“There isn’t any way to handle it. And you’re not being a bitch. It’s fine.” I need to get out of here, away from this girl. I stand up, leaning on the bar, and fish for my wallet in my back pocket. “I’ll go. Let you—have your space, I guess.”

A small hand—thin, elegant, strong fingers, unpainted but manicured nails—wraps around my wrist. “Don’t. I don’t want to be alone right now.”

I settle back down onto my stool, feeling unstable emotionally and physically. I don’t know how to interact with this girl. How to comfort her, how to keep up a conversation when all that runs through my head is I’m sorry! I’m sorry! It’s my fault!

“What’s your story, Ben?”

I tip back the pint glass and finish it, and start on the second one. “Not much to tell. I was playing football; a tackle went wrong and took out my knee. Your mom was helping me get my mobility back.”

Echo looks at me, eyes red-rimmed with sorrow and yet still piercing, knowing, sharp. “There’s more than that to it. I can smell it on you. You don’t go to the funeral of a woman you just met. You maybe stop by the visitation and pay your respects, but you don’t show up at the burial. And you don’t—” she waves at my face with her shot glass, which is somehow full again, and then shoots the whiskey, making a face as she swallows and keeps talking, “you don’t have that look on your face for someone you just met.”

“What look?”

She shrugs and wipes her mouth with the back of her wrist, then takes a swallow of beer. “I don’t know. But there’s something. You look…distraught? Upset? I mean, me? She was my mom. My one and only parent. My best friend. So I get to be distraught. But you? No disrespect, dude, but you knew her a month. Why do you get to be upset?”

“I told you. She was a friend to me when I needed one.” I blow out a breath, resigned to giving at least some of the truth. “The tackle that took out my knee, it ended my football career. I could’ve gone pro. Would have. There were scouts…but that’s over, now. Permanently. And Cheyenne told me about how her dance career ended and I guess we…I don’t know…bonded over it, to some degree. That’s all.”

But that’s not all. Not even close. But I can’t say any of that.

Echo nods. She’s now on her third beer, and there’s another full shot waiting for her, and I’m getting worried about her. She’s starting to look like she’s feeling the booze, and I’m wondering how far she’s going to take this. She lost her mother, so I mean, god, she’s got the right to this bender, but we’re in a shithole bar on the outskirts of San Antonio. I don’t have a car, and neither does she as far as I know, and she’s on her way to shitfaced, and I’m responsible for her mother’s death, and what the fuck am I supposed to do?

She knocks back the shot, and I’ve officially lost count of how many that is. Five? Six? Echo finishes her third beer, chugs it, drains it like pro, and then presses her knees together and spins on the stool, stands up.

“Gotta visit the girls’ room. Be right back.” But then after two steps she wobbles, stumbles, and has to catch herself on the bar. “Whoa. That caught up fast.”

I stand up, snag my cane and limp to her side. Ignoring the screaming multitude of things in my heart and head and body—the pain in my knee, worry for this girl I just met, the undeniable attraction I feel to her because holy shit, she’s even more beautiful than her mother, the guilt I feel over that very fact piled on top of the guilt already there—I put my arm under her shoulder, around her waist, support her and help her walk to the bathroom. I shove the door to the ladies’ room open with my cane and help her through it, to a stall. She grabs the sides of the stall door.

“Thanks,” she says, her voice small and wobbly.

“No problem,” I tell her.

Seemingly oblivious or uncaring of my presence, she lifts her dress up around her hips, baring black panties and long strong pale legs. I feel myself blush and turn around, start toward the door.

“Just wait. I’ll probably need your help again, so just wait.” I hear the stall door bang closed and then the sound of her urinating, and then the flush of the toilet. My cheeks burn hotter.

I don’t hear the stall door open; don’t feel her approach behind me, so I’m startled when I feel her hand on my shoulder. Her fingers tighten in my trapezius muscles, and I turn to see her swaying on her bare feet, blinking, taking deep breaths.

“Okay?” I ask. God, what a stupid question.

She seems to think so too, because she snorts gently and shakes her head. “No. I’m not even remotely okay. But thanks.” She peers at me, and her fingertips touch my cheek. My skin tingles where she made contact. “Oh my god. You’re blushing. Jesus. What, have you never heard a girl take a piss before? So fucking cute. Lemme wash my hands and then we can get back to the drinking.”

“Should you maybe slow down a bit? I mean, I don’t really know you and I’m not trying to tell you what to do, but I just—” I don’t know what else to say, so I leave it there.

Echo rinses her hands, dries them on a wad of paper towel, and then turns away from the sink, squaring her shoulders and trying gamely to walk a straight line on her own. And damn, she does, too. Slowly, carefully, but she does it. I follow her back to the bar, wait until she’s perched on her stool and then take my own seat.

She takes a long pull off her beer, and then turns to me. “No, I don’t think I should slow down. If I slow down, I’ll have to start feeling shit, and I’m in no shape for that. It’s not real yet, and I don’t want it to be real. I want to drink myself into oblivion. Which is exactly what I’m going to do. I’m going to drink until I pass out.”

“Ah. I get that,” I say. “Well, at least tell me where you’re staying. Do you have a car here somewhere, or what?”

“Nope, no car. I took the bus here from school. I’m staying with Grandma and Grandpa, about an hour outside the city.” She glances at me. “Is my drunk ass going to be a burden to you, Ben?”

I shake my head slowly. “No. Not at all.”

So that’s what happens. I sip my beer and we make small talk. She likes a wide variety of music, as do I, so music becomes the focus of our conversation.

“So, Ben. Favorite song of all time.” She’s drunk as hell, but holding her liquor a lot better than I’d have ever thought a girl her size could.




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