Page 21 of Over the Edge

She is. I’ve always teetered between being wary of people like Evelyn and being enamored by them, because she knows how to interact with people in a way that leaves them feeling lighter.

I might be able to read people, be able understand them, but putting that into practice has never been my forte. If anything it makes it worse. I can see when I fail but not be able to rectify it. It’s forced me to the point where I’d rather be seen as cold and indifferent than incompetent. That’s part of the reason I’m struggling with what to do about the situation with Evelyn now. There’s a fifty-fifty chance that if I say something, I’ll fuck up any chance of her speaking to me again.

“She is,” I agree, taking the opportunity to look at Evelyn. Despite what I’ve just learned, she’s composed, which only serves to make me question how many times I’ve seen her like this while there’s more going on beneath the surface.

“Did he tell you he’s famous, honey? Because you can do better than a washed up C-list celebrity.” Pat leans over the counter and lowers her voice conspiratorially, staying loud enough so Ican hear her over the Eagles song blaring from the jukebox on the opposite wall.

“I know I can. He’s just here to pay for my drinks while I find someone I’d rather go home with,” Evelyn says, then does a generous perusal of the bar room. She winks at someone but I don’t catch who. This causes my blood to simmer for some fucking reason.

“Slim picking here, don’t get your hopes up,” Pat warns. “What are we drinking?”

“Two shots of tequila please,” Evelyn says.

“I don’t drink tequila,” I say.

“Good for you. These are both for me.” Evelyn flashes a full toothy smile as Pat moves to the other end of the bar to grab chilled tequila and glasses.

“I take it that this is how you’re going to cope with what happened?” I ask, finally attempting to broach the topic of what I overheard.

“Well, you offered alcohol and have been avoiding the topic,” she says with an indifferent shrug. “In my mind, there’s a chance I wake up tomorrow not trying to overthink what you know because I’ve forgotten. And at this rate you haven’t said anything and I’m happy to continue like this.”

“Because drinking to the point of amnesia is the best solution here.”

“Best? No. Effective? There’s only one way to see!”

The moment the tequila shots appear in front of her she slams them back without a chaser.

Alex is sitting on Evelyn’s lap looking far too satisfied with his situation.

“Alexander?” she asks with a giggle as he leans into her touch. Evelyn is flushed and in higher spirits after a few drinks. She’s also finding everything about ten times funnier than it actually is.

“Yes,” I answer.

She looks at Alex and flashes a shameless smile. “You should come home with me, Alexander.”

Alex, as one might expect, meows.

The orange cat has one eye and is respectably battle scarred. I’m pretty sure the creature came with The Gas Station when Pat bought the place. Currently, he’s found sanctuary on Evelyn's lap in the corner table we’ve found.

“Many a drunk woman has tried, all have failed,” I tell her. I've been drinking water since my first and only beer. Evelyn’s drunk enough for the both of us.

“Okay, but we have to stay until he lets me go. It’s illegal to move a sleeping cat,” she insists.

“I must have missed that chapter in law school. Tell me, is that a felony or a misdemeanor?”

She pauses and considers. Unhappy that she’s stopped petting him, Alex wakes up and bumps her hand with his head until she resumes stroking him. “Which one is worse?”

“Felony.”

“Then it’s a felony.” She nods curtly then looks down at Alex, scratching under his chin and earning a rumbling purr. Her expression flattens and her eyes flick to my face then back down. “Why doesn’t it seem to bother you?”

“Why would Alex bother me? I don’t have allergies.”

“No, I mean learning about Lyla.” She swallows hard. “It’s making me go crazy. Like, I thought the first time someone found out the apocalypse would start and I’d get sucked into a sinkhole or something. I’m just waiting for you to do something with it so I can stop anticipating the worst.”

“Are you telling me you wouldn’t have downed so much tequila if I told you I don’t plan on doing anything with it?” If I knew that, maybe I would have voiced some of the thoughts rattling around in my head.

“No. Tequila was going to happen no matter what,” she says, as if that’s supposed to be reassuring.

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