Page 3 of Rhodes

I want to snatch the cup out of her hand and throw it across the room.

"I didn't say that. You know I'm not like that."

Despite myself, I glance down at her cup. The wedge of lime is soft and dehydrated on the ice, like someone squeezed all of the juice out of it into her drink.

"Club soda. That's all, no vodka. Does that make you happy?"

There's a version of this where I lie, and she would know, and it would be worse. "Slightly."

"Admit it. You thought I was getting wasted, didn't you?"

"Wasted, no. But there was a moment that I did consider what you were drinking."

“A moment.” She pulls the glass back and takes a sip of it, watching me over the rim. There's no give in her at all. "You know what a moment is when it's your whole family looking at you? It's an eternity. It's every glass I've ever held at every table I've ever sat at. My sister does it. My dad does it. Coop does it so hard he pulls a muscle. And now you."

"I barely count."

"You're basically my brother, my only brother's bestie. And I'm pretty sure my mom liked you better than me, anyway." She says it like a joke. Her eyes drop to her cup when she gets to her mom.

"You know that's not true." My stomach rolls. What the fuck is this?

Her mouth is still open on whatever she was going to fire back, and it closes. The edge in her face doesn't disappear so much as loosen.

"Yeah," she says after a second. "God. What is this weather in New Orleans all about? I never know if it's going to be cold or sweltering."

"That's New Orleans late winter for you. Parades start in two weeks, and the whole city is already practically shut down from anything that isn’t Mardi Gras.”

“I have no use for Mardi Gras,” she says, flipping her hair over her shoulder, and the bile comes back. The moment is gone as fast as it opened.

She sets her plastic cup of ice and a sad lime wedge down on the table, and the condensation skates it a half inch across the table like a hockey puck. "You can report back to Coop that I'm alive and hydrated and not doing anything that requires a chaperone. Tell him I said to enjoy Spain."

"He's not gone yet, you know."

"I know. He leaves on Wednesday, which is when I'm moving into his place. I love him, but he needs to get the hell out of here. I'm over him looking at me like I'm made of wet paper." She pulls a vape out of her bag and takes a drag, blowing down to avoid anyone seeing it. "Which I'm guessing you share his sentiment, based on our little rendezvous. It's been lovely, but I have enough babysitters."

Why did I have to open my mouth about her not belonging in a bar?

"Tallulah."

"Don't." She's already stepping back. "I've had a nice night slumming it on your side of Freret, but on second thought, I've got to go finish packing." She looks at me and tilts her head, and something in it isn't entirely an insult, which is worse. "Enjoy your beer. Enjoy the view. And tell your friend the answer's no."

She's gone into the crowd before I can decide what my face is doing, green dress swallowed up by a hundred other people, and I stand there with a warm beer and two friends who are very carefully not looking at me.

When I walk back to join them, Deuce claps me on the shoulder.

"So," Deuce says. "You gonna tell me why Coop Maybank's kid sister just walked in here and took ten years off your life?"

"Drop it, Deuce."

He lifts his hands and lets it go, which for Deuce is a minor miracle. Nash is quiet, which is more unlike him, turning his glass in a slow circle on the bar. Then he asks it, not joking for once. "She okay? After the mom thing?"

And that's the question, isn't it? Because everybody in her life has decided the answer is no, that she's fragile, and she needs a chaperone so she doesn't break. And I just realized I'm one of them.

Because one thing Tallulah doesn't realize, even though she's strong as shit. She is fragile. She's been through hell and back the last three years, and this city is relentless.

I stand by what I said, even though I shouldn't have said it. She has no business in a bar in New Orleans less than a year after she got out of rehab.

"Yeah," I tell Nash. I flip my phone over, and the text about the board meeting is right there waiting. I turn it face down again. "She's fine."