“I know my emotions are valid, but what kind of person cries to a bartender about their problems? It is a little ridiculous. This whole fucking day feels so… surreal.”

  Without a second thought, I gulp down the rest of the cocktail. The concern I saw in his face when I guzzled my second dirty martini a few minutes ago is back. That’s three drinks in less than an hour.

  Three strikes, I’m out.

  “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back,” he says, then he disappears through a swinging door marked for employees only.

  I hastily retrieve the used napkins from my hoodie and wipe my face and nose. He’s back before I’ve finished tucking them into my pocket. But he doesn’t come straight to me.

  He fulfills a few more drink orders and closes out a few bar tabs as an attractive woman in her late twenties or early thirties arrives behind the bar. Without so much as a glance in my direction, she takes the empty glasses in front of me and places them in a sink.

  I don’t know if it’s the alcohol I’ve consumed that’s making it difficult to understand what’s going on or if I’m just out of practice in social situations. I’ve spent most of the last two years in hospital rooms or locked in my bedroom. Dahlia has likened my social acuity to a house-cat, fluctuating between indifferent and demanding.

  I shake my head to clear the numbness that creeps over my senses, but this only makes me dizzy. It’s nearly three p.m., and I’ve consumed nothing but three strong cocktails.

  I blink at the bartender as he approaches me. Did he put something in my drink? Or am I really this much of a lightweight? Damn. I can’t even remember the last time I drank a beer, much less hard liquor.

  The bartender rounds the bar, and his eyes widen as I clumsily attempt to twist around on the stool to see where he’s going. I realize too late this isn’t the kind of seat that spins. The barstool begins to tip, and I reach out desperately toward the mahogany bar-top. But my fingers miss, closing around air as my momentum carries me toward the hardwood floor.

  I squeeze my eyes tightly as I brace myself for the impact. But the violent crash I expect never comes. Instead, my body moves in reverse until I’m upright again.

  When I open my eyes, I realize the bartender has his strong arms wrapped around me, and I’m not on the barstool anymore. I’m standing upright, but just barely. My legs are wobbly, which is probably why he’s holding me.

  I look up at his handsome face, but I can’t seem to focus. “You have four beautiful eyes.”

  “Glad you’re still conscious.” His voice doesn’t sound the least bit strained by the effort it must take to hold me up. “Do you have a car where you can sleep this off? I can sit with you.”

  As my heavy head tips backward, I remember I didn’t sleep last night. “I want to sleep, but I don’t remember where I parked.”

  He adjusts his arms around my limp body. “You didn’t park in the lot?”

  The tighter his solid arms embrace me, the weaker my limbs become. The closer his gorgeous face gets to mine, the more I want to lick him. I just want to collapse in his arms and let him have his way with me.

  I rest my head on his broad shoulder. “I parked at the hospital across the street last night.”

  My sense of smell is dulled, but I still get a tiny whiff of a clean, spicy scent coming off him. I inhale deeply, and it makes me even sleepier.

  “Do you think you can stand on your own?”

  He doesn’t want to hold me anymore. I pout like a petulant child as I grab onto the barstool for support.

  He slowly releases his hold on me and takes a step back, assessing my condition. “Can you walk?”

  I hold on to the barstool for a moment until I feel steady enough to move. Then I nod as I step sideways to get around him.

  “Thanks for catching me.”

  He chuckles as he grabs my hand to stop me. “I’ll walk you to your car and sit with you until you can drive. Unless you’d rather call someone to come get you.”

  “No,” I say, perhaps a bit too hastily.

  With Anissa out of town, the only people who can pick me up would be Dahlia or my parents. With Dahlia working, and knowing my mom has taken a Xanax by now, I’d have to call my dad. And he’s the last person I want to see right now.

  He lets go of my hand and stares at the floor as he seems to consider what he should do next. “Well, if you don’t mind, I can drive you home in your car, then I’ll get an Uber back here.”

