She sat back a fraction, amusement and curiosity mixing.
“Okay, Benedict. Message received. We’re beingresponsible.”
“Look at us,” I said. “Grown.”
“Tragic,” she murmured, and the word hung like a ribbon between us.
A couple of regulars waved on their way out, clapping shoulders, telling me they’d see me for Sunday football. The door swung open, spilled a gust of white as someone else bustled in for to-go chowders.
Janey polished off the last triangle of sandwich, pushed her plate back with a satisfied sigh. “That,” she said, “still ruins me in the best way.” She lifted her empty flute. “Another?”
“Two and through,” I said, taking it before she could set it where her elbow might “accidentally” brush my hand. “You said you had work.”
“I did,” she said. “I do.” Her gaze snagged on the sprig of holly tucked in the corner of the backbar mirror. “But what’s the point of coming home if you don’t let the place get to you a little?”
I washed, dried, and set the flute upside down. “Janey.”
She met my eyes, and for a second, the practiced ease dropped. There was a flicker—nostalgia, maybe honesty, maybe just the same stubborn streak I’ve got when I tell myself I’m not tempted by bad ideas.
“We were always easy,” she said. “You and me.”
“We were always casual,” I corrected.
“Potato, puhtahto.”
“Those are different words.”
She smiled. “Are they?”
“Janey,” I said again, quieter. “I’m seeing someone.”
There. Clean. Put it on the wood like you put a drink: no wobble, no spill, no apology.
“Riley’s facedidsay as much.” She glanced down and smoothed her sleeve, giving herself the half-second to decide how to play. When she looked up, the smile was softer. “She’s lucky.”
“I am,” I said, surprising myself with how easy the pronoun landed. “If I don’t screw it up.”
“You?” Janey’s mouth quirked. “Never.”
“Constantly,” I said, which earned the first real grin out of me all morning.
She pulled on her coat, tucked her hair free of the collar. “Well. If you’re determined to be noble, I guess I’ll let you.” Sheslid her card across. “Put me down for the tab and a donation to whatever holiday fundraiser Lydia’s shaking a bin for this week.”
“Pancake breakfast,” I said. “Raising money for the winter coats drive.”
“Perfect.” She lifted her purse, looped it over her shoulder, then leaned both forearms on the bar and tipped her head, considering me for a long moment. “One thing about you, Drew,” she said, voice velvet. “This place sets you in amber. It’s… nice.”
There are words I could’ve said, a dozen angles to take. I chose the simplest. “I like who I am here.”
She nodded. “I did, too.”
She pushed back her stool. It scraped lightly on the floor. I exhaled, just a fraction, with tension easing off the muscle like a cramp deciding to be merciful. I’d kept it clean. Platonic. No sparks, no embers, no little story that could blow into a lie when told by the wrong mouth.
Then the wind made its own entrance—door flying open on a gust that jostled the wreath and sent a flurry across the boards. Janey instinctively reached out to steady herself—hand landing on the bar, leaning in toward me.
“Sorry,” she laughed, breathy. “Graceful as ever.”
“I got it,” I said, stepping around the edge to shove the door back into its frame and flip the latch.
