“Did you take a photo of this, and… I don’t know, give it to anyone?”
Heat creeps up my neck at his insinuation.
“Why would I take a photo of this? And even if I did, what would I do with it? Who am I gonna give it to?”
“I don’t know.” The answer comes too fast, like he hates how weak it sounds.
“Wait, let me get this straight. You showed up here because you thought I did?”
“I came here because someone told me that they got this from you, and I’m just trying to figure out…”
“And you automatically believed this person? Some random person who supposedly sent you a text message?”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“I mean, it kind of is. And you clearly believe them, which is concerning, especially since they seem like such a reliable source.”
The ice bucket is still sitting on the ledge, half full. My hands are wet, and I quickly swipe them over the front of my jeans, suddenly feeling like the walls in here got smaller.
“You really think I’d go through your things?” I ask. “Or use your notes against you? Seriously. You actually think that sounds like me?”
“I don’t know what to think right now,” he says quietly, dragging his hands through his hair in frustration.
That one stings.
“You don’t trust me?”
“That’s not fair.”
“I mean, it feels like a fair question to me.”
He looks more tired than angry. Like he’s been fighting with himself about this before he ever walked in here.
“There’s more than plays in there,” he admits. “There are notes about some things. Things I’ve been tracking.”
“What are you trying to say, Cooper? Do you think I took them and what, am using it to blackmail you or something?” I burst out laughing at the absurdity of it.
“I didn’t say that, Brinley.”
“You didn’t have to. The fact that you showed up here and practically cornered me, asking these questions that make no sense, is proof you clearly think I had something to do with it. I barely know anything about hockey. You think I understand what that chicken scratch even says?”
He doesn’t answer. That silence says more than anything else he could.
“I didn’t touch your notebook. I didn’t take a photo with it or give it to anyone.”
His eyes search my face, studying me like he’s still trying to decide whether to believe me.
“I wouldn’t do that to you,” I add.
The silence that follows sits heavier than anything he said. For the first time since he walked in, he looks unsure. And somehow, that stings more than the accusation itself.
I don’t say anything. Honestly, I’m afraid that if I stay in this room for another minute, I’ll either cry or say something I can’t take back.
So I grab the ice bucket and walk past him without another word.
The door swings closed behind me, and the noise of the bar rushes back in. Someone calls my name for another round.
I slide behind the bar and start scooping ice like I wasn’t just accused of betraying the only person in this damn town I actually trust.