  I squint at him. “Why would you do that?”

  He looks confused for a moment before his face splits into a charming grin. “Because I’m a serial killer.”

  I let out a soft sigh. “I knew it.”

  “Want to be my next victim?”

  The way the light dances over his purposely messy chestnut-brown hair is spell-binding. At this distance, I can see he’s almost a foot taller than I am, and I’m five-five, so he has to be at least six-foot-two. Judging by his height and how easily he caught me when I nearly fell, he could easily overpower me if he wanted to. But as I search his gorgeous green eyes for any sign of ill-intent, all I see is kindness.

  And pain. I recognize that look.

  I smile despite the gnawing ache in my belly. “I’d love to be your next victim.”

  After describing my white Nissan Leaf to the bartender, the one with the passenger-side footwell full of empty water bottles, I give him my best guess at where it may be located on the hospital lot. Somehow, from this vague description, he helps me find my car. As he watches me dig my key fob out of my shorts pocket, the clouds move in front of the sun, turning an uncharacteristically blue April sky into a more familiar Seattle gray.

  I finally find the remote and unlock the door, but he pulls it open for me. As I plop down into the passenger’s seat, he stands nearby to make sure I don’t tip over again. Before I can close the door, he gently takes the key fob from my hand. Then he makes his way into the driver’s seat.

  I turn to face him and lean the side of my face against the headrest. “You really don’t mind driving me home? Or you just don’t trust me to wait here until I sober up?”

  “Call me crazy, but I don’t like the idea of leaving a drunk girl alone in a parking lot. And, no, I don’t mind taking you home.”

  A lazy smile spreads across my mouth. “Oh, so you’re trying to protect me.”

  He doesn’t reply, but he looks uneasy with my comment. The heavy silence, and the guilt of possibly having said something offensive, makes me want to close my eyes and take a nap. Shut the world out.

  “An Uber from Duvall has to be at least fifty bucks. I’m poor. I can’t afford to pay you back,” I say as my speech becomes more slurred.

  “I’ll survive,” he says with a smile as he takes his phone out of his pocket. “What’s the address?”

  I take a moment to recall the address for the home I’ve lived in almost all my twenty-one years on this hell planet. When I finally give it to him, he wastes no time punching it into his app and pulling out of the parking space.

  As I adjust my position and clumsily secure my seatbelt, the sour burn at the back of my throat tells me I need some fresh air. As the window slides down, a mist of tiny, sprinkling raindrops hits my face. I close my eyes and inhale the cool, damp air of the Pacific Northwest.

  When my stomach has settled a bit, I sit back again and glance at his phone. The trip estimate is forty-six minutes. I should take a nap. But as we pass Husky Stadium and approach the bridge, I burst into laughter as I realize I don’t even know this guy’s name.

  His eyes flit toward me as I double over and devolve into barely controlled hysteria.

  “Are you okay?”

  “No, I’m definitely not okay.” I squeeze the words out between fits of snorting giggles. “I just gave you my home address and the keys to my car… and I don’t even know your name!”

  He laughs along with me as he glances at the Flex Pass transponder on my windshield. But as we come to a stop before the Montlake Bridge and wait for it to lower, his laughter dies down, and he doesn’t attempt to fill in the missing information about his identity. Instead, he sits in silence as he waits for me to catch my breath. By the time that happens, I wonder if letting him drive my car was a wise thing to do.

  “It’s Max,” he finally says as he pulls onto the bridge and changes lanes.

  I exhale a dramatic sigh of relief. “Phew. Now I know what name to write in blood when you leave me for dead.”

  The word “dead” conjures up an image of Elle, her face gray and sunken as she whispered her last words to me this morning.

  I’m grateful I was the one she entrusted with her words. And I know she was on heavy pain meds, so she may not have meant it. But part of me hates her for telling me something I know will haunt me for the rest of my life.

  “Hey, please don’t cry,” Max says. “I promise I’m not going to hurt you. I’m just trying to get you home safe.”

