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Because he totally sounds weird.
“Can’t a guy ask his sister to meet him for dinner?”
I look down at the box dinner I still can’t scan. “Umm, gee Greg, that’s really nice of you. But I sort of have other plans.”
Which may or may not include bingeing some of Vaughn’s old games and a few rounds ofwill I, won’t Ibefore finally breaking down and trolling social media and—to my eternal shame—some of the bunny boards for sightings.
I want to know what he’s wearing. If he’s been hanging out with the guys at the Five Hole.
Closing my eyes, I take a slow breath.
If he’s been with anyone else.
It’s going to happen. One of these days he’s going to stop shooting the women down and I’m going to find a post that will kill me. And I’m going to tell myself I needed to see it. That it’s a good thing. Because it means that he’s moving on. And then maybe I’ll be able to too.
Maybe I’ll be able to let him go.
Greg growls through the line. “Nat, for the record I’m pretty sure you don’t have any plans at all. But even if you did. Cancel them. Come hang out… I… uhh… Julia’s out of town and I need to talk, okay? Meet me at Belfast in twenty minutes.”
“Wait, not Belfast—” But he’s already gone.
* * *
Twenty minutesand one abandoned basket of frozen dinners later, I’m shaking off the spring mist as Brody, Belfast’s owner, cuts through the after-work crowd to wrap a burly arm around me.
“Natalie! Greg’s got a table in the Back Room. Want me to send over a Goose Island?”
I thank him and head toward the closed-off part of the bar, usually reserved for nights with live music. Greg’s sitting at one of the high-tops near the stage, a water and what looks like the remains of a burger plate in front of him. I check the time on my phone. I’m not late.
“Did youalready eat?” So much for dinner.
“Yeah, I was starving,” he says, rubbing a hand over his flat stomach, flashing me a quick grin.
This guy does not look like he has anything heavy weighing on his mind. In fact, he kind of looks delighted with himself.
An uneasy feeling comes over me.
“Greg. What’s going on?”
Shoving up from his seat, he waves me into one of the open ones. “Give me a minute. I’ll put your order in. Chicken Alfredo?”
“Roadhouse burger with rings.”
“Right.” He leans in, smacks a kiss on my temple and rubs the top of my head like a dog.
Cripes.
A minute passes. I check my phone.
Another. I pull up Instagram. Start the search of shame. There’s a sighting from two nights ago, where someone caught a picture of Vaughn filling up his car with gas. It’s a picture I’ve looked at too many times already. My thumb hovers over the button.Hovers, hovers, hovers…
Finally I take the screen shot and save it to my phone.
“Such astalker,” I groan.
What am I doing?
“Hey, Nat?” an unfamiliar guy asks, leaning into my field of vision with a bright smile.
