Chapter 7

One of the perks of being an adult and also unemployed? If you wanted to spend an extra hour or two hanging out at a bar with your friend, you could. Instead of going home and working on a story that had you totally stumped. Even if past-Dash had promised future-Dash that he would.

Seely kicked Keme out, which went over better than usual because Millie said she needed to leave too. Indira called it a night as well, which left me and Bobby with Fox. The crowd at the Otter Slide was steady—more people, mostly locals from up and down the coast, were taking advantage of Saturday night to have some fun. And the Otter Slide was fun. It was loud, with talking and laughter and shouts and a man groaning about a bad shot in pool, and with The Killers (apparently on repeat) on the jukebox. It was warm and full of bodies, especially in the crush around the bar. The air had a yeasty, hoppy smell that, mingled with the aroma of onion rings and fried cheese curds, made my tummy happy. If I didn't already feel at home here—and, to be honest, if I hadn't had my own safe little seat in a booth—it all probably would have been overwhelming. But since I did feel at home here, and I did have my own little seat in a booth, and that seat happened to be next to Bobby—well, it was actually kind of nice.

After the conversation about the investigation had ended, the tension had gone out of the group, and the conversation had shifted to other things. At some point before Keme had left, I'd challenged him to a cheese curd-eating contest (mostly as an excuse to eat his cheese curds). Bobby had tried to stop me—his watchwords were cholesterol and medical intervention — and somehow the whole thing had turned into this ridiculous wrestle-fest, with Bobby trying to grab me as I tried to grab the cheese curds, which Keme was protecting with his life.

Now that Keme had gone home—and as I was polishing off what was left of the curds—Bobby gave me a look that was clearly aimed at disapproving but landed somewhere closer to wry amusement.

"Can I get you anything else?"

"Another of Seely's brown sugar Old Fashioneds?" I nudged my empty glass.

"What's going on inside your body?" Bobby asked. "Do you have frosting for blood?" But he was smiling as he said it, and he slid toward the end of the booth. "Fox, something for you?"

"A vodka tonic."

"No, Bobby," I said. "I was just joking. You already got drinks. I'll get this round."

I eyed the press of bodies around the bar as I said it, though. Safely ensconced in my booth was one thing; fighting through a Saturday night scrum was another.

Before I could insist, though, Bobby squeezed the back of my neck and gave me a little shake. "Next time."

And then he was moving across the room.

I might— might! —have gotten caught up in appreciating the view.

"Does your jaw hurt when it hits the table like that?" Fox asked a little too innocently.

I tore my gaze away from Bobby (listen, you don't understand: he has these shoulders, and this booty, and he has thighs ), and I even managed to shut my mouth before I gave Fox an I-have-no-idea-what-you're-talking-about look.

It only made Fox laugh. "You know he went to get those drinks because he knew you didn't want to."

I rolled my eyes.

"Dashiell," Fox said.

"Yes, I know."

"And you know what that means?"

"It means he's sweet. And thoughtful. And considerate. And he pays attention. Did I say kind already?" Fox's dark eyes remained disconcertingly fixed on me, and after a moment, I heard myself say, "I mean, it's not any different from you buying me a drink."

"It isn't any different from me buying you a drink," Fox echoed.

"Well…no."

The chorus of "Mr. Brightside" swelled. I caught myself rubbing my knees. Fox was still looking at me. The sound of a good break came from the pool table, followed by a tipsy whoop, and Fox still didn't look away.

Finally I said, "What?"

"I'm just trying to decide," they said slowly, "if you're this dense on purpose, or if it's some kind of natural affliction."

It had Fox's usually flippant delivery, but there was an unexpected sting to the words. I ducked my head so I wouldn't have to look at them anymore. I was rubbing my knees faster now. Calm down, I told myself. Take a breath. You're being oversensitive.

And I was too sensitive; I knew that. About this topic, in particular. Because Fox wasn't wrong. Dense might not have been the word I'd chosen—bewildered seemed to come closer—but the bottom line wasn't all that different. I mean, this had always been the problem, the constant uncertainty, the worry, the doubt. Was I happy with him? Would I be happier alone? Was this a good relationship? Was it a bad one? Was he even interested in me, or was it all in my head? Did I love him?

