The question catches me off guard just enough that I hesitate.
Not because I don’t know the answer.
Because I do.
Men like me disappear all the time.
That’s kind of the point.
Still, I hear myself say something else.
“I’ll be around.”
Her mouth curves slowly like she knew that was coming.
“Good,” she says, leaning her elbows on the bar again. “Pickle would be very upset if you never came back.”
I shake my head slightly.
“Pickle will survive.”
“Don’t underestimate him,” she says seriously. “He holds grudges.”
I let out a quiet breath that might almost pass for a laugh before turning toward the door.
The music grows louder for a second as I push it open and step outside. The cool night air hits my face immediately, carrying the smell of dust and distant fields that always lingers around small towns like this once the sun goes down.
My bike is still sitting where I left it under the streetlight.
I walk across the gravel lot, the crunch under my boots loud in the quiet. For a second I pause beside the bike and glance back toward the bar. The windows glow warm against the dark, silhouettes of people moving behind the glass while the neon sign buzzes softly.
Somewhere inside that building is a five-foot bartender with a smart mouth and a rescue farm full of animals.
And for reasons I don’t fully understand yet, that thought sticks in my head.
I swing a leg over the bike and start the engine.
The ride home takes about twenty minutes. The roads outside Harlan are mostly empty at this hour, long stretches of asphalt cutting through dark farmland and quiet woods. The wind rushes past my helmet and the steady vibration of the engine beneath me usually clears my head after a night like this.
Tonight it doesn’t.
Because somewhere between The Rust Nail and the highway leading back toward my place, I realize my brain is replaying the conversation inside the bar.
The way Rae leaned on the counter like she owned the place.
The way she said my name.
Cole.
I pull into the small parking lot behind my building and cut the engine.
The apartment complex isn’t much to look at. Two stories of aging brick with metal railings and outdoor lights that flicker like they’re constantly debating whether to keep working. A couple of cars sit scattered around the lot, and somewhere in the distance a dog barks once before going quiet again.
I climb the stairs to the second floor and unlock my door.
The apartment inside looks exactly the same as it did this morning.
Small.
