All I see is her, standing there in front of me, smiling as if she doesn’t notice the scars on half of my face, crawling down my neck, or the glasses perched on my nose, or the way my body feels too damn tight inside my own skin.
For a moment, I allow myself to think: maybe she doesn’t notice the wreckage at first. Maybe she only sees me, and that thought terrifies me more than the fire ever did.
A few stragglers are finishing their drinks before leaving. I go through the motions of closing up; wiping down counters, stacking chairs, and ringing out the till.
My scars itch with every stretch and twist, a dull burn that sticks around no matter how many times I readjust my sleeves.
She sits perched on a stool, her duffel at her feet, as her legs swing back and forth. She’s been talking nonstop since the others left, words spilling out faster than I can keep up, but I don’t mind.
“Did you know flamingos aren’t actually born pink?” she says suddenly, propping her chin on her hand. “It’s from the shrimp they eat. Without it, they’re like this sad, gray color.”
I pause mid-wipe, arching a brow. “Flamingos.”
“Yes, flamingos!” she grins, eyes sparkling. “I saw it in a documentary. Nature is weird. Imagine being stuck with just one color because of your diet. Like, what if I ate too many Cheetos and turned orange?”
I snort. “Maverick would.”
She slaps the counter, giggling. “Oh my God, he totally would. Amelia would hate her lifeee.”
Her giggle, fuck.
I shake my head, stacking clean glasses. “She already puts up with too much.”
She leans forward, conspiratorial. “Between us, I know she secretly loves his chaos. Don’t tell her I said that.”
I glance at her, lips twitching. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
She beams, satisfied, then jumps into another tangent. “Oh! And Catalina texted me the other day about the Big Dipper, but she swears it looks like a frying pan. Can you believe that? She ruined it for me. Every time I look up now, all I see is a pan waiting for eggs.”
“Fits her,” I mutter.
She gasps, clapping a hand over her mouth. “Reed Hayes! Did you just make a joke? About your sister-in-law?”
“Don’t tell her.”
She laughs so loudly it bounces off the walls, and I can’t stop the small smile tugging at my mouth.
Her words keep tumbling out, facts about Ruby Ridge she read online, stories about filming content in LA, complaints about airport security. She talks with her hands, blue eyes wide, like she’s afraid silence will swallow her whole.
And I listen to every damn word.
Because I enjoy the sound of her voice filling the empty spaces, I like how her smile softens when she thinks I’m notlooking. I even like how her engagement ring flashes in the low light, even though it feels like a punch to the ribs.
Lucky bastard. Whoever he is.
Finally, I finish counting the register and pull my keys from my back pocket, as her legs are still swinging idly, her mouth still moving a mile a minute.
I clear my throat. “Ready, Layla?”
She lights up, clapping her hands together. “Yessss!”
And just like that, she turns closing time, usually my loneliest hour, into something I don’t want to end.
I shake my head, lips twitching, and head for the door. The familiar feel of the keys jingles in my hand as I flick off the last of the lights, plunging Boots & Bourbon into darkness. The neon sign outside bleeds a burnt red through the windows, casting a faint glow over the bar.
She hops off the stool, her duffel bouncing against her hip, and skips after me. Her sneakers squeak against the floor, her energy practically vibrating.
Out on the sidewalk, the night air is crisp, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. The town feels quieter now, with Ruby Ridge settling into its bones, but with her beside me, the silence doesn’t feel as heavy.
