Not healed.
But there.
Ruthanne leaves with her dignity tucked under her arm like a purse she might swing at someone.
The room breathes again.
Then Cornbread raises a glass. “To women with memory.”
Half the bar drinks.
Amelia looks stunned.
I don’t blame her.
She just stood up to Jeremy without Jeremy in the room. Sometimes that is the harder fight.
I lean down. “You want out?”
She nods once.
I guide her toward the back door instead of the front, my hand hovering near her back. Not touching now because her skin looks like one more sensation might shatter her. Royal catches my eye as we pass.
He nods once.
Meaning he has the room.
Meaning no one follows.
Good.
The back alley behind the Fire Pit smells like rain, bourbon barrels, cigarette smoke, and hot grease from the kitchen vent. It’s narrow, brick on one side, fenced gravel on the other, with a security light buzzing overhead. Not romantic unless your standards have been ruined by outlaw life.
Amelia walks three steps out and bends forward, hands on her knees.
I stay near the door.
Not crowding.
She takes one breath.
Then another.
Then she laughs.
Not happy.
Half-hysterical.
I frown. “You okay?”
“No.”
“Good. Thought I misread that.”
She straightens and turns toward me. Her eyes are wet, cheeks flushed, mouth still red and a little smudged from the drink and the night.
“She said exactly what I was afraid of,” Amelia says.