My fingertips brush against his hand as I complete the knot.
I peek up now, lifting one eyebrow. “Like some guy pitching a fit and knocking beer all over the place?”
He glares at me, and I try to keep from smirking at him.
With a nonchalant shrug, I answer the question. “I deal with it.” Like I always have. I’ve been looking out for myself for as long as I can remember. It doesn’t feel like such a hardship anymore. Just reality.
The only thing Beau gives me in response is a hard stare and a grunt.
But he doesn’t leave. He drinks tea at my bar for the rest of the night. For two hours, he sits there, keeping watch. And when I kick everyone out at midnight and shut things down, he stays behind, silently guarding me.
“Are you sober?” I ask as he walks me through the darkened parking lot to my car.
“I’ve been drinking fucking chamomile tea for two hours. I’ve never been more sober or hydrated in my life.”
I suck in a deep breath and pull his keys from my back pocket, holding them out to him on a flat palm. “Don’t pull that shit on me again, Beau.”
His throat works as he reaches forward and swipes the keys from me. “You’re not how I remember you, Bailey.”
I let myself smirk now because, of course, we all change. I couldn’t stay that frozen, terrified little girl forever.
I wanted to change.
“You’re not how I remember you either, Beau.”
His eyes shift back and forth between mine, like he’s searching for something in them. “What days do you work?”
I snort, glancing down to pull my own keys from my purse. “What days don’t I work?”
“Okay, what nights do you work alone?”
“Sunday through Tuesday,” I reply, zipping my bag.
Beau nods and says a terse, “Okay,” before spinning on his heel and giving me his back, looking every bit the military man he is. Head held high, shoulders perfectly straight.
Like he’s some sort of knight in shining armor.
One who starts pulling up a stool every Sunday through Tuesday to drink chamomile tea until midnight, so I don’t have to close by myself.
3
Beau
Cade: You’re coming to the wedding, right?
Beau: It’s my little brother’s wedding. Of course I’m coming.
Cade: You’re not exactly reliable these days. You no-show. And when you do show, you’re a miserable asshole.
Beau: I’m only doing my best imitation of you.
Cade: I’m not miserable anymore though. Just an asshole. That’s why everyone voted and decided I had to be the one who sent this message.
Beau: Everyone voted? Very democratic.
Cade: Willa says you need to apologize to Winter. She’s in the wedding party.
Beau: Willa doesn’t run my show.
Cade: You must be new here. Willa runs everyone’s show.
A song I don’t recognize plays from the speakers, but I two-step anyway. I’m wearing a suit that feels fucking awful, and these dress shoes are rubbing my grafts uncomfortably. Winter Hamilton has one hand on my shoulder and her nose is tipped high as she stares just beyond me. Or possibly at the top of my ear. I’m not entirely sure which.
Dancing with Winter is more uncomfortable than anything going on in my shoes. And that’s saying something.
For an entire song, we dance like stiff pieces of wood, ignoring each other. I can see Rhett and Summer dancing too. They look so fucking happy it’s hard to watch, but I don’t know where to land my gaze. It seems like everyone is watching me. I’ve got my hands locked in place because I don’t want to slide too low or too high on Winter’s ribcage. Those are no-fly zones, and based on the way her baby daddy, Theo, is glaring at us, every inch of her might be a no-fly zone.
The music switches over to a slower song and Winter mumbles, “Thanks. That was the junior high dance blast from the past I’ve always dreamed of.”
“Good god, Winter.” My fingers tighten. “One more dance.”
“Why?” Her head tilts and her blue eyes home in on my face. I feel like I’m in therapy again. Something broken that needs fixing. A specimen for medical professionals to poke and prod and analyze. Between my burns and my brain and my insomnia, I’m like a shrink’s wet fucking dream.
I hate that feeling. That expression. Like I’m a big dumb goldfish in a bowl.
“Because I need to apologize to you.”
She just shrugs. “No, you don’t.”
“I blew up at you at a family dinner.”