Page 16 of Handful

At ten she checked her phone and put cash on the bar. “My hour’s up.” She glanced at her phone. “Dutch said take two. One was enough to reset me.”

“Take the second.”

“I don’t want to take liberties.” She stood, gathered her bag. “I love my life. I just needed a breather.” Paused. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too. Tell Dutch he’s setting the bar high.”

“He’ll be insufferable about it.” She squeezed my hand across the bar and left.

On her way past the end of the bar, she slowed for half a step. Handful looked up. Indira looked at him. Something passed between them. Then she kept walking.

Handful went back to his book.

At eleven the bar started to thin. The Wednesday couple left on schedule. The divorce-planning table had moved to the decisive phase — somebody was writing a list on a napkin. Jamie was collecting glasses at the far end. Derek was cashing out tables.

I wiped down the bar, working my way from the service well toward the last few occupied stools. Handful’s glass was empty. He’d closed the book, spine-up on the bar, keeping his place.

“Another?” I asked.

“No. I’m good.” He straightened up. “How many is that?”

“How many what?”

“Nights I’ve been here.”

I didn’t have to count. “Twenty-eight.”

Twenty-eight. He’d missed three nights along the way. I hadn’t asked for an explanation. He hadn’t offered one.

He nodded slowly, like he was confirming something for himself. “And in all that time, have I—”

“Flirted with my staff? No.”

“Made a comment about—”

“Anyone’s body? No.”

“Said anything that would—”

“Get you kicked out? No.” I folded the bar towel. I could see what he was doing. Doing the math out loud like he wanted me to check his work.

“You’ve been a model customer. Excellent tipper. Quiet. Well-read.” I paused. “It’s deeply suspicious.”

He laughed. “I’m not running a game,” he said.

“That’s what someone running a game would say.”

“Fair.” He looked at the book on the bar. Back at me. “I’m not asking you for anything. I just like sitting here. It’s quiet. It smells like oranges and bourbon instead of beer and regret. And you make a really good Old Fashioned.”

“We’ve established that.”

“We have.” He didn’t move. Didn’t lean in. Didn’t drop his voice. Just looked at me with those brown eyes — no grin. “I like who I am when I’m in here. I don’t know if that’s because of the bar or because of you, but either way, this is where I want to be most evenings.”

I didn’t say anything for a moment. Behind me, Jamie clinked glasses in the wash. The music shifted to something slow and acoustic.

“One date,” I said. I’d been arguing with myself about this for a week. I’d been winning, right up until I opened my mouth.

He blinked.