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Riley’s phone rang at 11:43PM.
Late enough to be annoying and early enough that whatever someone wanted probably wasn't worth answering.
"Hey, man. It's Danny over at Rossi’s.”
Riley looked at the television where a man in a suit was explaining something about something to another man in a suit. He had been watching for twenty minutes and would not have been able to say what either of them was talking about.
"What's up?"
"You know that woman you come in here with sometimes?"
Riley sat up.
"Which woman?"
"The one who looks like she could kill me with a bar stool."
"What about her?"
"Well, she's here."
"Okay…"
"And she's drunk."
Riley waited.
"And she's being kind of a problem."
He closed his eyes.
"What kind of problem?"
There was a pause. Voices in the background. A glass breaking, or maybe just being set down too hard.
"She just punched a guy."
"Did he deserve it?"
"Riley."
"Did he?"
"He bought her a drink, man."
"That's not what I asked."
Another pause.
"He put his hand on her shoulder. I don't know. She went nuts."
Riley was already reaching for his shoes.
"Anybody call it in?"
"No. That's why I'm calling you."
"Good. Keep it that way."
"Look, I'm doing you a favor here. You need to come get your girl before—"
"Don't call her that."
Riley hung up.
He stared at his phone for a second, then grabbed his jacket. He wasn't sure which part of that conversation bothered him most.
Probably the fact that Danny had called him at all.
Or maybe the fact that Riley felt relieved that he did.
The bar was three blocks from his apartment, a narrow place with dark wood paneling and a neon beer sign that had been flickering for as long as Riley could remember.
He found the injured man first.
He was sitting in a booth near the entrance with a wad of paper towels pressed to his face, explaining to a woman beside him that he had done absolutely nothing wrong.
The blood on his shirt suggested he had done at least one thing wrong.
Neagley was at the bar.
She sat perfectly upright on a stool, a half-empty glass in front of her, looking at the bottles lined up against the mirrored wall. Her jacket was folded neatly beside her. She appeared entirely uninterested in the commotion occurring ten feet away.
Riley knew that posture.
She was furious.
Danny spotted him and threw both hands up.
"Thank Christ."
"Evening to you, too."
"She's gotta go, man."
Riley glanced at Neagley.
She hadn't turned around.
"What happened?"
"I told you what happened. Guy bought her a drink, tried to talk to her, and she clocked him."
"Did you see it?"
"Yeah."
"Then you saw him touch her."
Danny gave him an incredulous look.
"Jesus, Riley. It was a hand on the shoulder. You can't just go around breaking people's noses over that."
"No," Riley said. "You can't."
He looked toward the booth. The injured man had stopped talking and was watching them cautiously.
"But you can keep your hands to yourself."
Danny sighed.
"Look, I don't need a lecture. I need her out of here. She's been sitting there glaring at everybody for twenty minutes, and I can't even get her to pay her tab."
"I can pay my fucking tab. You didn't ask nicely," Neagley said.
It was the first time she had acknowledged either of them.
Her voice was steady, but the words had the slightly exaggerated precision of someone concentrating very hard on sounding sober.
Danny rolled his eyes.
"See what I mean?"
Riley felt his patience thinning.
"She's sitting quietly."
"After punching a customer."
"Who put his hands on her."
"Jesus Christ, would you stop—"
Something closed around Riley's hand.
He looked down.
Neagley's fingers were wrapped around his.
Before he could process what he was seeing, she pulled.
"Come on."
He followed.
Not because she pulled particularly hard, although he suspected she could have. He followed because for one bewildering second, he couldn't think of anything else to do.
She marched him past the booths, through the narrow entrance, and out onto the sidewalk.
Then she let go.
Just like that.
She turned toward him, eyes bright with irritation.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
Riley looked at her.
Then at his hand.
Then back at her.
"Good to see you, too."
"Are you following me?"
"No."
"Then why are you here?"
"Danny called."
Her expression changed. Not much. Just enough.
"He called you?"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"Apparently you've been terrorizing the local population."
