2. Caius #2
Before I can talk myself out of it, before common sense or self-preservation or any of the hundred reasons I should keep my distance can kick in, I'm weaving through the crowded bar, dodging elbows and abandoned pool cues, my beer clutched in one hand.
I slide into the booth across from her without waiting for an invitation, without asking permission, the worn vinyl creaking under my weight.
She jumps at my sudden appearance, her whole body startling like I've materialized out of thin air.
Her hand flies out, nearly sending her sad margarita skittering across the scarred wooden table.
"Jesus, Caius," she gasps, one hand pressed to her chest like she's trying to keep her heart from escaping.
"Sorry." I'm not sorry at all, actually, not even a little bit. "Saw you sitting here all alone looking like someone ran over your dog, backed up, and did it again for good measure. Figured I'd come over and investigate before you drowned yourself in whatever sad excuse for a cocktail that is."
"No one died," she mutters, wrapping both hands around her glass like it's some kind of life preserver, like it's the only solid thing keeping her tethered to this barstool and preventing her from floating away into the ether of her own misery.
Her knuckles are pale where they grip the frosted rim. "I'm just... processing."
I tilt my head, studying the way her shoulders hunch inward, the defeated slump of her spine. "Processing what, exactly?" I ask, keeping my tone light even though that hot coal of protective anger is still burning a hole through my sternum.
"Life. Bad decisions. The fact that my ex-boyfriend is posting photos of himself at the Colosseum with a woman who looks like she walked off a runway in Milan." She takes a sip of her margarita, grimaces. "This tastes like regret and lime juice."
I let out a low chuckle, the sound rumbling up from somewhere deep despite the fact that every protective instinct in my body is screaming at me to fix this for her, to make it better somehow.
"You want me to flag down the bartender and get you something that doesn't taste like liquid disappointment?
Something with less self-punishment and more actual tequila? "
She shakes her head, a stubborn set to her jaw that I recognize from a thousand arguments with her brother over the years.
That Miller family stubbornness runs deep.
"No," she says firmly, like she's made some kind of decision about suffering through this particular cocktail.
"I deserve this one. It matches my mood perfectly, bitter, slightly pathetic, and trying way too hard to be fun when it's really just sad. "
I lean back against the booth, studying her. Her cheeks are flushed, either from the alcohol or the humiliation, and there's a crease between her eyebrows that I want to smooth out with my thumb. I don't. I know better. "Kyle's an idiot."
"Kyle's living his best life in Italy."
"Kyle dumped you to find himself and ended up finding a cliché. That's not a best life, that's a midlife crisis at thirty."
She snorts, and the sound is so unexpected, so genuine. "You're just saying that to make me feel better."
"I'm saying it because it's true." I take a pull from my beer, watching her over the rim of the bottle. "You're better off without him."
"Everyone keeps saying that," she mutters, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass in slow, deliberate circles.
There's a weariness in her voice that has nothing to do with the alcohol and everything to do with being told she dodged a bullet when all she feels is the wound.
"Over and over. My mom, my sister, my coworkers at the library.
Like it's some kind of mantra that'll magically make me believe it. "
I set my beer down, the condensation leaving a ring on the scarred wood of the table.
"Because it's true," I say, letting the words settle between us with the weight they deserve.
Not just empty comfort, but fact. The kind of truth that should be obvious to everyone except the one person who needs to hear it most.
"Then why does it feel so terrible?" She looks up at me, and her eyes are bright behind her glasses, not quite tears but close enough to make my jaw tighten. "Why does it feel like I'm the one who got it wrong?"
Because you think you're not enough. Because you've spent your whole life being the reliable one, the good girl, the sidekick, and you can't see what everyone else sees.
I don't say any of that. Instead, I reach across the table and steal her margarita, taking a sip. She's right. It tastes like regret. "You didn't get it wrong. He did. And now you get to show up at your sister's wedding looking so good he chokes on his own tongue."
"That's the plan. Except I don't have a date, and he's going to be there with... whoever that is." She gestures vaguely at her phone, which is face-down on the table like it personally offended her. "And I'm going to be the sad single sister who can't even keep a boyfriend."
"So bring someone." The solution seems obvious to me, even if it's not to her.
"Who? I don't have anyone." There's a defeated quality to her voice.
The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, before I can think through all the reasons this is a terrible idea. "Bring me."
She blinks at me, her lips parting slightly in surprise. "What?"
"Bring me. As your date." I'm already committed now, might as well lean into it. "I clean up okay. I can make small talk. I'll dance with you so you don't have to dance with Kyle."
"You're Ryan's best friend," she says, and there's something careful in her voice, like she's testing the waters.
"So?" I keep my tone light, even though I know exactly where this is going.
"So that's weird." She fidgets with her straw, swirling it through the slush of her margarita.
"Why?" I lean back in my chair, watching her try to work through the logic of it.
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. "Because it just is."