me too,” she said quietly.

When she hung up, she sighed. “He apologized. Effusively. He always does when he’s afraid I might actually leave.”

Belinda nodded. “And are you?”

Monica shook her head. “No. Not yet.”

Belinda smiled thinly. “Guess we both go home the way we came.”

“Guess so.”

They gathered their things and rode the elevator down together. The lobby smelled of coffee and bleach. A tray of cinnamon rolls sat near the counter, steam curling up like ghosts of sweetness.

Belinda took one, tore it in half, handed the other piece to Monica. “Breakfast of bad decisions.”

Monica smiled. “At least it’s warm.”

Outside, their rides waited—a black SUV for Belinda, a sedan for Monica. The sky was washed pale blue, the city already shrugging off the night.

At the curb, they hesitated. Then Belinda leaned in and hugged her, brief but real.

Monica held her close a second longer. “You know,” she said quietly, “we’ve both changed so much from who we started out to be.”

Belinda nodded against her shoulder. “And somehow, we’re still us.”

They pulled apart, eyes bright but not quite teary.

“Another round?” Belinda asked.

Monica smiled, opening her car door. “Always.”

They drove off in opposite directions, swallowed by traffic and daylight, back into the same lives they’d tried to drink their way out of—two blondes, two stories, another round of life.