The dark red wine is smooth and light.
“You were good tonight,” I say.
Her mouth curves slightly. “I was in my element. I enjoyed doing that.”
I hold her gaze. “It's impressive. I remember when you told me how much you love wines and how they go with certain foods. You found your niche.”
She nods. “I did.”
There’s pride in it, not defensive, not brittle. Earned.
“I finally got to go to that sommelier program I told you about. Do you remember? The one in California.”
I don't tell her how well I do remember. "Yes, I think I do. How was it?"
Her eyes sharpen. “It was life-changing. It was great. I left in January and got back in April.”
“Wow, Coco. I’m really happy for you. I can tell you’re glowing. It looks good on you.”
“Thanks.” She smiles, then tilts her head slightly. “How about you? How is work going? Did things calm down?”
“It’s quieter,” I say. “Not peaceful, but quieter than it was after my father’s death.” The word still catches wrong in my mouth. He was murdered. But we don’t need to open that door now.
She nods, then her gaze drops.
Not to the glass. Not to the bar. To my hand resting on the counter between us.
Her fingers hover for half a second before she reaches out, tracing the faint line that cuts across my right knuckles. The scar has flattened with time, pale against my skin, but it hasn’t disappeared. It won’t.
“I remember this,” she says softly.
So do I.
Seventeen stitches. Glass biting deep as I went through the window without thinking, driven by the stupid certainty that I could still get to him in time. The sound of breaking glass. Blood slick on my hands. The moment I realized I was already too late.
“It healed,” I say.
She looks up at me, her thumb still resting there. “I can see that. It gives you street cred.”
She doesn’t ask how it happened. She never did. She just sees it for what it is.
Something that changed over time, but didn’t go away. Something that links us.
“What was the deal with the fentanyl? You said earlier you didn't want to go into it. I'm curious. Was it bullshit, or was there something to it?”
Her fingers tighten around her glass, then loosen again.
“It wasn't bullshit, but it wasn't my family. Alton Duvall was trying to move a bunch of it into our city. If you hadn't told me, I might not have known about it. In the moment, when you said it, I was caught off guard. And didn't want to put you in the middle of all that,” I say, surprising myself with my candor.
“Damn. So y'all really knew nothing about it?”
"Really. I'm ashamed to say, but everything in those weeks was like a circling drain. There was so much chaos, so much misdirection, that things were sliding by. Things are a lot calmer, now."
She studies me, her expression careful, not guarded, not soft. Deliberate.
“You could have said this months ago.”
“Yes,” I say. “I could have.”
