Page 42 of We Are Just Us

They wove through the packed tables, Rory leading the way, and a sudden flicker of performance anxiety hit as their destination came into view.

Six people. Heavy glass margaritas were already sweating onto the wood, and a couple of baskets of chips were already half demolished. It was a relaxed, loud mix of men and women, clearly comfortable with one another.

“Hey everyone,” Rory said, resting a hand briefly against the small of Kieran’s back to guide him into the gap. “This is my neighbor, Kieran.”

The table looked up in unison, a welcoming chorus of hellos breaking out over the music.

Meg looked up from her drink and smiled, her expression warm and entirely open. She gave Kieran a quick, appreciative once-over, then nodded approvingly. “Nice,” she said, gesturing toward his shirt. “I like the fit.”

Heat rushed up Kieran’s neck that had nothing to do with the evening air. “Oh. Thanks.”

“Good to see you again,” Meg added, shifting her chair an inch to give him more room. “Sit. Grab the spot next to Rory.”

Kieran eased into the empty chair beside him, shaking hands with the people closest to him. Names flew past him faster than his anxious brain could catalog them—coworkers, weekend surf buddies, people who had years of history with the man sitting next to him.

Beneath the table, Kieran’s phone buzzed in his palm. He fished it out, tilting the screen from Rory’s line of sight with the stealth of a teenager hiding a text.

EMORY: Update on the neighbor situation?

KIERAN: Fine. Good. I haven’t done anything stupid yet.

Three dots appeared instantly.

EMORY: Yet. Night’s young. Did you show off the arms?

Kieran locked the screen and shoved the phone back into his pocket, his ears burning.

“You want something to drink?” Rory asked, leaning in slightly so Kieran could hear him.

“Yeah, a drink sounds perfect.”

Rory signaled a passing server.

“What can I get you?” she asked, tossing her carrying tray under her arm.

“House margarita please, light salt,” Kieran said.

“Can I see your ID?”

“Oh—yeah. Sure.” He fumbled his wallet out of his back pocket and handed over his license, acutely aware of six strangers watching him produce his ID like a teenager at a college bar.

The server handed it back without ceremony and moved on.

Rory was watching him with quiet amusement. “How old are you?”

“Thirty-four.”

Rory’s mouth curved. “Huh.”

“Don’t,” Kieran said.

Rory held up both hands, the picture of innocence, and said nothing. Which was somehow worse.

Kieran noticed the heavy, condensation-ringed glass already sitting in front of Rory—clear sparkling water with a lonely lime wedge, entirely untouched.

“You’re not having one?” Kieran asked, gesturing to the drink menu.

Rory shook his head, his tone entirely matter-of-fact. “I don’t drink. Quit three years ago. Wasn’t good for me.”