Chapter 8

Phin stared at Emily before he realized that her question made sense, objectively, and that she seemed tipsy. How much had she had to drink?

She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh God, I’m sorry. That was so rude.”

“It’s a valid question, all things considered,” he said, trying not to smile.

He wasn’t exactly a bar hopper, but sometimes when he couldn’t sleep, he’d come to Jackson’s and have a drink, maybe play some darts. He liked to watch the people coming and going, watch the men play pool while their girlfriends tried to distract them. Phin could sit at a booth in the corner, no one caring how long he sat there as long as he bought a few beers. The noise and the movement kept his mind from obsessing about whatever it wanted to obsess about that day: his clients, his family. His own loneliness.

“I didn’t think you knew what a bar was,” said Emily. She blinked up at him. “Do you even drink?”

Yes, she’s definitely tipsy, thought Phin. “Yes, I drink.” He gestured to the barst