We eat in relative silence, Chase scrolling through his phone and me checking my own messages, several of which are from Chevy asking when I’m coming back over to help paint Heather’s room.

I’m not off again until Tuesday. I can come by then.

I set my phone down and dip my sandwich in some of the sauce that’s dripped onto the paper lining. I’m saving my chips for later. It goes off again, this time with a message from some guy I idiotically gave my number to a couple weeks back in a moment of drunken stupidity.

Chase catches my grimace and grins. “Booty call?” he asks.

I glare at him then turn back to my phone. The request is basic, more of a “wanna hang out” kind of thing, but I know what he’s looking for. Just as Chase says, he wants my dick.

I set the phone face down and shake my head. “It was stupid to give him my number in the first place,” I mutter, taking a big bite of my sandwich, hoping he’ll drop it. He doesn’t.

He sits back and brushes his hands off. “Accept.”

I glare up at him, stopping mid-chew.

“Bro, no one gets you better than I do about this, but a fuck is a fuck. It doesn’t have to mean anything. Relieve the pressure, scratch the itch, something.”

I don’t blink, I don’t chew, I don’t move. I have no itch to scratch, and I don’t care to relieve any “pressure” with some rando from a bar. Not to mention, they aren’t you. I want to be sleeping with you. I feel bad enough even giving the guy my number. If I actually gave in and fucked him, or at the very least got a blow job, how would I feel then? I’m still with you…I can’t be with anyone else. I don’t want to be with anyone else.

Something passes over my face just long enough for Chase to catch and he sits up a bit, his expression softening.

“Do you know how long it was before I actually slept with someone after Yolanda died?”

“Two years?”

He nods. “And it took everything I had in me just to get that far. I had plenty of women coming to me, and I even went on a few dates, but I could never seal the deal. I didn’t even kiss them. Most of them understood, some of them didn’t. When I finally allowed myself to let go enough to bring another woman home, I was fucking petrified.”

I finish my sandwich and sit back, reaching for my coffee.

“I’m still not over her, dude, don’t think I am. She’s gone, she’s not coming back. She’s not in Mexico, she’s not at her sister’s, she’s not at the club with her friends…she’s dead. Buried. Gone. I should be ready to get into another relationship after all this time, but I can’t. And even the number of women I’ve slept with in the last five years has been small.”

I stare at the empty basket in front of me. I know what he’s saying, what he’s trying to tell me. Frankly, I don’t want to hear it but he’s going to say it anyway.

“You’re not cheating on Robin. You’re not dishonoring his memory by making an attempt to move on.” He leans forward, folding his arms on the table. I don’t look up. “If you’re not ready, you’re not ready. Only you’ll know when that time comes, and I promise you, you’re going to question every last thing about yourself and the decisions you make from that point forward. You’re still grieving. Badly. How you’ve been coping hasn’t been too great, but it’s not like I have any room to talk on that score. It’s only been what, five months? If you didn’t love Robin as much as you do, this wouldn’t even be an issue. You’d be plowing every twink and femboy from here to the western seaboard if you felt otherwise.”

I snort softly, a tiny grin tugging at the corner of my mouth. I rotate my cup slowly on the table. I see his finger tap my phone.

“Blow him off.”

I finally lift my head and meet his gaze, a small understanding smile on his face. 

“You’re not ready for anything yet, Harley. Not even a ‘hey, how’s it goin’.’” He stands up, picking up our baskets.

“Where are you going?” I ask, watching him toss the crumbs and set the baskets on the top of the trash can. He adjusts his coat and nods to the door. 

“Beer and snack run.” He gives me a wink as he leans into the door. “See you back at the house.” The tiny bell tinkles as it shuts softly behind him and he gives me a wave through the window. 

“Hey.”

I look up to see Windy standing next to the table, a shy smile on her lips. “Hey.”

“Can I sit with you?”

I shrug and she sits in the seat Chase vacated a moment before, her hands between her knees. At least, I think they are. I can’t see them. From the way her arms are moving, though, I’m sure she’s fidgeting, maybe tugging on her sleeves. She was doing that a lot at Jackie’s.

“What did you want to talk to me about?” I ask after a long minute of silence in which I polish off my coffee.

She looks to the deli counter for a moment, probably weighing her words carefully before she lets them out. Smart.

“I wanted to apologize.”

I sigh. “You did that already.”

“No, I know, it’s just, um…” she shifts in her chair, turning her head back to me, her eyes on the table. “I thought I should explain something. Nikki said it might help you understand why I did what I did.”

