Page 55 of The Fine Line
She continues grasping aimlessly until her hand lands squarely on the toe of my dress shoe. She lets out something between a gasp and a squeal, nearly toppling backward. I catch her by the arm just in time and pull her upright.
It takes a full three seconds of swaying before she finally blinks up at me.
“You okay?” I ask.
She squints.
“Cub?”
“No.”
“No?”
“Not anymore.”
She turns toward the door and shoves it.
“Cub—”
“Excuse me,” she cuts in, glaring over her shoulder. “I’mtrying to listen to you for once. I’m trying to have a good rest of my night. So let me, would you?”
She turns back to the door, giving it another push. Nothing. Frustrated, she leans her full weight into it.
“Ugh!” she grunts, shoving hard against the door. “Why won’t this open?”
“You may want to try the handle,” I offer.
She straightens her spine like I just personally insulted her. Then she reaches for the handle, gives it a turn, and the door swings open easily.
“I knew that,” she huffs.
“Of course you did.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What? Nothing. You just… know a lot of things.”
She narrows her eyes. “Well, what do you know?”
“Not much,” I admit.
She tilts her head. “I think you know more than you give yourself credit for.”
I don’t know how to respond to that.
“I think we should get you a glass of water,” I offer instead.
She rolls her eyes. “You’re a glass of water.”
“Is that… a compliment?”
She scoffs. “No.”
“Thank God. I was about to call for an ambulance.”
She stares at me, looking like she’s weighing whether to laugh or strangle me, then shakes her head and turns back toward the bar.
“Good night.”
