“And these”—she pokes a finger into the dimple on my right cheek, then my left—“should be illegal.”
“Hannah?”
She blinks slowly, then flares her eyes wide. “Huh?”
“The promise?”
Her brows scrunch, deep in thought. She leans against my hand again, humming softly.
“What do you want me to promise you?” I prod once more.
On a deep breath, she heaves herself back forward, one finger in the air signaling me to wait while she throws back some water. “Yes, s’right, the promise. Promise me, when I get sick later—” She pauses for dramatic effect. “And I will,” she singsongs, “that you won’t shudge me.”
I hold up three fingers in scout’s honor, pulling my lips between my teeth to hide my stupid, stupid grin.
She tsks. “Rowan, no,” she says, tone grave enough to make my senses go on alert. But then she grabs my hand and pins it clumsily to my forehead, demanding a soldier’s salute instead.
I do as she asks.
“S’better. Alan?!” she hollers, way too loud for this tiny establishment. Hannah slaps a hand over her mouth when she realizes.
The glowering man turns and I shake my head at him.
“Okay, runaway, I think you’ve had enough,” I coax.
“Nope, jussss one more. Look, water!” She downs the last of the glass. “One more, Alan, and keep ‘em comin’,” she declares even louder than before, twirling her finger in the air.
Palm permanently plastered to her spine at this point, I sigh as Alan saunters over. He does the same when he places her fifth tequila shot on the bar.
“Rowan,”Hannah whines, heels wobbling on the concrete outside the bar. “I think I drank too much.”
Her fifth shot was her final shot, I made sure of it. Made sure she kept downing water too. Yet she still isn’t sober enough to walk in a straight line. I wish I knew what she’s been up to for thepast five years, but she wasn’t much of a conversationalist tonight. And I can’t blame her. She wanted to just be, so I let her be.
I tug her gently by the elbow and cross her to my other side so I’m between her and the street. “You don’t say.”
A giggle escapes but jilts when she stumbles. She catches herself on my arm. “Shit! My ankle’s still sore.” Her heels come off and she scoops them up, dangling them by her fingertips.
I stop us at the alley entrance that leads to the parking lot. “Wait. It’s too dark to go barefoot. Let me carry you.”
She sucks in a sharp breath, eyes wild.
I’m about to course correct, worried I made her uncomfortable, when her face pales. Cheeks puffed out, head shaking, she croaks, “I’m gonna be sick.”
Before I fully comprehend what she said, she gives me her back to brace herself on the brick facade of the building. I sweep her hair into one hand, grabbing her shoes with the other, just before she pukes up every bit of tequila she consumed over the last hour, along with her dinner.
After several long seconds of more dry heaving, she pulls herself upright. Groaning, she swipes the back of her wrist over her mouth. “Please pretend you didn’t see that.”
I toss her a wink. “See what?”
Her whole body sinks with exhaustion. But she smiles. So I smile back.
“Will you let me carry you?”
She nods. I survey our surroundings to assess any other people lingering around. Her stomach probably couldn’t handle being thrown over my shoulder, and her dress is too short to ride on my back.
“Come here.” I hook one arm under her back and sweep her up under the knees with the other. Forearm braced where the hem of her dress hits her thigh, the fabric holds taut, and she wraps her arms loosely around my neck.
We step into the dangerously dim lighting of the parking lot, and her body stiffens again. She buries her head against my collarbone like she can’t bear to even look at this place. A quivering breath fans over myneck, and I position my head close to hers, a quiet assurance that she’s safe.