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“He is,” I agree, feeling a lump in my throat. “Can you keep the music lower tonight?”
She lifts her eyebrows. “You said it always has to be at ten. It’s in the damn rule book. It’s the only rule in the book.”
“Seven,” I say. I tap my chin, then point to a booth in the back corner, the farthest from any of the speakers. “And save that booth for him.”
“It’s the worst view in the house,” she says pointedly. “You like this guy or not?”
I’m looking at that table. It’s located at the back door leading to the alley that smells like broccoli, and an idea starts to poke at me. It’s not ready to germinate quite yet, but I’ll keep watering it and giving it sunlight. A back room at the bar where it’s quieter, darker, calmer—a place where people who don’t love the hustle can find some peace. A compromise that’ll allow Danny to spend some time here.
Maybe the idea will be a weed, and maybe it’ll be a flower, but there’s only one way to find out.
Azalea repeats her question, and I murmur, “I think I’m in love with him.”
She whistles, then grins at me. “This mean I’m free and clear to make a move on Daphne?”
“She’s probably still straight,” I comment.
“No one’s perfect.” She waggles her eyebrow, making the bright green jewel piercing it waggle too. “And who knows. Maybe she just hasn’t met the right woman yet.”
I grin at her. “You do you. I certainly wouldn’t mind if she wanted to sleep with someone other than my boyfriend.”
“Look at you, gone two weeks and you’ve already settled down.”
An uncomfortable feeling stabs at me, but when I think of the apartment, of making drinks with Danny or taking a bath together or working on the murder board, I feel a gush of the warmth I’ve only ever gotten here before. Danny is making me hope for what seems impossible. Then again, lots of people are devoted to their jobs and their partners. Maybe I can be one of them.
“What can I say? Maybe I just needed to meet the right guy.”
* * *
The wrong guyis waiting for me in front of Josie’s crayon-drawn storefront. His hair is short and a crispy blond, and he’s only wearing a thermal shirt despite the cold front that’s working its way in, bringing down more leaves.
Really, the fact that he saw that sign and then proceeded to go in there to pay that woman money is all anyone needs to know about his character.
“You’re three minutes late,” he blusters.
“She’s not here,” I say, because the storefront is very clearly dark and also, judging by the fact that he’s out here without a coat on, locked.
“But she still knows.”
“Oh, come on, Byron, she’s not actually psychic. And even if she were, she wouldn’t knoweverything.”
He shushes me and looks around with wild eyes, like he thinks the plants might be watching. Christ, what happened to him?
Josie, I guess.
Or his own hubris biting him in the ass.
We wait for a minute in uncomfortable silence, and then I text Shauna, asking for Josie’s number.
“This is all because you were late,” Byron says, sulking, his arms wrapped around his upper body.
I take off my scarf and throw it at him.
“Is that your boyfriend’s scarf?”
“Oh, for God’s sake. It’s purple. Does he look like the kind of guy who’d wear a glittery purple scarf?”
“So heisyour boyfriend,” he says miserably, as if he has any room to care. He wraps the scarf around his neck and arms.
