It’s closing time, and the bar empties.
Tildie and Rookie handle the last of the cleanup. Ellie's in the back counting the register, reading glasses perched on her nose, pencil behind her ear.
I grab my jacket from behind the bar and pull my keys from the pocket.
"I'll walk you out." Rookie appears at my shoulder, rag in hand, like he was waiting for the cue.
"You don't have to." I say it every time. He ignores it every time.
We walk toward the door. Tildie calls from behind the bar, not looking up from the glasses she's stacking.
"Drive safe, Saylor. Roads are icy past the bridge."
I glance back. "Thanks, Tildie."
She gives me a nod. Small, warm. A different nod than Ellie's. Tildie's nod saysI see you and I'm here, and the weight of it follows me through the door.
The parking lot is mostly empty.
My Honda sits under the far light, frost already forming on the windshield.
There’s a truck next to it. Rookie must’ve left his Harley at the club tonight.
"You sure you're okay?" He asks it while we walk, his breath visible in the cold air, hands in his jacket pockets. "You've been somewhere else tonight."
Tildie's words. Almost identical.
I wonder how visible the cracks are if two people spotted them in the same shift.
"Long week." I pull my keys out. "I'm tired."
He nods. Doesn't push. Leans down and presses his mouth to my forehead, a kiss so gentle it barely qualifies as contact. His lips are warm against my cold skin, and the tenderness of it makes my throat close.
"Text me when you're home." He steps back. "Please."
I zip my jacket. "I will."
He heads toward his truck. I watch him get inside and he starts the engine.
I turn toward my car and stop.
On the other side of the lot, a truck is parked under the far edge of the lot light.
Dark. Older model, with a white bag sitting at the top of the window. It’s made to look like a breakdown.
The frost on its windshield says it's been here a while, but there’s a man leaning against the driver's side door.
Heavyset. Short hair, cropped close. Baseball cap pulled low. One boot propped against the tire behind him.
Arms crossed over his chest, one boot propped against the tire behind him. Relaxed, casual, like he's been waiting without minding the wait.
He smiles when he sees me looking.
The smile is wide and easy and practiced. The smile of a man who knows how to use his face as a weapon and has been sharpening it for years.
"Saylor, right?" His voice carries across the cold air, friendly, conversational, pitched to sound harmless.
My legs stop working.