Me:He's out at some bar with friends for his birthday. Being a normal 21-year-old.
Jason:And you're sitting at home overthinking. Go talk to him.
Me:That would be weird
Jason:Weirder than sitting here being miserable?
I put the phone down. Pick up the book.
The Waystone Inn lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts.Eight times.
The phone buzzes. Not Jason this time.
Devin:I hate bars.
I sit up. The message sits on my screen, stark and simple. I can see him, hunched at a bar, surrounded by noise and people and drinks he doesn't want, wearing that thin jacket, that careful blankness on his face.
I start typing. Delete it. Start again. Delete. Start.
Where are you?
Murphy's. Tyler's birthday plan. I'm miserable.
Stay there.
I'm on my bike before I finish putting on my jacket.
* * *
Murphy's is exactly what I expected. Dive bar trying to be Irish, failing at both. It's packed with college kids and young professionals, all loud and drunk. I almost turn around.
Then I see him.
Devin's at the bar, hunched in on himself like he's trying to disappear. There's a line of drinks in front of him, shots, beers, something pink with an umbrella. He's holding one beer,barely touched, staring at it like it contains the mysteries of the universe.
He's wearing a blue shirt I've never seen. It does make his eyes look different, brighter, less guarded. But everything else about him screams discomfort. The set of his jaw, the way he's angled toward the exit, the way his fingers tap the bar in an anxious rhythm I recognize from the café when he's overwhelmed.
Tyler and a girl are on the tiny dance floor, completely absorbed in each other. Devin's alone.
I watch three different guys approach him in the five minutes I stand by the door. Each one trying to buy him another drink, leaning too close, touching his shoulder. Devin shrinks away from all of them, polite but clearly miserable.
A fourth guy approaches, older, aggressive in that drunk way that sets off alarm bells. He puts his hand on Devin's back, leans in close. Devin freezes.
I'm moving before I think about it.
"Hey, Dev."
Devin's head snaps up, eyes wide. "Silas? You —"
"Sorry I'm late." I position myself between him and Drunk Guy, casual but clear. "Ready to go?"
"I —"
"He's fine where he is," Drunk Guy says, hand still on Devin's back.
I look at the hand. Then at him. Don't say anything. Just look. My lion doesn't surface, I don't let it, not here, not inpublic, but whatever's in my expression communicates clearly enough.
He removes his hand.