"Fair enough." I lean against the back bar, keeping my hands still when they want to reach for her. "You want to tell me what happened?"
"Not really." She picks up another fry and tears it in half instead of eating it. "Not yet. Maybe not ever. I don't know."
"Okay."
She looks up at me, startled. "Okay? That's it?"
"You'll talk when you're ready. Or you won't. Either way, you're here now, and that's what matters."
Her expression shifts. Cracks. For a moment she looks younger than her thirty years, and infinitely more fragile.
"I forgot," she says quietly. "I forgot that you're like this."
"Like what?"
"Safe." The word comes out barely above a whisper. "You always made me feel safe."
I don't know what to say to that. The silence stretches between us, thick with everything neither of us is ready to say.
The front door swings open, and Cole comes through at a near-run. He's still in his work gear, covered in road dust and engine grease, relief and worry warring across his face as he spots his sister.
"Gem. Jesus Christ, Gem."
He crosses the bar in four strides and pulls her into his arms before she can stand up from the stool. For a second everything looks fine, looks like a normal reunion between siblings who haven't seen each other in too long.
Then Gemma flinches. Her whole body goes rigid in Cole's embrace, and she has to force herself to relax. The effort it takes for her to accept a hug from her own brother shows in every line of her body.
Cole notices too. His hands gentle on her back. He adjusts his grip to something looser, less confining.
"What happened?" His voice is rough. "Gemma, what the hell happened?"
"I'm fine." The words come out automatic and empty. "I'm just tired. It was a long drive."
"Bullshit." Cole pulls back but keeps his hands on her shoulders, studying her face the way I've been studying it since she walked in. "You're not fine. You're about twenty poundsunderweight and you look like you haven't slept in a month. Talk to me."
"Cole." Her voice breaks on his name. Just slightly. Just enough. "Please. Not tonight. I can't do this tonight."
A look passes between them, some sibling communication I'm not privy to, and Cole's shoulders drop. He pulls her back into a gentler hug, and this time she leans into it instead of pulling away.
"Okay," he murmurs. "Okay. Not tonight. But soon."
"Soon," she agrees, and I don't think any of us believe her.
The next hour passes in a blur of logistics. Cole insists Gemma can't stay at the empty house alone, not tonight, not until it's been aired out and the utilities are working. She resists, but not hard, and eventually agrees to stay at his place for the time being.
I stay behind the bar through it all, pouring drinks and pretending to clean glasses that are already clean.
Gemma holds herself apart even standing next to her brother. Her eyes dart to the door every time it opens. When she thinks no one's looking, she wraps her arms around herself like she's trying to hold the pieces together.
Cole doesn't touch her unless he telegraphs it first. He figured it out fast. We both did.
When they finally leave, Cole catches my eye over Gemma's head. His expression says everything his words can't with her standing right there.We need to talk. Tomorrow.
I nod once, and then they're gone, and I'm left with a half-empty bar and a chest full of broken glass.
I know what those reactions mean. I know what the exhaustion carved into her face means. I've seen it before, in women who came to the private side of our bar, our club, looking for something they were afraid to name. Women who'dhad submission twisted into something ugly by men who didn't deserve their trust.
The pieces aren't hard to put together. Gemma married a man who hurt her. Not just emotionally, though that too. The way she braced when I set that glass down. The way she holds herself. The instinctive fear when Cole's arms came around her too fast.
