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Chelsea is still at the hostess station, having a pleasant conversation with a dark-haired waiter.
When I look up, I see that the overhead lamp is about to fall. It’s barely hanging on.
"Chelsea! Duck!"
Her eyes widen. I think I might be too late, but she follows my gaze, looking up, and then the lamp swings below as she crouches. It shatters as it swings, catching on the back of her hand, the glass showering her when it does.
I’m quickly at her side, crouching next to her, asking if she’s okay. There’s blood on the back of her hand, and glass crunches under the soles of my combat boots when I approach her.
She looks like she might be about to faint. "What was that?" she asks as she looks at me.
"Nothing," I say. "Just the lamp. Are you okay? Do you need me to call anyone?"
She brings her hands to the front of her face and shakes her head. "I think I’m okay," she says. "Just…fuck, that was a lot. I probably need to call my manager."
"Okay," I say. I stand up, offer her my hand, and she stands up with me.
"Thank you," she says softly. "I don’t know what would’ve happened if you hadn’t warned me."
I try for a smile. "Probably nothing," I say, and the words taste like ash in my mouth. "You would’ve totally seen that coming."
But I can’t tell her that I knowexactlywhat would have happened.
I just wish I could forget.
