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Sophia glances at Greg quickly as she slides onto a barstool in the middle of the bar. “I thought I’d keep you company. Is that allowed?”
“Sure. Absolutely. You want something to drink? Can’t sell alcohol after two.” Out of habit, I place a cocktail napkin down in front of her.
“Just water is okay.”
She sips on the ice water I give her and within minutes, it’s just her, me, and Saint. I lock the front door behind Greg as Saint comes to the front, propping open the swinging door.
“You got floors out here, Jake? Oh. Hey. Um...”
As I start to put chairs on tables, I make introductions. “Saint, this is my neighbor, Sophia. Sophia, Max St. James.”
“You were manning the doors earlier when me and my friend came down,” Sophia’s voice carries. Wanting to get all the chairs up, I continue my task while keeping my eyes on the two. Saint is still standing in the door frame, a slightly confused, comical look on his face as he looks at her.
“Yeah, yeah. I remember you.” His look of confusion turns toward me now, brows in the air.
With my own eyes wide and brows up, I tip my head toward the back, hoping he gets the hint to leave.
Saint’s face relaxes and he steps toward the register. “I’ll get the register closed up and finish back of house inventory. Holler if you need anything.”
Once again, it’s just me and Sophia.
“How’s that water?” I ask, putting up the last of the chairs.
“Refreshing,” she answers, turning on the stool to face me. She places her hands between her knees and it’s then that I realize she’s wearing my sweatshirt. “Almost as good as Starbucks water.”
“Don’t tell me you’re one of those people who says all water tastes different,” I laugh.
“It does! Some are super chemical-y. Most definitely reverse osmosis. Some are thick.”
“I’ve never had a thick glass of water.”
“Not like, thick-thick. But just, theytastethick.”
“That’s...” I stop myself from saying it’s weird, and instead, use the word, “different.”
Instead of going on about the water, she turns back on the stool, following me as I walk to the backside of the bar. “You’re sure it’s okay that I’m here? I wasn’t sure what closing entailed, and thought I’d return the favor. Walk you home, if you’d walked.”
“And return my sweatshirt?” I tease.
She glances down and then back to me, grinning. “I was debating keeping it, to be honest.”
“You could.” It was in high school that I learned when you give a girl your sweatshirt, the likelihood of getting it back was slim. A guy only shares when he’s okay if it doesn’t come back.
And knowing Sophia has something of mine...
Not a hardship.
When she doesn’t respond to that, I continue with the small talk that doesn’t feel awkward. “Did you walk back by yourself?” Just because the crowds have been busy and the streets a party, doesn’t mean it’s any safer for someone to walk in the earliest hours of the morning.
“I carry Mace®,” is her non-answer, as she moves to dig her keys out of the right pocket of my sweatshirt. Holding it up by a fabric loop, she shakes the keys. The keys and charms jangle, and a thick turquoise tube swings just below them. I know for a fact she didn’t have that the other night. She may be using it as an excuse that she’s safe to walk, but I have the knowledge it’s not an always-on-her-person kind of thing.
Meaning, if the event came where she’d need to use it, she may not remember she has it.
Or, worse, she goes for it and shedoesn’thave it.
The need to scold her for walking alone—even with the pepper spray—is strong.
I don’t bother berating myself for feeling protective over this particular woman.
