LONG ISLAND, MAY 1999

Life in Los Angeles has always been fast, but for Willow, Long Island seemed to move even faster.

Outside the loft, a tide of commuters swept around the streets that Willow navigated. The flow of chatter, taxis whizzing by, and cars honking impatiently sank deep into her eardrums. This cacophony invigorated the reality that she was truly, utterly here in Long Island, by herself.

Kind of.

She glanced at Paloma, who was effortlessly sliding through the crowd. "I can't believe how busy it is here!" Willow exclaimed; her eyes wide with excitement.

Paloma grinned, her dark hair bouncing as they weaved through the throng. "Welcome to New York! It's a whole different vibe from LA, right?"

Willow nodded. The buildings towered above them, each one a patchwork of brick and glass. She was used to the city atmosphere — all its dirt and grime, the smell of garbage mixing with exhaust and fried food, the almost instant desire to never go to sleep. Long Island was not much different in this respect. But where the West Coast was golden and warm, the East Coast was gray and biting. It glittered, almost in an unfriendly way, yet it welcomed Willow into its undiscovered territory, a realm of freedom that she had yet been able to immerse herself in.

"It's different," Willow finally said, though her words were lost against the commotion of everything else.

As they strolled down the sidewalk, the scent of street food wafted past, making Willow's stomach rumble. Her earlier anxiety had overtaken her ability to eat, and now she was paying the price. A vendor shouted about hot dogs, while a nearby musician strummed a lively tune on his guitar. Willow felt the rhythm of the city pulse around her, and she couldn't help but smile.

"Are we almost there?" she asked, feeling almost weightless. Until tonight, Willow had never been to a bar before. It was both terrifying and thrilling — like riding a rollercoaster for the first time.

"Just a few more blocks," Paloma replied, her pace unhurried. "You're gonna love this place. It has a character all its own."

Willow could hardly contain her anticipation. The idea of spending the summer here, experiencing the energy of the East Coast, felt like a dream.

"What about Montauk?" Willow wondered, "Is it like this?'

"Oh, Montauk is even better than this area. You're in for a treat," Paloma said, laughing. "Just wait until you see the sunset at the beach. It'll blow your mind."

As they approached the bar, the sounds of laughter and music spilled onto the street, wrapping around Willow like a warm embrace. She took a deep breath, her heart racing. The bar was already packed, but Paloma's small frame enabled her to push through the throng of bodies, pulling Willow harshly inside.

The dimly lit bar pulsed with music so loud it made the floorboards tremble beneath Willow's feet. She stood closely behind Paloma, resisting the urge to cling to her arm for security. The space was tightly packed with people around their age, faintly scented with cigarettes and bar food. Once again, her stomach reminded her that she was hungry.

Paloma scanned the crowd, but her search was in vain. The area near the entrance was too congested, with everyone jostling to order drinks at the bar. With a sigh, she reached back for Willow, firmly grasping her small wrist.

"Follow me," Paloma shouted over the loud music, "I can't risk you getting lost."

Willow nodded, though Paloma couldn't see her. Together, they navigated through the hot, sweaty wall, Willow's exposed arms brushing against damp t-shirts and clammy skin, until they found an opening. Beyond the never-ending line, they discovered a scattering of wooden tables and chairs, haphazardly arranged. Seated at the center were two men, waving their arms in the girls' direction.

Paloma hurried over; her excitement palpable. As she plopped into an empty seat, she remarked, "This place is always so fucking busy."

Willow had moved forward, torn between sitting beside Paloma or keeping a safe distance by remaining standing.

"Who's your friend?" one of the guys asked, eyeing her curiously. He looked older, dressed in a plaid shirt and jeans, with short, tousled dark hair. He was drinking a tall glass of dark beer, the white foamy top mimicking the color of a latte.

"This is Willow — Slyvia's intern," Paloma smiled proudly, before shifting her attention back to Willow.

Leaning in, the man whispered to Paloma, "Why is she just standing there?"

Willow felt embarrassment creep up her neck, but the other guy quickly interjected, "Ah, leave her be. Maybe she wants to get a drink, yeah? Don't be a prick about it."

The young man who had defended Willow smiled at her, revealing deep dimples in his cheeks. His reddish-brown hair swooped over the sides of his forehead, framing thick eyebrows and bright blue eyes that reminded Willow of a clear summer sky. It was hard to look away from them.

Willow's throat tightened as a blush crept up her neck. She quickly slid into a chair next to Paloma, finding herself across from the blue-eyed man. Nervousness overwhelmed her, her mouth going dry as she glanced between the two guys who watched her expectantly.

Paloma, oblivious of Willow's silence, began, "The music in here blows. Barry - do you know where the jukebox is at?"

Barry — the one in the plaid shirt — rolled his eyes, "We go through this every time. It's by the toilets."

