“That’s who we’re talking about,” Crystal said. “Good-looking. Cop.” She made a gun of her fingers and pulled the trigger in illustration. “Whoa, easy.” She grabbed my shoulder. “You definitely can’t hold your liquor, can you?”

“I’m not . . .” I palmed hair off my face. “I’m not used to drinking.” I jerked away from her hand, caught myself on the edge of the bar when I almost toppled off the stool. “What was Cal doing in here?”

Crystal didn’t touch me again, but her hand hovered nearby, ready to catch me if I pitched forward. “Well, that’s beyond my pay grade. I’m not exactly privy to what goes on in here that doesn’t involve tits and ass. But he was always huddling with that Matt guy. The asshole who got himself blown all to hell a few days ago? That’s as much as I know.”

I would have given anything to wipe away the inability to focus that I’d been loving only a second before. Nothing that Crystal was saying made sense, and I couldn’t clear my brain enough to put any pieces together.

“Gotta go,” she said. “You gonna be okay?”

“Yeah, but wait,” I managed. “Stay for a second.”

“No can do,” Crystal said, already walking away. “It’s my song.”

I watched as she sashayed across the floor, cheap stilettos tapping, and climbed back up to the stage. A mask dropped over her face as she stood, her eyes going blank and faraway. I caught Sam’s attention by slamming my glass down on the bar, and he hurried over, his eyebrows pinching together.

“Did you hear that?” I asked him. “What she said about my brother and Matt?”

“No,” Sam said. “But I wouldn’t put too much stock in anything Crystal says. She’s not the most reliable person. Likes to stir up shit.” He wiped down the bar in front of me. “Can I get you a water?”

I stared at my empty glass. Water was what I needed, but it wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted oblivion. For the first time since Junie died, the pain felt distant. Not gone, but not a raw, exposed wound, either. Hidden behind a semi-opaque wall. I could see its outlines, but not its details. So I had a fourth vodka. And maybe a fifth. I don’t remember. My last coherent memory was my forehead resting on the bar, my stomach rolling, a bead of sweat down my back, a man’s voice in my ear. And then nothing.

• • •

I woke up naked, between cotton sheets. A ceiling fan whirling above my head. Popcorn ceiling with a watermark in the corner. I knew that ceiling. I knew that fan. Fuck. I turned my head, and Jimmy Ray looked back at me from the opposite pillow. I stayed still, like maybe if I didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge him, I could go back to sleep, wake up a second time and be somewhere else.

“Hey, Eve,” he said. “You look like hell.”