Bobby's voice broke through the welter of my thoughts. "A brown sugar Old Fashioned." He slid the drink in front of me as he dropped into the booth. "And a vodka tonic."

"You're a saint," Fox said, "you're a miracle worker, a million blessings upon your head, and you have the hips of a young John Travolta."

Bobby wrinkled his nose, that not-quite smile, and then stopped when he got a better look at me. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I said.

"I'm being a witch," Fox said.

(Notice: I'm paraphrasing.)

Bobby's eyebrows went up.

With a sigh, Fox said, "I'm sorry, Dash. I didn't mean to—to say that, I guess."

"It's okay."

And it was okay, truly—I mean, I knew Fox hadn't meant to be unkind. But maybe I didn't sound as convincing as I'd hoped because Bobby's hand settled on my back, and those remarkable burnt-bronze eyes took me in even more closely.

"No, it's not." Fox swirled their drink, staring down into the glass. "You're my friend, and you're always so kind, and I was trying to tease you, but it came out so much nastier than I meant it. I'm sorry." They didn't wait for me to answer. "I've been…going through a rough patch, one might say. If that rough patch were an untended acre of weeds and empty bottles of motor oil and shards of glass that had once, in a former life, been a stained-glass window in the shape of Rick Moranis."

"I have no idea what any of that means," Bobby said. "Do you?"

"Obviously," I said. "I mean, kind of."

Fox's answering smile flickered and went out.

"Why don't you tell us what's wrong?" Bobby said.

It was so characteristically Bobby—straightforward, genuine, earnest.

And, as usual, it worked.

Fox blinked. And for a terrifying moment, I thought they were going to burst into tears. Voice rough, they said, "It's nothing, really. Garrett is being perfectly reasonable. And I'm being perfectly unreasonable. And that's how we've always been, only now it seems like my being unreasonable is no longer what he wants."

There was so much to unpack in that sentence. When I'd first moved to Hastings Rock, there had been a mention of an on-and-off-again romantic partner—someone referred to as the lumberjack . But my attempts to learn more had been rebuffed by Fox—including a memorable "Mind your own beeswax"—and so I'd left the matter alone.

"Garrett Wahl?" Bobby asked.

Fox nodded miserably.

"Is this the, uh, lumberjack?" I asked.

Another miserable nod.

"Wait," I said to Bobby. "You know him?"

"I know who he is. He has a place outside of town, keeps to himself. Why do you call him the lumberjack? I thought he sold mushrooms."

That…actually fit way better with my mental image of who Fox's romantic partner should be.

"I have no idea," I said. "That's what somebody else called him."

"It's all that stupid flannel," Fox said. "I told him he needed to update his wardrobe. Almost everything that man owns is made out of wool. Wool!"

"What happened with Garrett?" Bobby asked. "Are you two dating?"

Fox drew themself up. "We are involved . Occasionally. When the mood takes us."

"All right," Bobby said. "What's the problem?"

"The problem , as you so blithely put it, is that he wants me to move in with him." Fox's tone reached scandalized outrage by the end of the sentence. "He gave me an ultimatum: either I move in, or we're done."

"Okay," Bobby said.

(Bobby did not sound scandalized. Bobby sounded…like Bobby. How many times can I say earnest?)

"It most definitely is not okay," Fox snapped. "It's outrageous. It's antiquated. It's…it's heteronormative. And my God, Bobby, it's vanilla !"

Bobby's brows drew together.

I (helpfully) said, "I like vanilla. Vanilla gets a bad rap."

Fox gave me a haughty look. "Vanilla is boring."

"Boring gets a bad rap too. You know what boring is? Boring is your favorite pair of old sweats. Boring is Tillamook cookies and cream ice cream. Boring is perfect every time."

Bobby said, "Of course you like vanilla."

"Wait," I said, "what does that mean?"

Bobby wasn't the eye-rolling type, but I caught a whiff of that energy before he said, "What did he say when you told him you didn't want to move in?"

"We had a huge fight." Fox rubbed their eyes. "I told him I didn't want someone in my life trying to control me with threats."

I winced.

Fox gave a weary nod. "Not my finest moment."

The Killers finally faded. In their place came a song—I couldn't think of the name, but it was Barbra Streisand, and it was, to put it in Millie-speak, SAD. Groans went up all over the bar, except for one tidily dressed little guy in a bowtie. He perked right up.