"Be a gentleman, and accompany me to the jukebox, will you?" Paloma smiled, fluttering her lashes at him.

Barry groaned, "Why? Can't ya get Cillian to go with you? I just sat down."

"Because" Paloma replied slowly, "I asked you."

The other man — Cillian, Willow realized — elbowed Barry in the shoulder, "Just go, would ya? I'll go get us some more drinks while you're gone."

Barry sighed loudly, bringing his beer to his lips. In less than two seconds, he polished off the entire glass. Willow couldn't help but gape at the achievement. He stood, muttering incoherently as Paloma giggled.

Once they were out of earshot, Cillian turned to Willow, "Do you think Paloma fancies Barry?"

"Um, maybe?" Willow shifted awkwardly, "I don't know her well enough to know for sure."

"Of course, you just got here," Cillian's eyes sparkled, traveling down to her t-shirt, "Awesome shirt, by the way. I love The Cranberries."

She glanced down at her hands, then at her outfit. Unlike Paloma, who'd changed into a red miniskirt and matching tube top, Willow still wore the clothes she'd arrived in: a worn-out band t-shirt and jean shorts, paired with frilly socks and scuffed white Nike running shoes.

She ran her fingers over Dolores O'Riordan's face, her cropped bleach blonde hair and dark lipstick void of most it's color.

"Thanks," Willow said quietly, "They're my favorite band."

"One of mine too!" Cillian exclaimed, a little too excitedly, "And they're Irish — even better. You're already cooler than Paloma. All she listens to is the Spice Girls. It'll be nice to change the tunes in the apartment."

As if on cue, "Say You'll Be There" by the Spice Girls began blasting through the speakers. Somewhere in the bar, a group of girls squealed loudly, while a huddle of boys began whining about the song selection. Across from her, Cillian raised his eyebrows as if to say, I told you so.

Willow gave him a small smile, looking away once again. He seemed nice enough — way better than Barry. He didn't seem to care at all that Willow wasn't talking much, and it eased her anxiety to a degree.

"Well," Cillian announced after a moment, "Would you like to help me get those drinks?"

"Um," Willow hesitated, her eyes automatically looking for Paloma. She was nowhere to be seen.

"You don't have to," Cillian chuckled, but his dismissal immediately made Willow feel guilty. She began to think, any normal person would've said, "Sure, I'll help." But of course, even that was too complicated for her to manage. Why couldn't she just be normal?

"I can help you," Willow shot to her feet, "Really, it's no big deal."

He smiled, "Grand."

They headed towards the bar, the crowd still as heavy as when she first arrived. But Cillian managed to find a spot near the edge, where the line tapered off to a few people. The compact space, however, forced them to stand close regardless. His shoulder pushed itself against hers, and he shot her an apologetic look.

Willow held her breath — she couldn't remember the last time she'd been this close to another man. High school, maybe? Her mind drifted to the memory of her first kiss. Nate, the quiet boy from pre-calculus who'd asked her to senior prom, had given her a goodnight kiss after dropping her off at her grandmothers. It was their first and only date. The following Monday, Willow caught Nate in the hallway making out with Lindsey Freeman, an advanced sophomore from their pre-calculus class, and that was enough for Willow to ignore Nate for the remaining weeks of her high school career.

That was three years ago. It wasn't that she had been actively avoiding guys since then. In fact, Willow was open to dating anyone — the problem was her inability to form a coherent sentence without stumbling over her words or second-guessing herself. Her shyness acted as an unintentional shield, leading most men to perceive her as disinterested and unapproachable. She had already fumbled with Barry, and she felt like she was about to do it with Cillian as well.

"I'm not trying to invade your personal space," he said lightly, attempting to ease the awkwardness of their close proximity. It must have been obvious that Willow was spiraling.

"No worries," she squeaked, her fingers trembling gently. She quickly pushed them deep into her pockets, fingering the loose change that she had brought just for the occasion. Just then, Cillian was able to slide into an opening at the bar, waving a man over.

He ordered himself a glass of whiskey, no ice, followed with Paloma's vodka tonic and Barry's glass of Guinness.

"What do you normally drink?" Cillian asked casually over his shoulder as the bartender turned his attention to her.

Another seemingly simple question with a surprisingly complex answer. Despite being twenty-one, Willow's experience with alcohol was limited — this was, after all, her first time in a bar. She had tried drinking, of course. Back in LA, she'd occasionally sneak a bottle of Pink Moscato when her grandmother was out running errands. The Fletchers allowed her to drink whenever she wanted, though their selection was limited to a few beers and wine coolers.

Willow wasn't about to admit this, though. She wanted to appear cool and sophisticated, not socially awkward or prudish.

"Whatever, really," Willow remarked cooly, "I'm not picky."

