I glance around the bar, at the motorcycles I can see through the rain-streaked window, at the very large men who are still watching me while pretending not to.
Some kind of biker bar? I walked until I found somewhere with lights.
A BIKER BAR? Toby!!
They're nice! One of them gave me a blanket. And fries. I think they're making me a burger.
Oh my god.
They seem more concerned than murdery. Like big tattooed golden retrievers.
A pause, then:Be safe. There's chocolate peanut butter cake in the fridge if you want a slice when you get home. Trying a new recipe.
I smile at my phone. Robin stress-bakes when he's worried. Has since college, when he'd cope with finals by producing enough cookies to feed our entire dorm floor. By now I can gauge exactly how anxious he is by what's waiting in the fridge. Cake means worried. If there are also muffins tomorrow, he was genuinely scared.
Love you. Home soon.
Love you too. Text me when you're in the uber.
"Vaughn, stop pacing, you're making everyone nervous." The silver-haired man is back, setting a plate in front of me—a burger with the works and another pile of fries. "Eat," he tells me, voice calm but brooking no argument.
Vaughn—the one with the bun—scoffs but stops wearing a path in the floor. He's still watching me, though. They all are, in that careful, wary way I noticed before. Like they're not quite sure what to do with me.
"Thank you. For all of this." I gesture vaguely at the blanket, the tea, the food I'm steadily demolishing. "I know I'minterrupting your night. I'll be out of your hair as soon as I can get a ride."
"You're not interrupting," Jason says quickly. "Right, guys?"
There's a chorus of agreement that sounds almost rehearsed in its reluctance. Like they're not sure what the right answer is, but they're pretty sure this is it.
"Ezra, did you—" Vaughn starts.
"Already did," a lean man with sharp cheekbones replies, tucking his phone away.
They're all being weird. Careful in a way that goes beyond just dealing with an unexpected stranger. Like there's a whole conversation happening that I'm not privy to. But they're also being incredibly kind—feeding me, warming me, making sure I'm okay—so I decide not to question it.
"Your cardigan," Jason says suddenly, leaning closer to look. "Are those cats?"
I look down at my sodden vintage find. The yellow wool has gone dark with water, but the pattern is still visible—dozens of little cat faces in various expressions, scattered across the fabric. I found it at a thrift store last month and fell in love immediately, despite Robin telling me it made me look like a kindergarten teacher.
"Yeah." I pick at the wet sleeve. "Derek thought it was weird."
"It's cool," Jason declares with the kind of certainty that suggests he's daring anyone to disagree with him. "Really cool. I like the one that's winking."
"That's my favorite too." I smile despite myself, pointing to another one. "This one looks scandalized. And this one's definitely plotting something."
"He is! Look at his little face!" Jason leans in, delighted. "Vaughn, come look at the plotting cat."
"I'm good."
"You're missing out. This cat has schemes."
I'm laughing before I can stop myself—actually laughing, for the first time all night. Jason grins at me like he's won something.
"See? The cardigan is great. Derek's just an idiot with no taste."
"What do you do?" Jason asks. "For work?"
"I'm a librarian. Downtown branch."
