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Once we’re settled up, Quinn and I wait outside.The air has gotten a little chillier, but it’s still June in New York, and I don’t think it will be cold for months.Quinn’s got his cell phone out and is talking to god-knows-who – he’s got a more involved social life than I could ever want – so it’s only me paying attention when Carleigh walks out of Logan’s.She’s ditched the apron in favor of a purse slung across her shoulders, and her hair is down now.
“Hey,” I greet quietly, taking a few steps away from Quinn.“I just wanted to apologize for earlier – you can take care of yourself, Carleigh, and I know that.I realized after it seemed like maybe I thought you couldn’t, and I’m not trying to insinuate anything.”
Carleigh seems caught off guard by the apology, but after a couple of seconds, she just shakes her head and smiles at me.“Oh, Bryson,” she says, touching my elbow.“It was really nice of you to check in.Everything was fine, but it means a lot to me you cared enough to ask.Now, are you going to buy me a drink, or what?”
“Am I going to buy you a drink?”I exclaim, feigning shock.“Babe, I just gave you a twenty-five percent tip.I should be asking you that.”
“I’ll make you cheese bread on Saturday,” she bargains.
I frown at her.“I saw you get groceries yesterday.I know you were going to make that anyway.But yeah, yeah, okay, can’t say no to you.”Quinn, still on the phone, beckons for us to follow him.I sling an arm around Carleigh’s shoulders and duck my head conspiratorially.“If we play our cards right, maybe Hollywood over there’ll buy us both drinks.”
Carleigh laughs.As we walk down the street, I’m pretty sure she leans into me a little.
One hour and nine ounces of wine later, Carleigh is leaning into me a lot.
We’re crowded into a curved half-booth at a hipster bar not far from Logan’s.The booth is really not meant for tall people, let alone two of them, and Carleigh’s leg pressed up beside mine since the start.As she nurses a big glass of wine, though, the rest of her begins melting toward me too.
I’m probably encouraging it, honestly.Quinn started telling her a story about when we’d gotten in shit for trying to help our grounded friend break out of his own house, a story that really makes me look pretty ridiculous, and when she turned to me in a fit of giggles, I tickle her side a little to retaliate.She squirms around and almost falls out of the tall booth, so I grab her, haul her back in, and then never move my arm from behind her shoulders.It’s more comfortable this way anyway without my big arm in the way, I figure.It definitely has nothing to do with how Carleigh immediately takes that opportunity to melt into my side.
The air conditioning in the bar is a little crazy, I reason.
“Hey,” Carleigh says suddenly.“If I order fried pickles, will you guys help me eat them?”
“Is the Pope Catholic, Carleigh?”I joke.“Obviously!”
“Great.”She slides out from my side – I try hard not to notice it now feels kind of cold – and meanders off to the bar to place the order.
Quinn smiles at me.“I like her for you, man.”
I scoff.“Not this again.Quinn -”
“Just saying.”He jerks his head in Carleigh’s general direction.“She seems to like you.She’s even laughing at your terrible jokes.”
“Even if there was something, which there isn’t,” I emphasize, shooting a look at him, “she’d be way out of my league.”
Quinn shrugs that off.“I’m telling you.She likes you.”He taps his temple.“Uncle Jackson knows.”
“I’m six months older than you, Uncle Jackson.”
“Don’t have to be older to be wiser.”
“Oh, piss right off -”
Carleigh skips back in suddenly.I hope she didn’t hear any of that.Judging by the gleeful look on her face, we’re safe.
“What are you so happy about there?”I ask.
“Pickles are on their way,” she says happily.Her cheeks are a little pink from the wine, and it’s so goddamn cute, I can’t stop myself from laughing.
“Easy to please, are you?”I tease.
Quinn finishes off the last of his pint.“Everyone loves pickles, Bryson.I’m going to get another, you guys need any?”
I hold up my half-empty pint and nod, but Carleigh shakes her head.“I don’t drink that much, I need to wait it out.”
“Alright.”With a nod, Quinn disappears into the crowd.
“You guys are funny together,” Carleigh observes, tapping her fingernail on the base of her wine glass.“Your accent is thicker than his, though.Why’s that?”
I point at myself.“I haven’t got an accent, that’s the rest of you.”Carleigh rolls her eyes at me, and I laugh.“Yeah, yeah.Probably because Quinn spends half his time trying to impress girls in Manhattan and most of them socialite types don’t want a guy that talks like he works in a boat yard in Jersey.”
“Those girls are all boring anyway,” Carleigh says, waving her hand.“If I had to pick between the two of you, I’d pick you any day, Bryson.”
It’s pathetic just how much that warms my heart.“Thanks,” I say sincerely, squeezing her knee in thanks.“Nice of you to say.”
Carleigh grabs my hand just before I can withdraw it from her leg.“I mean it,” she insists.
I take a chance and spread my palm across her thigh.She sighs, sounding content, and relaxes into me again.“I can’t wait for my pickles.”