Suspicion washed over me, and I gave Fox a closer look.

"I bummed a quarter off Indira," Fox confessed.

"So," Bobby said in a tone I'd previously heard from him on such memorable occasions as You Promised Me You Were Writing: The Bobby Mai Director's Cut . "You didn't tell him you didn't want to move in."

"I made my feelings perfectly clear."

"But you didn't tell him." Bobby must have heard how that sounded because he hurried to add, "I'm not passing judgment. It's not easy for me, talking about that kind of stuff, and I'm not trying to pretend that it is. In fact, that was a big problem with West. All I'm saying is if you want things to work out, you need to talk to him. Tell him why you don't want to move in. Help him understand."

"What if I don't understand?" Fox asked, wriggling deeper into the quilt-bag. "What if I'm just a Gladstone bag full of crazy?"

"Then you should wait," I said. "In fact, I think even if you know what you want to say to him, you shouldn't rush into it. You're both in a lot of pain right now, and you both need time to calm down before you talk about this again."

"But not too long," Bobby put in. "Because avoiding it is only going to make it worse."

"Time might also help you decide if—" I struggled for how to put this into words, and suddenly I had the feeling that I was walking a tightrope, and that the slightest misstep would send me into an uncontrolled fall. "—if this is real, I guess. For lack of a better word. Maybe it's a whim. A passing fancy. Maybe he's not really serious. But if you jump in with both feet, well, you're putting both of you in a situation where you might not be able to get back to what you have."

Bobby gave me an unreadable look. Then, in a different voice, he said, "Maybe. But it might not be a phase. It might not be a whim, I mean. If he's serious, and if he means it, even if this conversation is difficult and scary and—and big, then you have to have it, because it's the only way to move your relationship forward."

"But relationships don't always move forward," I said. "Sometimes, if you try to force things, if you rush, they fall apart."

He was looking at me even more strangely now, and that tightrope-walking sensation was back again. My heart was starting to beat faster. Sweat dampened my underarms. "True," he said slowly. "But some relationships need to grow and evolve. Some relationships, if they stop growing, they die."

"Neither of you is making any sense," Fox said, "which is fine because I don't need any advice. I'm an adult, and I'm perfectly capable of handling—oh Jesus!"

The last bit was a tiny, suffocated scream, and then Fox disappeared, quilt-bag and all, under the table.

I turned around. Standing at the bar, unmistakable with his bushy beard and muddy boots and, yes, flannel, was the guy I knew as the lumberjack—Garrett, apparently. He said something to Seely, impossible to hear over the cries for drinks, the shouts of excitement, Barbra's wailing. A moment later, Seely passed him a brown-glass bottle, and Garrett headed toward the back of the bar.

"Is he gone?" Fox whispered.

"Yeah, he—"

Before I could finish, Fox wormed their way out from beneath the table and scooted toward the door. If a middle-aged human in a quilt-bag scrambling across the floor was an unusual sight in Hastings Rock, no one gave any sign of it. Yet another reason I loved this town.

I stared after Fox. Bobby stared after Fox. And then his eyes came back to mine, and we both dissolved into laughter. Bobby's was quiet and deep and—and solid, if a laugh can be solid. We were sitting shoulder to shoulder, and I could feel his laughter running through me, a sensation that was more than sound. My laughter was, let's be honest, mostly giggles, but the longer I felt that ripple of sensation, Bobby's amusement moving through me like my body was water, the harder it was to remember what was so funny. His hand, which had been on my back, now curled around my shoulder and pulled me against him until we collapsed against the back of the booth, laughing so hard we couldn't sit up. But a part of my brain wasn't laughing. A part of my brain was hyperaware of everything: the tightness with which he held me, the firmness of his chest, that sporty, masculine scent I'd come to expect every time I was around him, the scratchy polyester of his uniform.

Slowly, our laughter trailed off. We both got into a semi-upright position. I realized my drink was almost empty, and a clinical voice inside my head observed that I might, possibly, be getting drunk. That same voice observed that somehow, Bobby was sitting even closer to me now: the length of his thigh pressed against mine, his arm still around my shoulders, the warmth of his body making my own internal temperature climb steadily.

"God, I do not miss that," I said, because I needed to say something. "Relationships make people crazy. This is why it pays to be single."

