“Plus”—he smiled—“you’re complicated.”

“You haven’t seen me in years—”

“Doesn’t matter—”

“And already I’m complicated?” She could still feel the slight touch of his fingers on her face and tried not to blame herself for that. He’d barely touched her—had it even been a full second before she’d flinched?—but she could feel the lingering warmth, the slight callus.

He shrugged, laughing. “I’m teasing you.”

“Yes, well, I was mugged at gunpoint.”

“No shit?”

“Absolutely no shit.”

“Oh, man, I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah. Well, that’s what happened.” She sat down at the table. “Yesterday.”

“Damn.” Whereas someone else might have become more alarmed and animated upon hearing this news, this dose of reality seemed to settle him down. He shook his head as he yawned. “Was Matt with you?”

Sarah nodded.

“Well, that’s a relief, at least.”

“Is it?”

His laugh sounded more like chastisement. “Hey, do you want a drink?”

Sarah shook her head.

“Mind if I get one?”

“Nope.” Even if the sun would start rising in about an hour, it felt like the dead of night. She watched him stretch as he headed into the house. The way he moved—you could tell he was an actor, or maybe a martial artist; he had that self-conscious muscularity. He was rangy and stocky at once. She thought of that restaurant, open 24-7 with its scramble of meals and schedules. She faced the creek and the neighbor’s flag but imagined Arman opening the fridge.

“I’m sorry I said you were complicated,” he said, coming back to the table with a bottle of beer.

“It’s fine. I am.”

“I am, too.” He sat beside her, not too close and not too far.

“I know.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah, okay. I hear you.” He yawned his way into a smile. “We’re all—y’know—really fucking complicated.”

Arman looked older in a way that betrayed a lot of late nights. She hadn’t expected that. Though maybe it was cultivated? The beard was a nice touch, especially with the hair on his head still so thick and short. Had he grown the beard for a role?

“Long shoot?”

He nodded.

“How’d it go?”

“It went well, thanks.” He sounded strangely polite.

By the time he’d finished a few swigs of beer, she could tell he was unhappy about something. She hoped the source of his unhappiness was particular and not a more general midlife malaise, for which she had little patience. She was about to ask him about it—his unhappiness—but then reconsidered.

He stayed quiet in a way that felt awfully loud.

“Do you want to tell me something?”

He looked at her but said nothing.

She tamped down the urge to ask what was wrong, to be too greedy for information.

He cocked his head, appraising her. “There’s always been something a little clueless about you.”

“Clueless?”

“Yes.”

“Clueless.”