The bartender started stacking chairs. Pickle dropped into the seat across from me.
"You're still here," he said.
"So are you."
"I live close." He stole a cold fry from the basket I'd abandoned an hour ago. "What's your excuse?"
I closed my laptop. "Reviewing footage."
"For three hours?"
"There's a lot of footage."
"Uh-huh." He ate another fry, watching me with those sharp brown eyes. "Find anything good?"
You, I thought.Every frame, somehow, you.
"Still looking," I said.
The bartender dropped her rag on the counter. Pickle glanced over, then back at me.
"She wants us gone."
"Yep, I think so."
Neither of us moved.
"It's game day tomorrow. I should go home," Pickle said. He didn't stand up.
"Where's your car?"
"Don't have one. I always walk."
"It's snowing."
"Yep." He grinned. "Cold builds character. My mom says so."
I looked at the window. The snow was coming down hard, thick flakes that blurred the streetlights into soft orange smears. It was snow that meant business.
"I'll drive you," I said.
Pickle's grin flickered.
"You don't have to—"
"I know."
The bartender cleared her throat.
"Okay," Pickle said. "Yeah. Okay."
Outside, the cold hit slapped us in the face.
Pickle was wearing Crocs again. The same orange ones from the parking lot the night we'd met. No socks. His ankles were bare and already turning red.
"You're insane going without socks," I said.
"I'm making a statement."
