“What do you know about him?”
There’s a barely-there shake of her head before she mumbles, “Nothing. I know nothing.”
Alan appears with a fresh shot glass and a bottle of tequila. She watches him pour the amber liquid, entranced like she’s one pull away from dissociating. It’s normal after what she’s been through, but all the time I’ve spent with military doctors and therapists specializing in PTSD reminds me it’s best to keep her talking.
She throws back the shot and slams the glass down on the bar. “My friend set us up. He works with her husband.”
Her lungs pull in a heavy rush of air as the alcohol works its way through her system. She’s about to wave Alan down for another when I stop her. “Drink some water first.” I slide my glass over. Her eyes meet mine. “Please?”
Thankfully, she doesn’t argue and takes a long sip. Her phone vibrates from inside her bag. When she retrieves it, her face falls.
“What is it?”
“It’s Kristen. The friend who set us up. She’s asking how the date went.”
I scratch the stubble along my jaw. “You gonna tell her what happened?” If I can’t get her to report it, maybe she’d be willing to talk to her friend about it at least.
“How do I not?” She stares at the screen, thumbs hovering but unable to move.
The same 80’s and 90’s classic country music pours from the same old jukebox as I watch her war over how to reply. My gaze dips to her wrists again and all I see is red. I want to hug her some more.
Gently, I free the phone from her hand and set it on the bar. “Maybe not by text.”
“Yeah…yeah, you’re right.” She sips more water, simultaneously flagging Alan for another shot. I signal for more water at the same time.
Her fourth shot lands in front of her which I promptly cover with my palm. She huffs but chugs down the water first without a fight. I’ll let her do whatever she needs to process whathappened. I’ll be her bodyguard, her designated driver, her shoulder to cry on. But she needs water to balance the alcohol.
“Happy now, Mr. Bossy Pants.”
“To see you? You have no idea. The circumstances? Hate everything about them.”
She holds my gaze, eyes a little glassy. All the tension in her body from earlier has released as her inhibitions have lowered. There’s nothing relaxed about the way she looks at me, though. It’s allmemoriesanddisbeliefandquestions.
So many questions.
Before she can ask any of hers, I ask mine. “Why’d you run away from me outside the hardware store today?”
At that she looks away and chokes down the shot with a sputtering cough. “Honestly? I don’t even know. One minute I was on a work call, then a door pummeled me in the face without warning andyoushowed up. I panicked.”
I laugh, but so does she. A real one this time.
“I’m sorry,” she continues, body swaying. “It was dumb.”
“Pretty sure I’m the one who should be apologizing.” I check the lump on her forehead on instinct.
Her head tips back on another laugh. She nearly topples off her stool, and I throw out an arm to steady her. My hand splayed across her back, she pushes against it for a beat before gripping the bar and pulling herself forward.
“Promise me something, Rowan.” Her words drag out, slurring together.
“Okay.”
Hannah looks at me, deep and long. I can’t help the thoughts that cross my mind when our eyes meet.So pretty. I’m leaving in a couple of weeks. Not again.Thoughts I shouldn’t be entertaining. Not tonight.
She just stares, my hand still an anchor at her back.
“I forgot how blue your eyes were.”
I smile. She’s tipsy but at least her mind’s on me and not the asshole.