The bartender gazed at Willow, clearly unimpressed. This wasn't the answer he was looking for.

A wave of panic washed over her, and on impulse, she ordered the same drink as Cillian: whiskey, neat. As she handed over her money, she silently hoped it would be palatable.

As they navigated back to their table — Willow balancing her whiskey in one hand and Paloma's drink in the other — Cillian leaned in close and murmured, "I wouldn't have pegged you for a whiskey girl."

The sensation of his hot breath on the back of her ear caused her to lose her footing. She stumbled, and though Cillian's hands were full, he tried to steady her with his elbow. Luckily, a stranger intervened, catching Willow before she could spill the drinks.

"I'm so sorry," Willow apologized to the woman, who looked at her with a mix of concern and amusement. Willow felt as if she were ablaze, the center of attention in a sea of onlookers.

The woman waved it off. "Don't worry about it. I've had my share of tipsy tumbles."

Willow managed a weak smile, too embarrassed to explain that she was completely sober. Cillian only laughed, urging Willow forward once more, entirely unfazed by the bumbling mess she was displaying. She was so sure that he was only trying to be nice to make her feel better.

Barry and Paloma were back at their table, chatting about the film as Willow and Cillian sat back down.

"I don't think this movie is going to be as big as you make it out to be," Barry gripped, and he nodded at Cillian as he handed him his glass of beer.

"Lots of small films go on to do great things," Paloma argued, "Sometimes, a smaller budget means that the actors have to work twice as hard."

Cillian groaned, "Not this topic again. Can we just move on?"

Paloma shrugged, taking a sip of her drink, while Barry's eyes slid to Willow from across the table, "Speaking of budget, how'd they manage to fit you into it? There's barely enough to pay for our food every week."

"Well, uh..." Willow hesitated, glancing down at the brown liquid in her chipped bar glass, "My school is paying for it."

This was partly true — she wasn't about to admit that her college advisor was married to the director of their low-budget film, and that the Fletchers were essentially paying for her stipend out of their own pockets.

"You go to university then?" Cillian asked her, sounding somewhat impressed.

Willow raised her eyes from the table, "Yeah, I'm studying at the University of Southern California."

"Los Angeles!" Paloma sighed in wonderment, placing a hand to her chest, "The city of angels."

"I tried going to school to become a lawyer," Cillian laughed, "Let's just say it didn't work out for me."

"What are you studying then?" Barry asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I originally wanted to be an actress," Willow explained quietly, "but that didn't work out."

"You can get a degree in acting in the States?" Paloma asked, genuinely surprised as she leaned closer to Willow.

Willow shook her head. "No, that's not what I meant. Before college, I wanted to act, but I wasn't any good."

What Willow failed to mention was that during her only attempt at landing a part in the freshman year high school play, she froze up and threw up all over the stage. No one forgot about it—she spent the rest of high school known as "Upchuck."

Cillian asked, "So, what are you doing now?"

"I..." Willow trailed off, her tongue feeling dry and thick. She quickly took a sip of whiskey, instantly regretting it. The liquid was rough and bitter, stinging her throat and triggering her gag reflex. She forced the liquor down, then coughed into her elbow, eyes watering.

Paloma slapped her back, looking concerned. "Wrong pipe?"

She forced a nod and pushed the whiskey far away. Disgusting.

Suddenly, Paloma sprang up from her seat with a squeal, making everyone at the table wince.

"Barry!" She slammed her cup onto the table. "I love this song. Come dance with me!"

Willow tilted her head, listening, and caught the beats of "No Scrubs" by TLC. An amused smile crossed her lips.

Barry buried his head in his hands. "No. No. No."

"Please," Paloma tugged his sleeve. "I can't go alone."

"Take Willow," Barry mumbled into his palms, "or Cillian. Or find some other chap to entertain you."

"What if I buy you something nice," Paloma coaxed, "something beautiful and American?"

Barry peeked through his fingers. "You've already made that exact promise."

"I'll go with you," Willow jolted to her feet, grateful for the excuse to escape the conversation about herself. Plus, she needed to leave before she could embarrass herself further.

A flash of disappointment crossed Paloma's face, but it was quickly masked as she grabbed Willow's hand. Within seconds, Willow found herself stumbling towards the center of the bar, where a small group of young people swayed and danced to the bar's music. Paloma twirled around to face Willow; any trace of her previous displeasure replaced with excitement. Willow watched as she tilted her head back, her brown bob cascading effortlessly. Her lips, painted in red lipstick, shined vibrantly against her tan skin as the bar's club lights skittered across the atmosphere.

Throwing her arms up, Paloma began to dance, moving her hips to the beat as she sang to the ceiling.

"I don't want no scrub. A scrub is a guy that can't get no love from me," she belted, before her head fell forward to look at Willow, expression suddenly serious.

