The sun is lower now, shadows stretch the full length of the lot. Her door is still propped open.
Tate's in the middle of the space, hands on her hips, looking at posters spread across the floor.
I knock on the doorframe.
She spins at the sound and sees me. Her face does something immediate and genuine—lights up, opens completely, the unguarded expression of someone who has been hoping someone might stop by, and here someone finally is. It hits me square in the chest before I can brace for it, and the floor vanishes from underneath me. It's the same feeling you get when you misjudge how many stairs are left ahead, and your foot lands in thin air.
That shocked, slightly giddy sensation as the body regains its balance.
Except I haven't regained it. I'm still unmoored.
I have never been this close to her, ever.
The dust smudge registers first, beige paint on her right cheekbone, same color as the one on her thigh. Then her eyes, which are actually cornflower blue and not sky blue.
Tate wipes her hands on her shorts before extending one for a handshake, leaving a second streak of paint on the denim. "Hi! I've been meaning to come over. It's been insane with the contractors; every day, there's something new going wrong. The electrician was supposed to be here Tuesday and showed up Thursday, and then the flooring guy. Ugh, such a headache. Anyway, I'm Tate, and you're Tom, and I'm so glad you came over because I was starting to think you were avoiding me."
My hands stay in my pockets as I wait for her to finish. She does, eventually, slightly breathless, hand still extended. It's rude, I know, and my uncle would smack me in the head if he were still alive, but I don't accept the handshake. If I do, it might open something I'd rather keep closed.
"What are you opening?"
My question lands in the space between us. Her hand stays out—one beat, two—and then something reorganizes behind her eyes. Not hurt. Not flustered. Her hand drops, her smile too. The full warmth of her welcome disintegrates into dust, and she takes a small step back and crosses her arms over her chest.
I wanted her at a distance. I came over here specifically for information, not conversation, not whatever friendly extraction she does to people. But watching her decide, standing there, arms folded, amongst the paraphernalia of her new venture, hits me with a vibe I understand. I feel this version of her. It sparks something small and uncomfortable in my chest. Instantly, I regret not reaching out when she offered a hand.
"A business," she says. Short sentences now, matching my energy exactly.
"What kind?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"Because I'm next door."
"And?"
I gesture at the posters on the floor, the neon signs, the bar stools stacked in the corner.
She tilts her head and studies me. I'm trying to figure out if she's competition or simply doesn't know what she's doing. Tate is clearly doing the same calculation about me, and neither of us is being particularly successful.
The silence stretches as her eyes move over my face.
My gaze zeroes in on the dust smudge on her cheek. I want to reach over and wipe it off with my thumb, one quick gesture, and the wanting is so specific and so unwelcome that I almost take a step back.
I don't, but it's close. My right foot moved a half inch.
Tate smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "You really want to know?"
"Yeah."
"It's a dive bar."
The words arrive and sit there. I heard her—I speak English, she spoke English—and yet my brain keeps sliding off the meaning, unable to get a purchase, because it cannot possibly be what I think it is. She waits, pleasantly patient, while I catch up. When I finally do, the heat in my chest is clean and immediate, anger so pure I almost welcome it because anger is familiar and straightforward and does not have opinions about her legs.
I step forward. I'm 6'5”, and most people stagger back when I move into their space, some instinctive recognition of size differential.
But Tate? She doesn't move. Not even a flinch.
"A dive bar."