Mallory

You’re both early arrivals at the bar. The bar is half-lit, and there’s a smell of lemon cleaner and spilled IPA. Mallory is flipping through an old copy of “Rebecca” and sipping a drink.

You sit at the table next to her, and she looks up — not startled, just mildly amused, like she already clocked you three minutes ago.

“Just so you know, I’m undefeated at trivia night. Which means if you’re on my team, you win. And if you’re not…” She shrugs and gives a faint, lopsided grin.