I finish pouring the rest of the beer and slide it across the bar, trying not to stare at him like I’m waiting for whatever bad news he’s holding in to drop.
He doesn’t approach me at first and simply sits at the end of the bar, watching. He’s not ordering anything or speaking to anyone despite the number of people who recognize him and try to strike up a conversation about their last game.
My stomach twists.
When we run low on ice, I grab the bucket and head into the back room. It’s cooler back here, and after being on my feet behind the bar for the last couple of hours, I welcome it. I set the bucket under the machine and pull the lever just as the door behind me opens.
I don’t have to turn around to know it’s him.
“I didn’t realize you were stopping in tonight,” I say over my shoulder.
He doesn’t smile.
“When you stayed over the other night,” he says, his voice calm but tight enough to put me on edge, “did you see a notebook of mine?”
I blink at him. “A notebook?”
“It’s a black notebook with a Rixton Wolves sticker on the front.”
I shake my head slowly. “No?”
The ice clinks into the bucket. I turn to watch it drop, buying myself a moment while I try to figure out where this is coming from.
“I wasn’t exactly paying much attention, though,” I add. “We were kind of busy.”
He doesn’t react. If anything, his jaw tightens.
“Why are you asking?”
“I had some notes in there. Game stuff and other things I’ve been tracking.”
“Okay…”
The machine hums behind us, the sound of ice falling as it begins to fill back up. I shut it off and turn to face him fully.
“What reason would I have to look at your game notes?”
He rubs his hand over the back of his neck, appearing to debate whether to say the next part at all.
“Someone got a hold of it.”
Our eyes finally lock. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember seeing it. If I did, I’d tell you.”
“Well, someone got a hold of it, and it was while you were at my house. No one else has been in my room except you.”
The way he says it doesn’t sit right.
“So what are you saying? You think I did something with your notebook?”
He exhales slowly, looking away for a second before forcing himself to meet my eyes again.
“I got a message,” he says. “From an unknown number. They sent me a photo.”
“What do you mean they sent you a photo? Of what?”
He pulls his phone out and turns it to me. I lean closer, taking in the notes on the page. You can see my bag sitting on the chair Cooper uses at his desk, or when he’s playing video games.
I straighten slowly. “Okay? I don’t remember seeing it, but it looks like it was in your room. I’m not sure what you think this proves.”
