“So,” I say, voice rougher than I want, “if anybody asks, we know favorite colors, food, music, allergies, family, and hobbies.”
“And that your exact birthday is classified.”
“National security.”
“And that you are allergic to authority.”
“Severe case.”
“And I sing badly.”
“Looking forward to suffering through that someday.”
Someday.
Hell.
That word has no business sitting between us over fake dating and fries.
She looks away first. “This is supposed to be fake.”
“Yeah,” I say.
I take a drink of Firestarter and keep my eyes on her.
“I know.”
The music changes to something with more guitar and less sorrow. Someone whoops near the dartboard. Cornbread yells at a man to stop using top-shelf bourbon for cocktails unless he wants his ancestors disappointed. Amelia looks toward the noise, and instead of shrinking, she smiles.
One drink. One ride. One hour without August needing her. One hour without Jeremy in front of her. A basket of fries. It should not be enough to make a woman look reborn.
Maybe it ain’t. Maybe it’s only enough to remind her she ain’t dead. That will do for tonight.
I nod toward the small open space near the jukebox where a couple is half-dancing, half-arguing with rhythm. “You dance?”
She laughs. “No.”
“That no like Widowmaker no?”
“That was a survival no. This is a dignity no.”
“Dignity is overrated.”
“Says the man named after a drunken night, pretending motorcycles are horses.”
I grin. “That line had bite.”
“I used to have a mouth on me.”
“Used to?”
Her smile fades a little. “Jeremy didn’t like it.”
“Jeremy ain’t here.”
As soon as I say it, I wish I had not.
Because Jeremy is here.