But Joe could see the stress wearing on her—the tremor in her breath when she thought no one was watching, the way her lips pressed together when the doctor mentioned Alice’s pins.
Walt had insisted on staying with Alice through that first night. Zoe had whisked Krista home long enough fora shower and change. That was the last Joe had seen of her, but he had a feeling he knew where she’d end up before heading to his tent.
The Hideaway felt like a beacon on the shoreline with its low lights and patio chairs stacked. The lake stretched out in front of it, dark and still, a flash of silver where the moon hit the water. The smell of woodsmoke from distant campfires drifted across the lake.
Joe found Krista exactly where he expected: behind the bar, elbows on the counter, staring at the lake, her thoughts a million miles away. The overhead lights were dimmed low. Frankie was snoring in a little ball at her feet.
She’d changed into soft shorts and an oversized Hideaway sweatshirt. Her hair was a messy twist, shoulders curved inward, like she was trying to hold herself together by sheer will.
“Hey,” he said gently.
She looked up, blinked once, and tried for a smile. It didn’t quite make it.
“Hey,” she echoed. “Did Walt update you too?”
“Yeah,” he said, stepping behind the bar automatically. “They’re keeping her for a few days to make sure everything holds.”
Krista nodded, swallowing. “She was mad about the hospital food. She told the nurse their Jell-O was practically criminal. I told her I’d have Kit whip up something special, just for her.”
Joe let out a short laugh. “Sounds about right.”
Silence settled again, heavier this time. Krista traced the edge of a water ring on the bar.
“I know she’s okay,” she said finally. “Like, rationally. But all I keep thinking about is what if she hadn’t been? What if it had been worse?” Her voice cracked.
Joe felt that familiar urge rise in him, the urge to fix, to steady, to make things easier. “Stay rightthere,” he said.
He reached for the shaker, for the familiar bottles on the shelf. Tequila. Honey syrup. Fresh lime from the little fridge. Ice from the bin.
Steady, sure—nothing like his first disaster shift. When he was done, he strained the drink into a glass, the golden liquid catching the low light, the salted rim glittering.
He set the Hot Honey Margarita in front of her.
Her eyes flicked from the drink to his face. “You really mastered that,” she said, her voice soft.
“I had a good teacher,” he replied.
She picked up the glass, studying it for a moment before taking a sip. Her shoulders eased a fraction. “Thank you,” she said.
“You deserve it.”
For a second, she just held the glass, staring at the lake like it might answer something for her.
Then she swallowed hard. “Also…” She cleared her throat, eyes finally meeting his. “About earlier. In the car.”
Krista’s mouth wobbled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “I snapped at you. I didn’t mean—” She exhaled, shaky. “Not all of it. I was scared and exhausted and…you didn’t deserve that.”
Joe shook his head once, slow. “No,” he said quietly. “I deserved some of it. I shouldn’t have called you stubborn, or acted like I understood what this situation is like for you.” He paused, choosing the words carefully. “And I shouldn’t have brought up your parents like it was some easy solution.”
Krista’s fingers tightened around the glass.
Joe stepped closer, leaning his forearms on the bar, not crowding her—just there. “I get it,” he said, softer. “It’s off the table. Completely. I’m not going to push you toward something that feels like a trap.”
Her eyes shone again, and she blinked fast.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
But the dam had cracked. One tear, then another, running down her cheeks, catching on the curve of her jaw. She set the glass down and covered her face with her hands.