"That guy was an asshole."
"Sounds like it."
"He touched me."
"I know."
"He just—" She made an irritated gesture toward her own shoulder. "Like he had some kind of right."
"I know."
"And then he acted surprised when I hit him."
"People usually do."
She stared at him.
"You're making jokes."
"A little."
"I'm not in the mood."
She turned away sharply.
For a moment, Riley thought she might go back inside.
Instead, she started walking.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"Home."
"My place is closer."
"Congratulations."
"Neagley."
She kept walking.
"You're drunk."
"Observant."
"Come back to my place. Get some water, sit down for a while."
"No."
"Then let me walk you home."
"I don't need an escort."
"Didn't say you did, but—"
"Then stop following me."
Riley considered that.
Then followed her anyway, keeping a few paces behind her.
It was partly practical. Neagley walked fast, even drunk, and he had no particular interest in getting into an argument about matching her stride.
Mostly, though, he needed a minute.
She had taken his hand.
Not brushed against it. Not bumped into him in a crowded room. Not accidentally touched his fingers while passing him something.
She had taken his hand.
He could still remember the pressure of her fingers against his palm.
It had lasted maybe three seconds.
He was fairly certain it was the first time she had ever touched him voluntarily.
He was also fairly certain she had no idea she had done it.
That was the strange part.
Neagley noticed everything.
She noticed exits, reflections, parked cars with people sitting inside. She noticed when someone changed their hair or moved a piece of furniture an inch to the left. She could tell when he was lying from the way he breathed before answering.
But she had taken his hand and apparently forgotten about it before they reached the sidewalk.
He wanted to tell her. He wanted to ask if she knew.
He wanted, rather badly, to know whether it meant anything.
Instead, he watched her narrowly avoid a trash can.
"Careful."
"I saw it."
"Sure."
"Stop talking."
He smiled to himself.
Her apartment was another six blocks away.
By the time they reached the building, Neagley's anger had settled into something quieter.
She fumbled her keys once, caught them before they hit the ground, and glared at the lock as though it had personally insulted her.
Riley waited patiently.
When she finally opened the door, she stepped inside and left it open behind her.
He took that as an invitation.
He had been to her apartment before. It was tidy, sparsely decorated, and arranged with the sort of precision that made him reluctant to move anything.
Neagley dropped her keys into a small dish beside the door.
Then she turned around.
"Why are you still here?"
"Door was open."
"That's not an answer."
"Want me to leave?"
She opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Then walked into the kitchen.
Riley stood in the doorway.
He heard a cabinet open, then close. The refrigerator opened next.
"Water," he suggested.
"I know what water is."
"Just checking."
She emerged holding a bottle.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
Neagley leaned against the kitchen counter, staring at the floor. Riley watched her carefully.
He had seen her angry plenty of times.
This was different.
She looked exhausted.
"Why were you at the bar?" he asked eventually.
"Drinking."
"Yeah, I pieced that together."
"Then why'd you ask?"
"Because you don't usually drink alone at a bar."
She took a long sip of water.
"And you definitely don't get drunk."
She took another long sip.
"So?"
She looked at him.
For a second, he thought she might throw the bottle at his head.
Instead, she laughed.
It wasn't a particularly happy sound.
"Because I'm an idiot."
Riley frowned.
"Okay."
"That's it? Okay?"
"I was waiting for the rest."
She rubbed a hand over her face.
"God."
He waited.
Neagley stared at the bottle in her hand.
"My therapist says it could take years."
Riley didn't move.
"Years," she repeated. "Maybe longer. Maybe never. Who knows."
He had a fairly good idea what they were talking about.
He said nothing, not wanting to rush her. Not now.
"And I get it. I know how this works. It's not like I haven't read about it. It's not like I don't understand what she's telling me."
She set the bottle down harder than necessary.
"But knowing something and actually doing it are apparently two completely different fucking things."
"Usually."
"I've been trying."
"I know."
"No, you don't."
He accepted that.
She folded her arms.
