"You're late," I say, because apparently I've lost the ability to not say things to this man.
"Late implies a schedule."
"You have a schedule. You just haven't admitted it yet."
That almost-smile. The one that twitches at the corner of his mouth and doesn't quite land. "IPA. Nachos."
"Shocking."
I pour the IPA since Silas isn't getting up. Nicholas takes it to his booth. Same seat, same arrangement. But three times in the first twenty minutes, I catch him looking at me. Not the room-sweep, not the security check. Looking at me specifically, with an expression I can't decode. Then he drops his eyes back to his laptop like nothing happened.
I try not to think about it.
* * *
At six-thirty, Nicholas closes his laptop.
This is wrong. His departure time has been four-thirty every day — consistent enough that I could set a watch by it. He doesn't close his laptop at six-thirty. He doesn't stay past five. The pattern is the pattern, and the pattern just broke.
He packs his bag in the usual order. Charger, notebook, laptop. But he doesn't put his jacket on. Doesn't stand. He goes to the bar.
"Could I get another IPA?"
Jason blinks. "Another one?"
"Please."
Nicholas has never ordered a second beer. One IPA, nursing it for hours. That's his thing. Jason pours it, looking at me with an expression that saysare you seeing this?
I'm seeing it.
Nicholas takes the second beer back to his booth. Checks his phone — actually checks it, not the quick facedown glance.He reads something, types a short response, and sets the phone on the table. Face up.
Something is happening tonight.
I don't have long to wonder. At seven-oh-five, the front door opens.
The guy who walks in is — fine. Late twenties, built like someone who does manual labor, wearing jeans and a button-down that's trying too hard. His hair has product in it. He scans the room the way people do when they've never been here before — the quick up-down, the slight widening when he clocks the size of the men in the room.
"Hey," he says, heading for Nicholas's booth with the overconfident stride of a man who thinks he's the most interesting person in any room. "You must be Nico. I'm Troy."
"Nicholas." Not Nico. Interesting. "Thanks for coming out. Have a seat."
Troy slides into the booth across from him. Leans back, spreads his arms along the back of the seat. Takes up as much space as possible, which is a very specific kind of body language that I recognize and don't like.
Nicholas brought a date to the bar.
My hands stop moving on the keyboard. I'm aware, distantly, that Jason has gone still behind the bar. That Silas has turned a page he wasn't reading. That the ambient noise of the room has shifted the way it does when every ear in the place locks onto a single point.
Nicholas is on a date. In our bar. In his booth.
"This place is interesting," Troy says, looking around. His voice carries — not loud, just the kind of voice that doesn't bother with volume control. "You come here a lot?"
"Every day this week."
"No shit? It's kind of in the middle of nowhere."
"That's part of the appeal."