Bobby made an amused sound, and his voice was playful when he spoke, but there was something under that playfulness I couldn't read—like a second track playing at the exact same time, saying something I couldn't quite make out. "I don't know. Relationships can definitely make you crazy. But you're forgetting the good parts."

"Am I?" And I definitely must have had too much to drink because the next words flowed out of me. "I think maybe you're forgetting all the bad ones. Are you telling me you're ready for another relationship?"

Bobby gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Maybe."

"Seriously? Bobby. No. No, no, no. No. No!" Okay, definitely too much to drink, especially because I started giggling again. It was nerves more than amusement. It was how he held me. It was the way his breath brushed the side of my face, slowly and evenly, sweet and chocolatey from the stout. I struggled to stay focused on what I was saying as I added, "You can't, Bobby. You can't rush into a relationship."

The way we sat, side by side, made it awkward to look directly at each other, but that wasn't stopping Bobby. He gave me another of those long, considering looks. His pulse fluttered in his throat, the faintest movement under that golden-olive skin, and I realized, with a start, that the day's stubble was finally starting to show—barely a hint, of course, since he didn't have much of a beard. I thought of what it would feel like, the delicate rasp, a hint of roughness in contrast to the softness of his mouth. Oh God, I thought dizzily, and I tried to corral my thoughts, bring them back into line. But all I could think was: Oh God.

When he moved, it was like the rest of the world was on a dimmer switch. The lights seemed to go down. The ching-ching-ching of the pinball machine, the roar of voices, even Barbra—they all grew quiet. It was Bobby and me on our little island. He was holding his beer with his free hand. His fingers brushed mine. He bumped his knuckles up and down. I thought he was smiling, but maybe he wasn't.

"I don't know," he said so quietly that, even in that little pocket universe just for us, I barely heard him. "It's not rushing if it's the right person, is it?"

It's hard to put into words what happened. Every circuit of my brain blazed to life. I was instantly, immediately aware of everything. My heart, which had already been beating faster, started to race. I'd already felt warm, but now I felt like I was burning up. Sweat dripped down my sides. The room seemed to spin, getting larger and larger. It wasn't a pocket universe anymore. It was enormous, and I felt like I was at the bottom of that space. Panic filled my head like smoke—kind of like a cross between dizziness and a head cold.

Because he was flirting with me. Right? Or was this—was it not flirting? Was it Bobby being playful and cute because, let's be honest, Bobby could be playful and cute sometimes. He was serious so much of the time that it was easy to forget that he was, at heart, a goof. Maybe this was nothing but…friendliness. We were comfortable with each other. We touched each other all the time. All night, he'd been touching me—holding my hand, rubbing my back, now with his arm around my shoulders. Maybe this little brush of fingers was another example. Maybe it was some nonverbal emphasis meant to add humor to the conversation—like the way some authors used italics.

No, another voice in my head said. He's definitely flirting with you.

But he couldn't be.

But he was.

But what if he wasn't?

And then an even worse possibility occurred to me: what if he was flirting—but for all the wrong reasons? Because he was still amped up, still feeling macho, or whatever he'd been feeling. I thought about the look on his face when Chester's name had come up, and the word territorial came to mind. And then, an even deeper undercurrent: jealous . Would he still feel this way tomorrow? Or would he—more likely—regret it? (Obviously for very good reasons.)

The words exploded out of me—sloppy, almost incomprehensible. "I don't know," I said. "I'm definitely not the expert on relationships."

Bobby stopped that gentle bump of his knuckles against mine.

Somehow, I kept talking. "Honestly, I think I want to be single the rest of my life. Like, I think that's for the best. Dating, relationships—it all makes me miserable, you know? I spend all this time in my head, worrying, trying to figure out if I'm going crazy, and then going crazy for real. Some people are meant to be single, I think." I laughed, but it wasn't me laughing. "It's a good thing I like being single so much. I don't have to share a bed, nobody complains about the pile of laundry that is getting dangerously high, unlimited tacos…"

The hurt on Bobby's face was only there for a moment. And then it was gone. He was smiling again, and somehow, the expression darkened his face. When he spoke, I almost didn't recognize his voice behind that smile. "Unlimited tacos, huh?"

"Oh yeah, that's the best part. Just me, my tacos, and my friends. Thank God I'll never have to be in a relationship again."