“I thought you were kidding about the paint paddles,” Leo said, near enough to Dawson’s ear that his breath hit skin.
Dawson shouldered through the crowd toward the bar. Leo followed in his wake, pressed close by necessity, his hand brushing Dawson’s hip twice.
Wes spotted them from behind the taps and grinned. “Hey Dawson. Leo.” He set two beers on the bar without being asked, Dawson’s usual and whatever he’d decided Leo should drink. “You here for the raffle or just hanging out?”
“Both,” Dawson said.
“Smart man. They’ve got ribeyes tonight. Kowalski’s did the packages.” Wes slid the beers forward and glanced at Leo. “Good to see you out.”
“Thanks.” Leo took the beer. His shoulder was pressed against Dawson’s at the bar, neither of them moving to make more room.
Gunnar passed behind Wes with a rack of clean pint glasses, his free hand catching Wes’s hip as he went. Two seconds, maybe less. Wes didn’t look up, just shifted to let him through. Gunnar slotted the glasses under the bar and moved on.
They moved behind the bar without bumping, without checking, like two parts of the same machine. Wes reaching for a glass while Gunnar ducked behind him. Gunnar’s hand again on Wes’s shoulder as he passed, a squeeze that lasted half a second. Neither of them seemed to think about it.
Dawson’s throat went tight. He looked away and found Leo watching him.
Leo didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask. Just held his gaze for a beat, then took a drink and turned to study the raffle table like it required his full attention.
“Come on.” Dawson flagged down one of the kids and bought two paddles for the first round, then handed one to Leo.
Leo held it up and squinted at the number. “How many rounds are there?”
“Depends on how much meat they’ve got.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Ten, twelve. However long it takes to raffle off all the packs.”
“And I get one shot per round with this thing?” Leo waved the paddle. “Those odds are terrible.”
“They collect the paddles after each round, sell new ones for the next.”
“So if I hate my number, I just wait and hope for a better one next time.”
“You can buy as many as you want each round if you want to improve your odds.”
“Now you’re talking.” Leo flagged down the kid and bought five more before Dawson could stop him. He fanned them out in his hand like playing cards and looked pleased with himself, and Dawson shook his head and didn’t bother hiding the smile.
A kid in a Lakeshore jersey squeezed between them, selling paddles to the group behind, and Leo shifted into Dawson to make room. His shoulder pressed into Dawson’s chest for a second, maybe two, before the kid passed and the space opened back up. Leo didn’t move away. Dawson didn’t either. He took a drink, stared at the TV above the bar, and tried not to think about the fact that half the town was in this room and he wasn’t crawling out of his skin.
No one had even noticed them here together.
“I’m holding numbered paint paddles in a bar in Wisconsin waiting to win pork chops,” Leo said. “If my mother could see me right now.”
“You’d rather be somewhere else?”
Leo looked at him. The noise pressed in around them and someone’s elbow caught Dawson in the back. Leo didn’t flinch. “Nope. I think this is the perfect introduction to small-town life.”
The raffle caller, a guy from the fire department who took the job way too seriously, grabbed the microphone. Half the bar winced at the feedback before he even got a word out.
“First round, ladies and gentlemen. First round. You got your paddles? Hold ’em up.”
The bar went loud. Leo glanced at Dawson. Dawson lifted his paddle without looking away from the caller.
Leo groaned when none of his numbers were called. “This is rigged.”
Dawson’s first instinct was to shift away when Leo moved closer to let someone past. Create the gap, the safe inch of space he’d been maintaining his whole life in rooms full of people who knew him. But Leo’s body was warm against his arm, the bar was loud, and nobody was looking at them. He stayed where he was.
