Busy. Robin is never busy. Robin is the opposite of busy — Robin is aggressively, relentlessly present. He fills every room he enters, takes up space with his voice and his laugh and his ridiculous flirting. The idea of Robin being "busy" is like saying the sun was "busy" and couldn't be bothered to rise.
I fill in 17 across. RESONANCE. The clue was "lingering vibration" and my brain supplies Robin's cheek against my jaw last night before I can stop it.
An hour passes. I'm through the top half of the crossword and on my second beer and I have not looked at the door. I've looked at the area near the door. I've glanced in the general direction of the door. But I haven't looked at it specifically, which means I'm fine.
"You're staring at the door," Jason says, sliding onto the stool next to me.
"I'm doing a crossword."
"You're doing a crossword while staring at the door. Impressive multitasking."
"Don't you have bread to burn?"
"My bread is perfect and you know it." He steals a glance at my crossword. "42 down is ECLIPSE."
It is. I don't fill it in because I refuse to give him the satisfaction. "I'm not staring at the door."
"Vaughn, you've looked up twelve times in the last ten minutes. I counted."
"That's a weird thing to count."
"I'm observant." He pauses, lowers his voice. "Robin's fine. Ash texted him this afternoon. He said he's staying in tonight."
"I didn't ask you about Robin."
"No, you just look like someone stole your favorite wrench every time the door opens and it's not him."
I fill in 42 down. ECLIPSE. Then 43 across, which I already knew but was saving. "Go cook something."
Jason goes, but he squeezes my shoulder on the way past. Not mocking. Just kind, which is worse.
The evening moves the way bar evenings do — slow, warm, familiar. Knox and Toby go upstairs around ten, Knox carrying Toby because Toby fell asleep in the armchair and Knox is physically incapable of waking him up. Jason and Ash leave together, Jason's hand in Ash's back pocket. Ezra heads upstairs with a wave and a yawn. Silas finishes his book, marks his place with a napkin, and pauses at the bottom of the stairs.
"He'll come around," Silas says.
I don't ask who he means. "Night, Silas."
"Night."
Still no Robin.
I wipe down the bar. Stack the chairs. Run the dishwasher. Check the locks twice even though I already checked them once. Normal closing routine. The kind of repetitive, physical work that usually quiets my head.
Tonight it doesn't work. Tonight my head is full of Robin lying in the grass looking at stars, sayingmaybe the performance IS me, maybe there's no real Robin.His voice cracking on it. The weight of his body against my lion's side, how he curled in without hesitation, how his fingers gripped my mane like I was the only solid thing in his world.
The cheek kiss. Quick and light, his lips warm against my jaw, and then gone.
I flirt with everyone. It doesn't mean anything.
Except it came out like a question.
And I didn't answer. I said "Night, Robin" and I drove away, and now he's not here.
I break at 11:47. Pull out my phone.
What are you doing?
The response comes fast:Washing my face. You?
