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Turned out Travis was a cop. A detective.
And he was hot.
Light brown skin, kind dark eyes, and a very nice square jaw. He was lean, and I figured he knew how to handle himself. Plus, he was smart. He asked about the chickens. I told him all their names, and he never blinked once. He listened attentively through the entire dinner. He was engaging. He asked questions.
He told me about himself, about his two golden retrievers. About his father who was Hispanic. About how his mom and grandma, both Caucasian, would get together every Saturday for coffee, then brunch, then shopping, and they ended the day with an early dinner, which consisted mostly of appetizers and martinis.
They had nicknames for each other. His grandma was Bunny I and his mom was Bunny II. They greeted each other by wiggling their noses like bunnies, which started off every Saturday on just the right note.
He had three sisters, all older, and they picked on him. He very much respected women—he’d learned he had to in order to survive their household. He’d been joking when he said that, or so I hoped. His sisters had liked to practice putting makeup on him, and he knew the difference between leave-in conditioner and detangler. He knew the protocol for women and getting ready, and his own personal protocol was steering clear of the bathroom for two hours before going anywhere.
He got an odd look on his face when he said that and laughed to himself. But then he put his beer down and refocused on me. “Sorry. Just went down memory lane.”
He’d said he’d been married. He wasn’t now.
I hadn’t asked Lo about the story. “Was your divorce recent?” I asked.
“God, no.” He laughed awkwardly. “I mean, she cheated on me with my best friend. It was five years ago. I’ve learned to pick better friends since then, and I promised myself I’d only date again if she knocked my socks off.” His eyes found mine, an unspoken message there. “Roger is very protective of you, which told me right away that you’re someone worth waiting for. I’m glad you agreed to go out with me.”
“It was between you and Doug, but Lo said she’d only set me up with someone she would date.” Oh, God. I’d said way too much with that statement. I felt my face getting warm. “Uh…”
He grinned. “Lo would date me, huh?” He laughed, sitting back and picking up his drink. “I’m going to love rubbing that in Roger’s face. I’ll wait for the perfect time, when I need to distract him during a game of darts.” He raised the glass to me. “Thank you, Billie.”
I laughed, and I didn’t know why, but I relaxed.
He grew somber, taking another sip. “You know, I’m a cop.”
I knew where this was going. “I do.”
Sadness flared briefly in his eyes. “I’m a homicide detective, so I see shit. A lot of it. All of it bad, but you’re one of the reasons why I do my job. You walk into a crime scene, see all that death, and your low opinion of humanity just gets lower. But then you hear a noise. Someone’s alive. Someone survived, and everything comes back into focus. You’re going to do your job anyway—for the mere fact that you just hate motherfuckers who hurt others—but if there’s a survivor… You have no idea what that does to us. All the bullshit, all the politics, all the corruption, all of it goes away because someone lived, and you’ve got someone to avenge, and you can see them still walking around, breathing, hurting, but alive. And actually getting the fucker? Knowing that survivor will never be physically hurt by them again? Knowing they can feel safe now. Well—” His voice grew hoarse. “—it gives you life, and you think you can keep doing your job for another few years. So I have to say it, because I’m a cop. Thank you. Just, thank you for being one of the ones found alive.” He looked away, clearing his throat. “I should—bathroom. I’ll be back.”
He shoved out of his chair.
My chest felt like a black hole had appeared in it as he spoke.
“…thank you for being one of the ones found alive.”
Tears swam in my eyes. I needed a minute. Just one…
I headed for the back door of the bar and stepped out, bypassing a staff person entering for her shift.
“…and actually getting the fucker.”
“…knowing they can feel safe.”
“…then you hear a noise.”
“Someone survived.”
I held my hands over my face and bent over, needing to get it to the back of my mind, needing to forget so I could function again.
“…thank you for being one of the ones found alive.”
This was a date. Laughter. Joy. That’s what we were supposed to be doing.
Drinking. Flirting.
Drinking so I could flirt because I was horrible at sober flirting.
