"I'm thinking about collecting things."
"Like patches?"
"Like proof."
Jordan doesn't ask what I mean. Jordan's good like that. She lets things be what they are without requiring an explanation.
We clean up. Say goodbye. Hugs, promises to text, Keely making everyone commit to brunch next Sunday. Jake waves from a distance because Jake doesn't hug and we respect that.
I take the bus home. The patches are in my bag. The cookies are gone because I handed the container out during the march and every single cookie was eaten by a stranger who said thank you and one woman who said "these are the best cookies I've ever had at a rally" and I told her about Grandma Eloise and she said Grandma Eloise was a patriot.
At home I go to my room. The glow-in-the-dark stars are on the ceiling. The ceiling fan wobbles. The desk drawer opens and the pink pencil case is right where I left it, under a pile of old pens and a protractor I never used.
I unzip it. I put four patches inside. Rainbow flag. Fist and flower. Protect each other. The flame.
I zip it up. The case is light. Four patches don't weigh much. But they're a start, and everything starts somewhere, and mine starts here, in the bedroom where I counted sirens and stuck stars on the ceiling and decided I was going to be a firefighter.
The blue patch is in my jacket pocket. Teague's. I'll give it to her tonight.
I text the group chat:best rally. best friends. brunch sunday confirmed. keely is buying.
Keely:i never said i was buying!!!
Jordan:you implied it.
Raquelle:you definitely implied it.
Mia:jake says you also implied appetizers.
Keely:jake needs to stop talking.
I put the phone down. Pick up the pencil case. Hold it. It's small and pink and it has a zipper and it's mine.
Teague has her jacket. I have this.
Different object. Same idea. You carry what you stand for, and you add to it every time you stand somewhere new.
I put the pencil case in my bag. Grab the blue patch from my jacket pocket. Head out.
Teague will be behind the counter and the neon will be going blue-pink-blue and I'll walk in with a patch in my pocket and give it to the woman I love and watch her hold it in her hands with her rings and her tattoos and her face that edits everything except the things that matter.
I can already see it.
Chapter Thirty
Teague
Saturday night. The bar is half-full and the playlist is doing its job and I'm behind the counter in the rhythm I've built over three years of Saturdays: pour, wipe, pour, check the room, pour. The neon is cycling blue-pink-blue. Jeff is on his stool with his PBR. The pool table has two college kids working through a game of eight-ball that's going to take them another hour because neither of them can bank a shot.
Normal Saturday. Anthem doing what Anthem does.
The contract is still in the office drawer. Carl hasn't called in two months. He's in Tampa with his sister and the last I heard she was doing better and he was "thinking about next steps," which could mean anything from selling to coming back to staying in Tampa forever. The number I need is in the savings account, has been for weeks. I haven't told Carl because Carl hasn't asked and because the conversation that turns Anthem from his bar to my bar is a conversation I've been circling for months, getting closer each lap, and I'm almost there.
Almost. Not yet. There's a difference between almost and not yet and I've been living in it since February, since Carl stopped pouring drinks and left me the keys and the playlist and the contract and the faith that I'd take care of the thing he built. I've taken care of it. I've done more than take care of it. I've made it mine in every way except the one that's on paper.
The door opens. Zoe.
She's got her jacket on and her bag over her shoulder and she's moving through the room with purpose, not her usual full-broadcast entrance where she greets every surface and person between the door and her stool. Tonight she's aimed. Walking toward me with her hand in her jacket pocket holding something and her face carrying an expression I recognize from the morning she told Cap she wanted a chance: certain. Decided. Done deliberating.
