“Thanks,” she says without looking up.
“Anytime.” My rag is right where I left it, folded neatly on the rail. I pick it up and start wiping a circle of bar that already gleams. Stop that. I set the rag down, palms flat. “How’s… everything?”
Her mouth edges toward a smile, doesn’t get there. “Specific.”
“Right. Sorry.” I try again, keeping my voice neutral, neighborly. “Installers treat you right?”
“Yeah,” she says. “Everything’s in. It’s… a lot.” Her eyes flick past me, like she can see through the brick to her kitchen next door. “In a good way,” she adds, then takes another small sip.
I nod. Leave it simple. Don’t say I knew the minute the truck turned in. Don’t say I spent an hour tonight picturing the ovens lighting the first time.
Silence spreads. The hum of the beer cooler. The faint, tired creak of the building settling. She sets the bottle cap down, picks it up again, rolls it between her fingers.
“What brings you by?” I ask finally. “Besides insomnia.”
She studies the glass, as if an answer might form in the bubbles.
“Ben,” she says, and the way she says my name makes the hair on my arms rise.
“Yeah?”
She looks up and meets my eyes, and for a second, it’s like the floor shifts under my boots. There’s something there I can’t read fast enough. Fear? “I need to tell you something.”
Every thought scatters. Need to tell you something.
My mind flashes through possibilities at a pace that would be impressive if it didn’t make me want to throw up.
Does Jason know? Did he get two pieces of nothing and make one big ugly something? Did she come to tell me to keep my distance? For real this time, not the polite version we’ve been playing at? Did I miss a rent check? Did the health inspector call her with a problem in the building? Did—
“Is Jason okay?” I blurt, throat suddenly dry. My hands are on the bar; when did that happen? “Your parents? Is something wrong?”
“What? No.” Her forehead creases. “They’re fine. Everyone’s fine.”
“Because you—” I stop. I’m about three seconds from babbling. I rein it in. “Sorry. You said you needed to tell me something. My brain went to worst-case. It’s a lifelong hobby.”
“Nothing like that,” she says softly. “Well, maybe. I don’t know.”
She takes a deep breath and lets it out.
I’m confused now. I have no idea what’s going on, and I don’t know how to act.
Her fingers toy with the glass again, spinning it just a fraction, then stopping, then spinning it back. The ice shifts with a faintclink. She won’t look at me, not straight on, and the longer she avoids it, the tighter my chest pulls.
“Paige.” My voice is low, very careful. “What’s going on?”
Her throat works as she swallows, but no words come out. She presses her lips together, then parts them, then shuts them again. I can see it in the way her shoulders stiffen. She’s bracing.
“You’re scaring me,” I admit, because the silence is worse than anything.
That makes her glance up, quick, before her eyes dart away again. “I don’t mean to.”
“Then what is it?”
She exhales through her nose, pushes a strand of hair back even though it doesn’t need pushing. The ice in the glass has started to melt, condensation running down her fingers, but she doesn’t notice. “I was baking the other night,” she says at last. “First big batch in the new ovens.”
I nod slowly, waiting.
“Cinnamon rolls,” she adds, like the detail matters.
