Page 393
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“It is to everyone who knows you.”
Briggs drains his glass and leans back, studying me through eyes clearer than they were six months ago. He still has nights when something inside him collapses without warning, but the bruises are gone. He laughs more often, and sometimes the sound is even real.
“You’re going home to check your mail.”
“I’m going home because I hate this place.”
“You hate every place containing more than four people.”
“I like hockey arenas.”
“You’re paid to be there.”
“I’d attend for free if nobody tried talking to me.”
His mouth curves. “Mail came before we left.”
Every muscle in my body becomes alert.
Briggs sees it happen and laughs. “Fucking pathetic.”
“Was there anything for me?”
“I don’t know.”
“You checked.”
“I checked my box.”
“Ours are six doors apart.”
“I’ve been advised to respect boundaries.”
“By who?”
“My therapist.”
“Your therapist was discussing Lyric.”
“He didn’t specify.”
I stare at him.
Briggs lasts three seconds. “There was an envelope.”
The night improves so quickly I resent Charm for having that kind of power from almost four hundred fucking miles away.
I reach for my jacket.
“Ry.”
I look back.
Briggs’s amusement has softened. “I’m good tonight.”
The sentence isn’t casual, regardless of how he delivers it. He knows I am calculating the distance between this bar and our building. He also knows some part of me is still standing beside those windows, watching for the first sign he might fall again.
