“How’s George?” Dexter finally asks, voice careful but steady.
I keep my eyes on the tree line. “He’s… hanging in there. Some days are worse than others. But he’s still George. Still making everyone laugh, still giving the nurses hell.”
Dexter’s mouth lifts. “Sounds about right.”
“Linda’s doing her best,” I add. “She’s strong. Stronger than me most days.”
Dexter nods, takes another drag. “I can only imagine.”
We sip in silence again. The night is heavy but not suffocating.I let the whiskey burn its way down, loosening knots of grief, little by little.
Dexter breaks it next. “I hate to ask, but… I know you still care about her. How’s Stephanie handling everything?”
I exhale smoke and watch it vanish into the dark. “I haven’t spoken to her. Not really. But I know she’s at her parents’ every day that I’m not. So, yeah. She’s there, doing what she can.”
He nods once, slow. A man of few words, like that was all he needed to know. He doesn’t push further.
From inside, laughter spills through the glass—Tori’s laugh, sharp and bright, rising above the rest. I turn, catch sight of her through the window. She really is so goddamn beautiful. Her head tipped to the side, hands covering her face, laughing hysterically while Skye gestures wildly about who knows what. I love seeing her happy.
The sound cuts through my heaviness like a blade, unraveling more knots in my chest, warming me more than the whiskey. I don’t want to, but I do—I picture what it might be like to let her in. Really let her in.
“So. What’s that all about?” Dexter tilts his glass, eyes narrowing as he studies me.
I blink. “What?—”
“I saw you in the kitchen. Then you sat next to her at dinner. And don’t think I didn’t notice the two of you sneaking looks at each other the whole damn meal.”
I huff a laugh, low, more exhale than sound. “That obvious, huh?”
“Obvious enough,” he says, grinning. “Alis didn’t catch it—or at least, I don’t think so—but I did. And I’m asking.”
I don’t answer right away. My thumb taps the glass, restless. I think of her shoulder brushing mine in the kitchen, the way her hair grazed my jaw when she leaned close, how the world shrank down to the two of us on that trail.
“It’s… complicated,” I say finally, voice rough. “But I can’t seem to stop looking at her.”
Dexter takes another pull from his cigar, exhales slowly. His other hand rests easy on the tumbler on the rail. When he turns back, his face is full of concern.
“Does she know? About Stephanie?”
I nod. “Yeah. She knows.”
“All of it?”
I take another sip of whiskey before answering. “Strangely, yes. I’d say she knows more than you.”
“Damn.” He laughs, shaking his head. “And here I thought I was your shoulder to cry on.”
“Fuck off,” I mutter, landing a playful punch to his shoulder.
He chuckles, but when it fades, his expression sharpens. “But do you know?”
That pulls me up short. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, sure, you’ve told her everything. But has she done the same with you? Has she let you in the same way?”
It’s a fair question, but I still feel myself bristling. Of course he’s not prying—this is Dex, he’d never come at me sideways—but still. My instinct is to guard her. To protect what’s hers to share.
“I don’t fucking know, man,” I snap before I can reel it in. “It’s not like we’re dating. She’s still married, for Christ’s sake.”
