Brandon returns with my drink and the man tips the bottom of the glass forward slightly, saying nothing. Brandon reaches down and pulls out a bottle of cheap rum. He pours it in, filling it almost all the way before replacing it under the bar. 

To me, he says, “Should I add it to your friend’s tab?”

I shake my head. “No, I’ll pay for it now, thanks.” I go to hand him the cash but the man next to me shakes his head.

“Put it on mine.”

Brandon nods once and gives me a smile, his eyes twinkling. “Let me know if you need anything else, sweetheart.”

I smile, my shoulders relaxing. “Thank you, Brandon.”

He walks away, leaving me alone with the man who just bought me my fruity drink. 

“Thank you for…” I stop, noticing how his gaze isn’t on me, it’s on my drink. 

“Malibu sunset,” he says, his deep voice rumbling through the bar.

I nod. “Yeah,” I say, suddenly shy. “It’s one of my favorites.” I give him a small, friendly smile. “Do you like them?” I wrap my hand around the narrow glass and move the umbrella out of the way of the straw, hoping he doesn’t notice how badly my hands are shaking.

It takes a second but he shakes his head slightly. “No,” he says. “My fiance did, though.”

He looks away, lowering the glass slightly, swirling the amber liquid gently as he stares into it. His brown eyes are dark, but I don’t think it’s because of bad lighting or natural selection. I tilt my head slightly, my brow furrowing. His eyes are dark because…he’s in pain.

I take a sip of my drink and carefully ask, “Does he not like them anymore?”

He stopped swirling the rum. His Adam’s Apple bounced as he gulped. “No,” he says, his voice a hoarse whisper. He doesn’t say anything else. Something tells me not to press the issue, so I tactfully move on.

“My friend made it for me once,” I say, gently stirring the golden drink. “I can’t drink anything else, it makes me sick.” I shudder slightly as I sip at the cocktail.

Was that a twitch at the corner of his mouth?

“Yeah,” he mumbles, taking a deep swallow. “Makes me sick, too.” He sets the glass down on the bar and twirls it gently between his hands. “But I still drink it. Stupid, right?”

I shake my head. “No,” I say. “I mean, kinda, if I’m honest.”

His eyes move to my face as I start nervously rambling.

“My mom tells me all the time that if you don’t like something, just stop doing it. Except in cases where you don’t have much of a choice, so you just have to push through and get it done. Eventually you either get to liking it, or you’re so relieved it’s done, you never touch it again. That’s probably why I’ve failed at so many things I’ve tried, and…” I glance up, meeting his eyes. His eyebrow is cocked, his expression bemused. I blush and look down. “S-sorry,” I mutter. “I guess that was dumb of me to say.”

He slowly shakes his head. “No, not really. Robin used to say something similar, actually.”

I look back at him. “Robin?”

His eyes darken but he doesn’t turn away. “My fiance,” he says softly. “My…late…fiance.”

I sit up straight again, turning my stool to face him. “Oh,” I say, genuinely shocked. “I’m so sorry, that’s…I mean…she must have been wonderful if you still have so much pain in your eyes.”

He stares at me, his expression unreadable. “He.”

“Huh?” I respond dumbly.

“Robin was a man,” he says, his hand clutching tightly around his glass. 

I pale and cover my face with both hands, mortified. Of course Robin was a man. I’m in a gay bar! “Oh my god, I’m so stupid, I’m sorry!” I groan. Geez, not even a minute ago I’d asked if he didn’t like Malibu Sunset’s anymore. I am such an idiot…

He snorts softly and I hear the scrape of his glass as he lifts it from the bar top. “It’s fine,” he says, his voice echoing before he takes another long gulp. “It was a nickname, anyway. I can understand the confusion, I guess.” His voice drops and he turns away. 

I peek through my fingers to see him run a hand through his messy brown hair. He looks so miserable it makes my own heart ache. It’s obvious Robin’s passing wasn’t that long ago. Even if it was, the depth of love this man must have had, must still have for him, left such a deep wound in his heart that the pain continues to pour from every cell in his body.

I feel like such an idiot for making him talk about his late fiance at all. I’m sure it’s something he doesn’t want to bring up. Another thing I notice is how broken his voice sounds, like he rarely uses it at all. No wonder calling Brandon’s name was such a crowd-stopper. 

My hands slide down my face to my lap, but my gaze lingers on his face. It’s all so clear to me that this is not a man I should attempt anything with. No one should. It would take a real cold bitch to do what Nikki is forcing me to do. No, not forcing. Encouraging me to do. Steeling my resolve, I decide to give up before going any further. I’m not about to make this man’s life harder than it already is.

“I’m sorry,” I say again, amazed at how steady not only my voice, but also my hands are. “I shouldn’t have bothered you. You wanted to be alone and I intruded on that. Thank you again for the drink.” I wrap both hands around the glass and give him a gentle smile. “I should get back to my friend.”

“You said you were with them.”

His sudden statement makes me freeze. “Mhm,” is all I can reply. 

“Seemed to me like you didn’t want to be there at all.”

I slide my gaze to the booth and grimace. Nikki is playing tonsil hockey with the guy that had his arm across the back of her seat, and his hand is up her sweater. The others were having their own make out sessions. Before I look away, Nikki breaks off the kiss with the guy, and pulls apart the other couple to make out with one of them.