I stiffen and my jaw clenches. I can feel the cardboard in my hand dent. She’s going to excuse Nikki for manipulating her, for putting her in an unwinnable situation, and she’s going to say whatever it is Nikki told her to say. I have no desire to hear it. None. Before she says anything, I shut her up.

“Let me stop you right there,” I say coldly. Her eyes snap up to me, chilled by my expression. “Nikki convinced you to hit on me for whatever reason. She manipulated and eventually threatened you into doing it.”

She sat up and her lips parted to protest but I continued before she could.

“You think I didn’t notice how terrified you were?” I say. Her lips close. “You think I didn’t feel your hand shaking on my leg, or the way you couldn’t look at me when you said all that nasty crap? It wasn’t the booze, Windy, it was fear and panic. You did what you did because you felt you had no choice, plain and simple. I’m not an idiot, I’ve seen her use that exact technique with other guys, and used the exact same lines.”

She swallowed hard and dropped her gaze to the side. 

“You’re a good girl, Windy. A very naive and gullible girl. She knows that and uses it to her advantage. You’re not the first person she’s done this shit with, either. She brought in at least three other girls before you, and if she hadn’t been banned, she would bring in others to play her twisted games.”

I sit back and relax my hold on my now crushed coffee cup. “You did what you did because you were manipulated into doing it. Whatever bullshit she fed you to make you believe otherwise is just that. Bullshit.”

A look passes over her face that tells me I hit the nail on the head but she doesn’t want to admit it. She doesn’t want to admit that her only friend sees her as a plaything, a tool, and not a person. 

“And that’s why you care, Lee. Because she’s just like me.”

I sigh and lean my elbow on the table, running my hand through my hair. Goddammit, Robin…

“You’re right,” she says softly. I lift my eyes to hers, keeping my head in my hand. “Nikki told me to tell you that the reason I hit on you was because I was drunk and lonely and figured you would be, too. She said you only said and did all that because that’s just how you are and not to trust you.”

I slowly lift my head, my expression turning to one of stone.

She wiped her cheek and I realize she’s been crying. She sniffed and rolled her eyes to the ceiling and gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. “Blame it on the booze, that’s what she said. She didn’t use me, she only encouraged me to go for it because it had been months since I’d been with anyone. She didn’t force me to do anything, I went up to you all on my own. When I mentioned the texts, she said they were just a joke. A way to, as she put it, ‘light a fire up under your tight ass.’” She shook her head. “She said she was sorry for having put you in that position and upsetting you. Apparently she ‘forgot’,” here she used air quotes, “that your fiance died recently.”

I sat up and stared at her, saying nothing. What could I say? As naive as Windy seems to be, she’s also aware enough to know when she’s being played. She knows she shouldn’t trust Nikki, and she probably doesn’t. Yet, she continues to be friends with her. Like she admitted to that night, she’d rather stay in an abusive friendship than have no friends at all.

“Is she really the only friend you have?” I ask.

She nods. 

I jerk my head toward the counter. “What about that Brit girl? Isn’t she your friend?”

“She’s my manager. She’s very kind to me and very understanding of my situation, but she’s not my friend.”

My eyebrow ticked. “What situation?” Brief flashes from the bar leap over my mind. Deflections, sudden shifts in conversation, expressions indicating when we were uncomfortably close to certain topics.

Even now, she rubs her hands together and tugs her sleeves further over her hands on her lap, a clear sign of anxiety. She can’t meet my gaze, and is looking furtively around the restaurant. She doesn’t want to run away, but she is seeking out exit routes.

Just like you did.

I clear my throat softly. “It’s fine,” I say. She looks back at me. “You don’t have to tell me, it’s fine.” I rub my hand over the surface of the table before curling my fingers in. “Robin used to do the same things when his anxiety got high. If he felt boxed in or uncomfortable, he would fidget, look for all the ways he could escape if he needed to. He didn’t tug on his sleeves, though.”

She tilted her head. “What did he do?”

I grin. “Picked at his nails and scratched his head until it bled.”

Her eyes went wide. “He did?”

I nod. “Over time he managed to calm it down, but his tells never really went away. He tried, though. He found other ways to combat his anxiety and frustrations that were more productive. Photography being one of them.”

Her body language relaxed and her hands stopped fidgeting. “Just like my cross stitch.”

I nod. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“What do you do?”

“For what?”

She waved her hand. “All of that stuff. Anxiety and depression and stuff.”

I dropped my gaze. “You already know the answer to that question,” I mutter. “You can smell it on me.”

She sat there a moment, watching me. “I didn’t want to assume,” she said softly.

“That’s what I do,” I say, a favored line from a popular show coming to mind. “I drink and I know things.”