Jamie was watching the performer with that expression he got sometimes, open, delighted, like he'd discovered something worth discovering. His fingers drummed against his thigh in time with the rhythm. When the song ended, he clapped hard enough that a few people at nearby tables glanced over.
“She's good,” he said. “Really good.”
“Local. Plays here most weekends in the off-season.”
“You've seen her before?”
“Once or twice.” I didn't mention that I usually left before the music started. That I came for a burger and a beer when friends dragged me out for someone's birthday. The illusion of being social before I could escape and no one could corner me into conversation.
Tonight I wasn't escaping anything.
Denise came by with our drinks. “You two are cute,” she said with a wistful look softening her usually sharp expression. “Just so you know.”
“We're aware,” Jamie said, grinning up at her. “But thanks for the confirmation.”
She laughed and moved on. Jamie caught my eye across the table, his smile shifting into something softer.
“You're blushing.”
“I'm not.”
“Your ears are bright red. I can see them from here.”
I took a drink instead of answering. The beer was cold, familiar. Jamie's foot found mine under the table, not playing footsie, just resting there. Contact for its own sake.
“Well, well.” A dry voice cut through the music. “Holden Hutchinson at the Tavern on a Saturday night. With company. And you're almost smiling. I need to mark my calendar.”
Reid stood at the edge of our booth, beer in hand. He'd lost weight since the divorce, face thinner, cheekbones sharper than they used to be. The soft middle he used to joke about was mostly gone, his frame angular in a way that read more exhausted than fit. His button-down was untucked on one side, wrinkled at the cuffs, which wasn't like him. Reid had always been the put-together one. The wire-rimmed glasses were the same ones he'd had since I met him, slightly bent at one temple where he'd sat on them six months ago and never gotten them fixed.
He looked like a man who'd stopped paying attention to himself. I recognized the signs.
“Reid.” I sat back. “Didn't know you came here.”
“I contain multitudes.” He turned to Jamie, extended his free hand. “Reid Grant. I do Holden's taxes and occasionally drag him out of his apartment for a beer and some poker.”
“Jamie Redford.” Jamie shook his hand, glancing at me with open curiosity. “Nice to meet you.”
Reid pulled out an empty chair without asking and sat down, setting his beer on the table. “You're the graphic designer. The one with the corgis.”
I barked out a laugh. “Word travels fast.”
“Word travels instantly. This is Prospect Ridge.” Reid took a sip of his beer, studying us over the rim with that accountant's gaze that never missed a number out of place. His eyes moved from Jamie to me to the small gap between us that wasn't really a gap at all. “You two interested in signing up for trivia league? Starts next month, in March.”
Something flickered across Jamie's face. Interest, hope, something that made my chest tight.
“I didn't know there was a trivia league.”
“Chalkboard by the bar. Teams of four, runs through spring.” Reid looked at me, one eyebrow raised. “Holden's terrible attrivia, for the record. No pop culture knowledge whatsoever. But maybe you can carry him.”
“I'm adequate at trivia.”
“You thought Baby Yoda was a band.”
“That was one time.”
Jamie laughed, that full sound that made people turn their heads. “Hell yeah, I'd be into it. Trivia league.” His smile flickered, dimmed. “I mean, if you need someone on your team. Whenever. If we—” He looked at me and stopped.
The unfinished sentence hung there, loud as a bell in a quiet shop.If we're still doing this. If there's still an us.
