Anna Grace just gives me a look that says, very clearly, that happened over a decade ago and we’re not discussing it right now.
“Do you need more ice?” she asks instead.
I take a deep breath and look around at the various coolers and ice buckets I’ve set up behind the bar, filled with wine, beer, sodas, water, and a handful of juice boxes for the kids. I remind myself that I’m here because I am being social and making acquaintances and dealing with my anxiety in a healthy and normal way, not so I can explode at people for using the wrong door.
“I think we’re okay for now,” I say, perfectly neutral. “Thanks.”
I must look weird, because Anna Grace hugs me again and even though she’s a hugger in general, this is a lot of hugs. I wonder if it looks strange to anyone else in the building, especially after I yelled at Silas about a door, even though I was right about the door because there’s a huge sign on it that says FIRE DOOR, DO NOT OPEN so of course I thought all the alarms and sprinklers were going to go off —
“It sucks that you have to share an office with your ex for a whole month,” Anna Grace says, in her most validating voice. I do, in fact, feel validated. “Your boss should’ve handled it differently, and if you want me to break into his car and put shrimp paste under the floor mats, I will.”
Now that’s the kind of friendship I need.
“In August, no less,” I say.
“Can you imagine?”
“I don’t want to.”
“My cousin’s friend’s roommate said someone did it to her once when she left her car somewhere for a whole weekend, and it smelled so bad she called the cops because she thought there had to be a dead body in there,” she says, comfortingly.
“Wow,” I say, my chin digging into her shoulder.
“One of the cops puked. She had to sell the car for scrap. Hey, thanks for hanging all the art up, it looks great.”
“No problem,” says Silas Flynn’s voice behind me, because I can’t have peace and quiet for more than five minutes. I release Anna Grace from her supportive, sympathetic hug to see Silas casually opening a cooler and grabbing a bottle of water.
“Those are a dollar,” I tell him.
“I’m a volunteer,” he says, shaking the ice off of it.
“That doesn’t make it free.”
Silas straightens, still holding the bottle, a half-smile on his face.
“Hey, what’s that over there?” he asks, tilting his head vaguely to the left.
“You can’t just steal from homeless dogs and cats,” I say, not falling for it.
“C’mon, Nakamura. I’m thirsty. It’s one bottle of water.”
My arms are folded in front of my chest. Nervous sweat prickles on the back of my neck and that spot right between my boobs. My glasses have slid down a little, but I resist the urge to push them back up because I think he might be fucking with me, and that pisses me off even more than the thought that he’s too cheap to spend a dollar.
“There’s a water fountain near the bathrooms in the entry hall,” I say, not budging an inch. “That’s free.”
Silas looks at me. I look at Silas. He’s still got a slight smile on his face, that aw-shucks-I’m-just-kidding-you-can’t-you-let-me-get-away-with-it-just-this-once expression that people in this town always seem to fall for.
The longer we stand here, the more that expression fades, until Anna Grace finally sighs.
“It’s a dollar,” she says. “Aren’t you a lawyer or some shit?”
That gets a laugh and another easy smile from him, though this one doesn’t quite reach his eyes. I think. Maybe. Who the fuck even knows with Silas, a man who thinks he’s weaponized his charm.
“You’ve got a point,” he drawls, reaching for his wallet. He puts his still-unopened water down on the bar, pulls a bill out, gives me an indecipherable look. “Got change for a twenty?”
Of course, he can’t make this easy and pay in exact change. Wordlessly, I hand it over. He gives me that look again as he puts it in his wallet and his wallet back in his pocket.
“So,” he says, twisting the top off. “Anna Grace, what are you doing tomorrow night?”