Page 105 of Hate You, Maybe
“Tequila Mockingbird. An old friend called. Gave me the heads-up.”
Bridger whistles. “Sayla tied one on?”
“I guess so,” I say. “I’m on my way to get her now.”
“Well, I’m glad she’s okay. You really care about this woman, huh?”
“I do,” I say.
Bridge dropped everything to help me out without even asking this before. He just hopped in his car and got to work.
“Thanks for being there for me,” I tell him. “You’re a good friend.”
“Anytime. You’d do the same for me.”
“You know I would.”
My heart hurts for the guy. As unlikely a pair as Sayla and I ever were, the womanhewants is engaged to another man. That’s an even bigger gulf to cross. Like impossibly big. But I can’t worry about Bridger and his unrequited love right now. I just have to get to Sayla.
When I arrive at the bar, I leave the truck at the curb in the red. I’ll only be inside a moment, but I can’t help flashing back to Sayla giving me a hard time about parking in the district spot.
Was that really less than a month ago now?
Inside, I find her perched on a stool, hunched over the bar top.
“Hey, sleepyhead.”
At the sound of my voice, she blinks up at me.
“Dex. I don’t feel so good,” she groans. Then she squeezes her eyes shut tight like she’s blocking out the light. Or the music. Or the whole world. Including me.
I pass a bill over to Maddie. A hundred dollars, just in case. “Is this enough to cover Sayla’s tab?”
“More than enough,” she says. “Let me get you some change.”
“Keep it,” I say. “And thanks again for looking out for her.”
“It’s what I do.” Maddie hitches her shoulders. “You take care now.”
“Don’t worry. We will.”
I scoop Sayla’s rag doll body up off the barstool and cradle her against me as I head for my truck. She wraps her arms around my neck, her chin buried in my chest, and the anxiety I’ve been hauling around starts to dissipate now that I know for sure she’s safe.
What’s left behind is the dull throb of worry she may never forgive me. Still, I do my best to get her settled, then jog around to fire up the truck. The rumble of the engine’s a familiar comfort, and I turn on the heat. Sayla sighs and leans over, pressing her cheek to the window. “That feels good,” she mumbles.
I double-check the door's locked. “You’ll feel a whole lot better once we get you home.”
“Noooo. Not home.” She lets out a long moan. “Loren’s there. With linguini.”
“Linguini?”
“And Foster.” She sniffles like she’s either congested or she’s been crying. I hate either option. “If I go there now, I’ll ruin everything. Ialways ruineverything.”
“You don’t,” I tell her. But she’s just a huddle of blonde in the passenger seat, her pale head propped against the door.
“If I go home right now, I will,” she groans.
“The only other option is you coming to my place.”
