Beck reaches us and sets the drinks down, then slides my mug toward me first.
I pick it up, start to drink.
“Careful,” he says quietly as he sits down. “You’re emptying those faster than usual.”
“I’m celebrating,” I say, lifting my chin.
“Celebrating what?” he asks, looking amused.
“Life. Luck. Not being dead,” I rattle off. “The usual.”
His mouth curves, but his eyes flick to the empty shot glass in front of Devon, then back to me.
Did he see from the bar? When I stoleDevon’s shot?
Something shifts in Beck’s eyes. Subtle. Not angry. Just…attentive.
“Hey!” Trish says brightly, scooting closer. “Beck, right?”
“That’s me,” he says easily, and, just like that, his attention leaves me.
“Do you dance?” She bats her lashes. Actually bats them. I didn’t know people still did that.
Beck blinks, caught off-guard. He glances at me without thinking. I see it happen. The reflex. Like he’s checking the weather before deciding whether to go outside.
My stomach flips. A slow nauseating roll.
“I mean,” Trish rushes on, “if you want. No pressure. Just thought I’d ask.”
He looks back at her, polite smile firmly in place. “Uh. Yeah. Sure.”
Sure.
Not enthusiastic. Not reluctant. Just…fine.
Trish squeals softly. Kirsten and I shift aside to let her pass. Beck is already on his feet when she reaches him. He startles when she takes his hand, fingers lacing with his like it’s practiced. Like it belongs there.
I freeze, unable to look away from it.
Her hand in his.
They disappear into the crowd, her blonde hair bouncing, his darker head towering over everyone else. He was right. He stopped growing our senior year of high school, but he still got to six feet four inches and won the state championship. I’d been there for every game. Cheering.
Out on the dance floor, Beck moves stiffly at first, like he’s not sure what to do with his hands. Trish, on the other hand, has zero hesitation. She presses in close, swaying, laughing up at him.
I turn back to the table and immediately down the rest of my beer.
Kirsten watches me over the rim of her glass. “You good?”
“Totally,” I say. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
She raises one eyebrow. Lowers it again. “Okay.”
The music shifts, something loud and thumping, bass vibrating through the floor, and the pub erupts. People spill into the makeshift dance area, arms thrown around shoulders, bodies pressed together.
I try not to look.
I fail.
