Chapter 98. The Real Definition of Peace

Julie

I and Marissa, the vice president of marketing, have formed a new habit of meeting for lunch. It started as casual, a convenience thing—we both needed a break from the relentless grind at Illusionaire. Now, it’s become a ritual. I’m still unsure if this qualifies as friendship, mainly because I don’t know what friendship actually looks like. But Marissa talks a lot, and I love to listen. Her stories have this wild, messy charm, like someone spilling glitter across a chaotic art project.

We’re at a cozy little café a few blocks from work, the kind of place that tries too hard to be trendy with its mismatched furniture and aggressively minimalist menu. Marissa is mid-rant about her current boyfriend and her dog, gesturing with a fork that’s dangerously close to flinging her salad across the room.

“I swear, Nathan only comes over to spend time with Chubbs.”

I choke on my sip of iced tea. “Chubbs?”

She nods. “My French bulldog. He’s—h