"I've been trying, Riley. Really trying. And every time I think I'm getting somewhere, it's like—"
She stopped.
Her jaw tightened.
"Like what?"
"Like there's a wall."
He watched as her face changed from irritation to frustration.
"And I know it's there. I can see it. I can explain exactly why it's there. I can tell you what it's made of and how long it's been there and probably give you a detailed history of every stupid thing that went into building it."
She shook her head.
"But I can't get through it."
Riley leaned against the wall beside the door.
"That sounds frustrating."
"Yeah, well I thought maybe if I got drunk enough, I could just stop thinking about it."
He frowned as she looked away again.
And suddenly Riley understood that there was something else here.
Something she was trying very hard not to say.
"Neagley?"
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Do that."
"Do what?"
"Look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're waiting for me to say something."
"I am waiting for you to say something."
"Well, stop."
He waited.
She let out a long, irritated breath.
"I went to the bar because it's near your apartment."
Riley blinked.
"Okay."
"I thought maybe I'd have a drink."
"Okay."
"And maybe I'd come over."
He stayed very still.
"And maybe—"
She stopped.
Looked at him.
Then looked away again.
"Jesus Christ."
Riley felt something in his chest shift.
He did not dare to say anything.
"I thought it would be easier," she said finally.
"Coming over?"
"Everything."
She looked furious again, but he was beginning to realize the anger wasn't directed at him.
"You're always so goddamn patient."
He raised an eyebrow.
"That's a new one."
"You know what I mean."
He did.
He thought he did, anyway.
"You never push," she continued. "You never make a big deal out of it. You just stand there and let me figure things out."
"Seems like the thing to do."
"Well, it's annoying."
He almost laughed.
Managed not to.
"I thought if I had a few drinks, I could come over and maybe actually do something about it. Instead, some asshole bought me a drink, put his hand on my shoulder, and I punched him in the face."
She looked at the ceiling.
"Great progress."
"Neagley—"
"And now you've had to come drag me out of a bar like some kind of idiot, and I'm standing here telling you all this when I should've just stayed home."
"Neagley."
"What?"
"You took my hand."
Neagley stared at him.
"What?"
"At the bar. When you decided Danny and I were done talking."
"No, I didn't."
"You did."
"I would've noticed."
"That's what I thought but,” he let his sentence hang.
She looked down at her hands.
Riley watched her work through it. He could almost see her reconstructing the scene in her mind, sorting through the details she had filed away. Danny's voice. The argument. The walk to the door.
"You didn't pull away?" she asked.
"No."
"And I didn't—"
"No."
She went quiet.
"How long?"
"Couple seconds."
She looked at him again.
"You're sure?"
"Pretty hard to mistake."
For a while, she said nothing.
Then she looked at his hand.
Riley noticed.
He also noticed the way her expression changed, the anger giving way to something he couldn't quite identify.
Curiosity, maybe.
She took one step toward him.
Then another.
He stayed where he was.
Neagley reached out slowly, as though she were approaching something that might startle if she moved too quickly.
Her fingers brushed his.
She stopped.
Riley held his breath.
Then she slipped her hand into his.
It was an awkward thing, tentative and deliberate, nothing like the impatient grip she had used to haul him out of the bar.
She stared at their joined hands.
Turned his slightly, examining the way her fingers rested against his palm.
Riley could feel the warmth of her skin.
He could also feel his own pulse doing something deeply unprofessional.
Neagley didn't seem to notice.
She was concentrating.
For several seconds, neither of them moved.
Then she looked up at him.
Her eyes widened.
Not in fear.
In realization.
"Oh, fuck."
She dropped his hand, stepped backward into her apartment, and slammed the door in his face.
Riley blinked.
He stared at the painted wood six inches from his nose.
Somewhere on the other side, he heard a muffled curse.
He looked down at his hand.
Then back at the door.
A smile crept across his face.
"Goodnight, Neagley."
"GO HOME, RILEY."
He laughed quietly and turned toward the stairs. He had a tab to pay.