Page 78 of The One Who Saw Her: Boone

Vivi hunched over her notebook, pretending to scribble, but she was just watching.

Spud reached across and patted Judy's hand—a little hard but patted it all the same. Then, voice low and soft, he said, "That sounds awful. But everyone has moments like that."

Vivi's chest tightened. She had to work to keep the smile off her face because he was actually listening to Judy. Showing real care—the clumsy, genuine kind that couldn't be faked. It was strange to see him like this, vulnerable and tender and awkward all at once. And that's exactly what makes him worth rooting for.

Vivi leaned back, a small private satisfaction settling in. This was what she loved about the work—watching two people fumble toward each other in real time from a perfect vantage point. Seeing the thing she'd set in motion actually move in the right direction.

It was the one part of her life right now that felt clean and uncomplicated and entirely within her control.

Spud took a breath, scratched the back of his neck, and gave that sheepish half-smile she knew all too well—the one that meant he was about to completely wreck his own dignity on purpose.

"Speaking of funny," he started, his voice a little loud and every hair on Vivi's body stood at attention.

Oh no. That's the windup face. That is absolutely his windup face.

"So, one night I had a little too much whiskey … don't look at me like that, it happens. Anyway, later on, my late wife got in a romantic way." He nodded sagely, as if narrating a cautionary tale from a medical journal. "Only problem was, the equipment was at half-mast. Like one of those lazy flagpoles that just refuses to salute."

Vivi sliced a hand across her throat. Six times.

Abort. For the love of God, Spud, abort mission.

"She came down a little too hard," he continued, clapping his hands together with a crack loud enough that a man two tables over visibly winced. "Snap."

Judy gasped. Vivi whimpered. Lottie nearly dropped a whiskey shaker.

"Had to go to the doctor," Spud added cheerfully. "They splinted it. Like a busted finger. Couple of popsicle sticks, tape, whole nine yards⁠—"

"Excuse me," Judy blurted, standing so fast her chair skidded back. "I ned to use the restroom."

She hurried off.

Spud sat back and exhaled like he'd nailed it.

A full thirty seconds passed.

Judy did not return.

Vivi chewed the end of her pen. Poor man. He'd laid himself completely bare—awkward, self-deprecating, embarrassingly human—and his date had literally fled the building. There was something in that which hit a little closer to home than she wanted to examine right now.

She knew something about being too much and letting things spill out before she’d thought about the consequences. About watching someone's expression shift in real time and knowing, with a sinking certainty, that you'd said the wrong thing.

She stayed in her booth, silently rooting for him, until five minutes had passed with no sign of Judy. Then she sighed, slid out, and walked over.

Spud looked up at her, confused and a little wounded in a way she recognized—the look of someone who had genuinely tried and genuinely miscalculated.

"You think she's coming back?" he asked.

"No," Vivi said gently. Then she sat down beside him. "Absolutely not. She's halfway to California reconsidering her entire dating history."

He groaned and buried his face in his hands. "I panic-talked."

"You nuclear-panic-talked," she corrected, rubbing his shoulder. "Spud, you don't have to trauma-dump your entire medical chart on a first date."

"She asked me for a funny story!"

"No, you asked her. Then you told her your fracture story. We specifically talked about that story."

He let out a helpless laugh, the kind that was half-sad. "I don't know how to talk to women anymore."