  I wipe the tears from my cheeks as a tension headache grips my skull. “It’s not that. I’m not afraid of you.”

  He glances at me a couple of times as he changes lanes to transition to highway 520. “You still haven’t told me your name.”

  The giddiness I initially felt at not knowing his name doesn’t return with this revelation.

  “Colette.”

  “Colette? Is that French?”

  “I think so. My mom is a bit of a Francophile. My sister’s name is—was—” I shake my head at my slip-up. “Her name was Gabrielle, but everyone called her Elle.”

  “You want to tell me more about her?”

  My headache spreads to my neck. “She had leukemia.”

  He continues driving in silence, though I don’t know if it’s because he doesn’t know what to say or because he’s trying to encourage me to keep talking. Either way, it doesn’t matter. I’m drunk, and I need to tell someone. I’ll likely never see this guy again. This is the perfect time to over-share.

  “They discovered it when she was six, but she was in remission for ten years. Then, about a year and a half ago, it came back and never went away.” I give up on my futile attempts to dry my face. “This morning, she called me close and whispered in my ear, ‘I’m so scared. I don’t want to die. Please tell them I don’t want to die.’ And now I don’t know what to do with that information. I mean, how am I ever supposed to be happy again knowing how scared she was?”

  He lets out a soft sigh. “I’m so fucking sorry. I wish I knew what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything. Listening is enough.”

  As I say this, it occurs to me I should apply this logic to my feelings about Elle’s final moments.

  Words are inadequate when trying to comfort someone who’s grieving. Actions speak louder. Maybe Elle’s words should not be taken so seriously. Perhaps they were just thoughts she had no control over as her brain was shutting down. Or maybe the words weren’t connected to the meaning behind them.

  But that type of logic would require objectivity; something I’m incapable of feeling right now. All I can think of is how my beautiful sister no longer exists, and how fucking unfair that is.

  She didn’t deserve to spend so many months anticipating her death. She didn’t deserve to spend so many years of her young life in misery. She didn’t deserve to feel so fucking scared and helpless in her final moments.

  She deserved to grow old and fall in love. She deserved her chance to save the bees, or whatever it is she would have done with her life. She deserved better, and the world deserved her.

  “It should have been me in that hospital bed.”

  He flashes me a look of deep concern. “That’s not something you should think about today.”

  I wonder if he has experience talking someone down from the brink of hopelessness. His tone is gentle, but his words are firm. Even with three drinks in my system, I understand what he means. It’s dangerous to think about my death when I’m freshly grieving my sister’s.

  I extract my feet from the sea of empty water bottles in the footwell and place them on the seat to hug my knees against my chest.

  His gaze flits toward me. “I know it’s still raw, but maybe it will help to make plans. Like, what if you learn about beekeeping, or something, in your sister’s honor?”

  I rest my chin on my knee and stare at the gray sky as I imagine myself in a beekeeper’s suit. “I’m afraid of bees.”

  “Why do I find that hard to believe?”

  “Because you don’t know me.” My response is cold, but I can’t bring myself to care. “Besides, I don’t want to work with bees. I like working with animals.”

  “Bees are animals.”

  I rest my cheek on my knee, so I’m facing him. “You’re not giving up on this bee thing, are you?”

  He turns the volume down on his phone as the Google Maps lady announces our next exit.

  “My dad died when I was nine,” he says with a shrug. “I guess I wish someone had convinced me to do something in his honor.”

  “You’re not too old to take your own advice.”

  “I’ve already taken it.” There’s no joy in his declaration. The muscles in his neck tense up, and he sucks in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “If you don’t want to be a beekeeper, what do you want to be?”

  “I’m a dog groomer. I used to want to be a veterinarian, but I dropped out of U-Dub… Ever since I could remember, I’ve wanted a big hobby farm with dogs and horses and goats and cats and… I guess if I could work with animals for the rest of my life, I’d be pretty happy. How about you? What are your hopes and dreams?”