"Barry is a scrub."

Willow almost burst out laughing, "What?"

Paloma rolled her eyes, reaching for Willow's forearms and pulling her close. Her soft skin felt warm and sweaty against Willow's arms, but she couldn't bring herself to pull away. Paloma's own face was intense, her nose inches from the tip of Willow's.

"Forget it," Paloma muttered, "Just dance with me. I want ti have fun."

It didn't appear that Willow had much of a choice. Paloma continued to hold onto her arms as she gyrated, attempting to get Willow to move as well. But she remained frozen, unsure how to approach the current situation. Paloma looked gorgeous, moving effortlessly as if she had done this a thousand times. Willow couldn't compare — she knew she would look ridiculous next to her.

"You're too stiff," Paloma shouted against the music, as it shifted from "No Scrubs" to "Just A Girl" by No Doubt, "Just relax. Shut your brain off and have fun!"

Shut your brain off and have fun. It seemed so simple, yet why was it so difficult? Willow glanced around, noticing the way almost every single woman was doing the exact same thing as Paloma: shamelessly enjoying themselves.

Willow took a deep breath, closing her eyes. In her head, she attempted to put herself into Paloma's shoes. She pictured herself in Paloma's outfit, her own blonde hair cut short, her own lips painted bright red, with confidence building between each step. Everyone's attention would turn towards her as she entered the bar, demanding the room without complaint. It was so easy in her mind to conjure up the ball of confidence — all she had to do was reach out and grab it.

With her eyes still closed, Willow focused on the beat of the music. The Backstreet Boys were playing now, the lyrics bustling through the hot air and flowing into her muscles. She found herself mimicking Paloma's steps, letting her body relax to the song as her own hips began to match Paloma's movements.

Paloma's laugh was loud, carefree, and contagious. She spun Willow in a circle, her fingers clasped firmly around Willow's wrist. Her eyes flung open, gasping.

"Come on, Willow! You're in New York now, let go!" Her eyes sparkled, a mischievous gleam dancing in them as she pulled Willow deeper into the rhythm of the crowd.

Paloma pulled her tight against her, wrapping her arms around her neck with a giggle. Willow's body was stiff at first — her movements awkward, tentative, the way she'd always been. The kind of person who clung to the walls at a party, who never let herself get swept up in the chaos. She'd always been the quiet girl, the one who stayed in the background. But now, with the music thundering in her ears, she let inhibitions fall away one beat at a time.

The crowd was a blur of limbs and color, but Paloma's grin cut through it all, a lighthouse in the storm. Willow found herself laughing, too, her arms wrapping around Paloma's shoulders as she gave herself over to the rhythm. Her feet moved faster, the awkwardness melting away. She felt... free. For the first time in her life, she was far from home, from the rules, from everything she'd always been told to be.

Willow had never felt so alive. The music thumped in her chest, heavy bass shaking her insides, and the strobe lights pulsed in time with her heartbeat.

Her shoes were sticky with spilled beer, and the air was thick with sweat and perfume. She could feel the pull of the city once again. New York felt alive around her, and for the first time in her life, it felt like she could be whoever she wanted to be. No one knew who she was — not Paloma, not Barry, not even Cillian. Why had she been so worried about first impressions?

She glanced around, half expecting someone to call her name, pull her back into the girl she used to be. But there was no one. She was Willow and right now, she could be anyone.

Paloma twirled her again, this time with more force, and Willow let herself be spun. The motion made her dizzy, but also alive in a way that was almost intoxicating. She threw her head back and laughed, louder than she'd ever laughed before. The sound felt foreign in her own ears, like she was waking up from a long, deep sleep.

For a moment, Willow was no longer the shy, uncertain girl from the small town she left behind that morning, but someone new, someone full of possibility. New York was everything she had imagined — bigger, louder, more chaotic— but in that chaos, there was freedom. The city seemed to hold endless doors, and for the first time in her life, Willow felt like she could walk through any of them.

She stopped dancing for a second, out of breath, eyes wide. Paloma caught her gaze, and the grin that stretched across her face was pure mischief.

"You're glowing," Paloma said, her voice loud over the music.

Willow blinked, startled by the words. "I... I don't even know how this happened," she said, laughing again, breathless.

"Girl," Paloma shouted, her voice teasing but warm, "this is you. You just didn't know it yet."

Willow's heart fluttered. She didn't know it yet, but maybe Paloma was right. Maybe this was her now, someone who could dance without caring who was watching. Someone who could live without looking over her shoulder. She raised her arms, letting the music swallow her whole.

The next song began, a fast, pulsing beat, and Willow lost herself again in the rhythm. This was her first night in New York, and the city felt like it was waiting for her.

She smiled, closed her eyes, and danced until the night blurred into something that felt like magic.