I shake my head and turn away, swiveling my stool around so I don’t have to look at the disgusting scene. “Yeah, I really don’t want to,” I say honestly, resting my chin in my hand as I sip my drink. “But if I’m making you uncomfortable, I can leave, it’s fine.”

“You’re not,” he says, finishing off the rum. He looks down the bar at Brandon and motions to him. The bartender comes back and refills his glass.

“Should I just leave the bottle, Harley?” he asks.

The man stares at the bottle a moment and then back at his glass. “May as well,” he mutters. He doesn’t see the look of near disappointment that flashes across Brandon’s eyes as he walks away, leaving the cheap booze next to Harley’s hand, resting limply next to the glass.

I’m at a loss for words. He wants to be alone, that’s obvious. But he’s accepting of my sudden company, something I was told he didn’t like. I don’t look back at Nikki’s table, at the mass of people I really don’t want to be a part of. 

“We can be lonely together,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. He glances over at me and I give him a nervous smile. “If you like.”

He’s looking me over again, his eyes studying me, probably assessing whether or not I’m fucking with him. It makes me wonder if he’s encountered a situation like this before. If so, I have no desire to add to that tally.

“I’m not a bug,” I say for the second time, this time a little less harsh.

To my surprise, a small smile does touch the corner of his mouth. “No,” he agrees. “No, you’re not a bug.” He lifts his glass slightly and moves it toward me. “I’m Harley.”

I pick up my glass and tap it against his. “I’m Windy,” I say, suddenly feeling more comfortable around this rather large individual. “You’re big.”

Both of us stare before he snorts and I cover my mouth with my hand and giggle stupidly.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that!” I say, trying not to collapse from embarrassment. 

He chuckles. “I know what you meant,” he says. “Saves me the trouble of saying you're small.”

I narrow my eyes on him. “Yet, you just did.”

He grins. “Yes, yes I did. I’d apologize but you do that enough for everyone here.”

I sigh. “My dad says that, too.”

“Is there a reason for it?”

I shake my head and sip at my drink while he pulls at his. “My therapist says it’s due to unresolved childhood trauma or something. Which is dumb because my parents have always been really good to me. Strict, maybe, but they’ve never made me feel like I’m to blame for anything.”

“Maybe it came from something else.”

I shrug. “Probably but I couldn’t tell you what. A lot of my memories were wiped out when I got hurt.”

His eyebrow ticks and, realizing I was saying more than I should, I backpedal.

“It’s not really that big a deal,” I say, waving my hand in front of my face. “I mean, how many of us actually remember everything from our childhood, anyway?”

“More than you’d think,” he says softly, his eyes darkening again. He looks like he wants to say more but thinks better of it. Instead, he asks, “Is Windy your real name?”

A muscle under my right eye twitches. It isn’t that I hate being asked that question, I just get asked it far too often. He must have noticed my hesitation because he holds up both hands in surrender.

“Sorry, that was probably rude.” He thumbs to the rum. “You can blame my bad manners on that if you want.”

Relaxing, I hold up my own half-consumed beverage. “You can blame my verbal diarrhea on this.”

He smiles, but I notice that it doesn’t reach his eyes. He also doesn’t part his lips. Talk about closed off…not that I can blame him. 

“But to answer your question,” I say, “yes, that is my real name. Mom said she was going to name me Wendy but she didn’t want people teasing me because of the burger place.”

“Seriously?”

I nodded. “Mhm. She still liked the way it sounded, though. Especially since it rhymes with hers. When I was born, it was during a monster wind storm so,” I shrug. “Windy it is.”

He chuckles softly, finishing off the glass and pouring himself another. “My dad’s a gearhead,” he says. “He’s been rebuilding cars since he was a kid. It was only natural he’d name his kids after cars. Or rather, car makes.”

“Harley is a motorcycle, though, isn’t it?”

He nods. “Bought out by Ford a long time ago.” That same smile. “That’s my dad’s name.”

I chuckle. “Ford?”

“Yep. Ford Cox.”

I freeze, the drink I had been sucking up slipping back down the straw. “The lawyer?”

“That would be him.” He sips his drink. “You know about him?” He rolls his eyes. “Of course you do, everyone in Redbrick and the tri-county area knows about him.”

“He helped my dad with my case,” I say before I can stop myself. Even in the alcohol-induced haze, I can’t forget there was an NDA involved. I glance away. “He’s a good lawyer,” I say, hoping he won’t ask any more about it. It’s not just something I’m not allowed to talk about, it’s something I don’t want to talk about. He must have taken the hint, because he doesn’t ask.

“Yeah, he is,” he says. There’s something in his tone that draws my gaze back to him. His eyes are down, hooded, the glass back on the bar, the contents already half gone in the few seconds I’d looked away. After a moment, he looks back up, the darkness fading but not disappearing completely. “My brother’s name is Chevy.”

The benefits of drinking are few, but topic-hopping can be a very helpful one. I grin. “Short for Chevrolet?”

He shakes his head. “Nope, just Chevy.”

“What about your mom? Is she named after a car?” I grin around my straw and he chuckles as he shakes his head.

“Carol Jean.”

“Two first names?”

“She was born in the south. Apparently it’s a thing down there.”

I laugh and we continue talking for a while longer. I finish my drink and think of declining another but change my mind at the last moment. This time I insist on paying and he relents.