  “Don’t have any.”

  I squint at him. “Come on. Everyone has dreams.”

  “Guess I’m not like everyone.”

  The note of finality in his tone feels like a challenge.

  “Ooh, so broody and mysterious.”

  This makes him laugh, but there’s still an uneasiness in his eyes. “I used to think I wanted to be like my dad.”

  “What did your dad do?”

  “He was a helicopter pilot. He worked with search and rescue organizations.” He doesn’t blink as he seems lost in thought for a moment. “He died in a helicopter crash.”

  As he stares out at the road ahead of us, I wonder if this is the pain I saw in his eyes earlier. I want to say something to acknowledge it, but I don’t think either of us wants platitudes right now. Better to just shut up and listen.

  “I actually got my degree in data science,” he continues. “I fell into bartending after graduation because of the flexible hours.”

  He glances at me with an apprehensive look in his eyes.

  A lazy grin spreads across my mouth. “Don’t worry. I don’t judge guys based on what they do for a living. I mean, I think there are better things you can do with a data science degree than spending your time driving drunk girls home. But you do you, you know?”

  He laughs out loud. “Damn, girl. That’s some savage criticism of my life choices.”

  “Sorry. That’s the alcohol talking. I didn’t mean it that way. I actually envy you.”

  “Envy me?” he says, still chuckling as he looks much more relaxed now.

  “Yeah, you’re lucky you at least have a degree. If I hadn’t dropped out, I’d be graduating with my bachelor’s next month and applying for the master’s program in comparative medicine.” I inhale a deep breath as my chest tightens. “It would be hella difficult to get U-Dub to take me back now.”

  I’m grateful he doesn’t try to offer advice on getting accepted back into UW. I’ve already had that conversation with my parents a million times. I know what I need to do; I just don’t think I have the mental fortitude to do it.

  As he drives in silence, the muscle in his jaw twitches occasionally, as if he’s stressed about something. I consider asking him what he’s thinking about, but this question may open up the conversation to subjects I’m not prepared to deal with right now. Still, it doesn’t stop my mind from wandering to the many possibilities.

  Maybe he’s worried he’ll lose his job for ducking out on such short notice. Perhaps he has a girlfriend, and he’s worried what she’ll think when he tells her he drove a drunk girl home today.

  I think back to my previous comment about him being broody and mysterious. This is an accurate description of him. His brooding discomfort at the mention of certain topics, and his inability to hide it, makes me wonder if I’ll be like that in ten or fifteen years. Or however long it’s been since his dad died.

  Will I never get over Elle’s death? Will the mere mention of it always make me physically uncomfortable?

  And he’s definitely mysterious. Few men would drive a woman home and ask for nothing in return. Unless he plans to demand payment when we get to my house. For some unknown reason, I don’t think that’s the case.

  Maybe it’s the liquid courage coursing through my veins, but he doesn’t frighten me. I’m actually hoping for something—anything—to take my mind off Elle. This gorgeous man would make the perfect distraction.

  “Do you really think I’m broody and mysterious?” he asks, and he seems genuinely curious to know my answer.

  I chuckle softly at his question, considering I made the comment about him being broody and mysterious a few minutes ago. Has he been thinking about it this whole time?

  “Does that offend you?”

  His mouth curves into a flirty smile. “That depends. Do you like broody and mysterious guys?”

  “It’s probably not ideal, coming from a strange man who knows my home address.”

  “Now I’m broody, mysterious, and strange? Maybe I should pull over and get an Uber.”

  “No!” I blurt out, and this brings a sparkle to his eye. “I’m not ready to be alone yet.”

  His smile widens for a brief second before it recedes. “Good, ’cause I’m not ready to leave you alone yet. And, just to be clear, I wouldn’t have left you. It was a joke.”

  My stomach swoops and I’m suddenly hyper-aware of gravity pushing me down into the seat. Something has shifted between us. He finds me attractive, too.