Page 58 of Final Girls

“Spoken like a true public servant,” Sam says. “Were you always a cop?”

“Not always. Before that I was in the military. Marines.”

“You see any action?”

“Some.” Coop looks out the window, fixing those baby blues on the outside world to avoid eye contact. “Afghanistan.”

“Shit,” Sam says. “You must have seen some messed-up stuff.”

“I did. But I don’t like to talk about it.”

“Well, you and Quincy certainly have that in common.”

Coop turns away from the window, facing not Sam but me. Again, there’s something unreadable in his expression. He looks suddenly, terribly sad.

“People deal with trauma in their own ways,” he says.

“And how do you deal with yours?” Sam asks.

“I fish,” Coop says. “And hunt. And hike. You know, typical Pennsylvania-boy stuff.”

“Does it help?”

“Mostly.”

“Maybe I should try it,” Sam says.

“I’d be happy to take you and Quincy fishing sometime, if you’d like.”

“Quincy’s right. You really are the best.”

Sam reaches across the table and squeezes Coop’s hand. He doesn’t pull away. My irritation grows. Tension fills my shoulders and pokes through the soft cushion of Xanax. I want to take a second pill. I worry that I’ve now become the kind of woman whoneedsto take a second pill.

“I have to go to the ladies’ room,” I say, grabbing my purse off the table. “Join me, Sam?”

“Sure.” Sam gives Coop a wink. “Girls. We’re so predictable, right?”

On our way to the back of the café, she gives another wave to the writer at the table. He waves back. Sam and I then cram ourselves into a bathroom built to accommodate only one person. We stand in front of the dust-mottled mirror, shoulders touching.

“How am I doing?” Sam says as she checks her makeup.

“The question is,whatare you doing?”

“Being friendly. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“It is—”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Just tone it down a little,” I say. “If you come on too strong, Coop will know it’s an act.”

“Would that be a problem if he does?”

“It could make things awkward.”

“I don’t mind awkward,” Sam says.

I start to root through my purse, looking for any stray Xanax that might be resting inside. “Coop does.”

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