Page 23 of Tempted By the Safety

“Good luck, Spencer,” she says, not unkindly, but not warm either.

“Thanks,” I say, and walk out the door with my phone in one hand and my keys in the other, already moving faster than I have all week.

***

The cap I keep in the glove compartment for occasions like this doesn’t do much. I know that walking in, the brim pulled low enough that it clips my eyebrows, because I’m six-four and built like a door, and no hat in the world hides that. I duck through the entrance, scan the room, and find them in about four seconds.

Back booth, corner. Milo’s got his forehead nearly resting on the table, curls flopped forward, and across from him is a woman with dark hair pulled into a messy bun. I recognize her before I’m within twenty feet: same face I watched doing frantic math with an armful of plates a little over two weeks ago.

I cross the room and slide into the booth next to Milo.

He lifts his head and blinks twice, his eyes glassy, but they land on me and stay there.

“You came,” he says.

“Told you I would.”

Emily’s gaze swings from him to me, and her mouth drops open. Then she laughs, loud, head tipping back against the booth.

“Holy shit.” She points at me with her whole hand. “You weren’t lying. It’s him.”

“Can you keep it down?” I say, glancing toward the bar, where nobody’s looking yet, but that won’t hold for long.

“I’m taking you home,” I tell Milo.

“No way.” He pulls himself a little straighter against the booth like he’s bracing for an argument he’s already decided to win. “Not leaving Em here. She’s just as drunk as I am.”

“I’m extremely drunk,” Emily confirms, nodding with real solemnity.

I look between them and let out a breath through my nose. I’m not leaving without him, and apparently I’m not leaving without her either.

“Fine. We’ll give her a ride.”

Prying them out of the booth takes longer than it should. Milo braces a hand on the table and misjudges the distance to standing, and I catch his elbow before he can find out the hard way that gravity’s still operational tonight. Emily’s steadier, but only in the sense that she’s found a rhythm to her sway, weaving gently instead of pitching over outright.

A couple at the bar is watching us now, and so is the guy at the tap, and I keep my head down and my hand under Milo’s arm and walk them both toward the door as fast as unsteady legs will allow. I don’t know if anyone recognized me. I hope not. But if they did, there’s nothing to be done about it now, and I’ve got a bigger problem attached to my arm, humming under his breath.

The car’s half a block down, and by the time we reach it my shoulder’s doing double duty as a crutch.

I get the back door open and Emily folds herself in, missing the seat by an inch and correcting, and I lean in to point at the belt.

“Buckle up.”

It takes her three tries, the buckle sliding off the catch twice before it clicks, and then she sits back, satisfied, running a palm back and forth along the leather seat.

“This car is so nice,” she says. “Milo. Milo, this car is so nice.”

“I know, Em.”

I go around and get Milo settled into the passenger seat. His hands can’t find the buckle, fumbling it against his hip before giving up and letting his arm drop. I lean across him and do it myself, and he watches me the whole time from about six inches away.

Then I climb in, start the engine, and pull out onto the street.

“Where do you live?” I ask Emily, and she mumbles an address from the back seat. I repeat it back to make sure I’ve got it before I set the route.

Milo’s staring at the side of my head. I can feel it without turning to check.

“What?” I ask, because when I glance over he’s got his chin dropped and his eyes wounded.