I glanced over at him.
“She seems to like you, for whatever reason.”
Jesus.
How many people were coming over for a dinner I’d bought nothing for?
“I make a killer green bean casserole,” Kowalski told me, “and Theresa has this recipe for crispy roasted rosemary sweet potatoes that you’ll be addicted to the minute you taste them.”
“I’ll bring leftovers from my mom’s too. I still owe you pie, right?” Ryan yawned.
I was just slightly overwhelmed.
“I think he needs a nap,” Kohn commented, and I flipped him off.
“He needs a drink,” Sharpe suggested, getting up from his desk. “And it’s happy hour.”
And that, finally, sounded like a good idea.
I PASSED tired and hit that level sort of delirium where I was functioning outside my body and everything was brighter and funnier and more interesting than it should have been. The vodka didn’t help at all. I should have just gone home, but the idea of walking into the empty house—Aruna had Chickie, as usual—of not having Ian there did scary, twisty things to my heart. So I was scared to go home and face the lonely bed, scared to sleep and face my fears, not ready to share any of that with any other soul, so eating pub food, drinking like a fish, and playing pool with the guys were the only salvation I could find.
We were loud, obnoxiously so, and Sharpe was hustling games, not in a fun, nonserious way but in a dickhead asshole way until finally White cut him off, grabbed him and his jacket, and said they were going home.
“No, no, no,” Sharpe whined, reaching for me but missing my shoulder when White yanked him sideways. “Pam’s gonna make me sit on the couch and share how I feel and make me watch romantic comedies while we have tea.”
That was hysterical, and I couldn’t stop laughing. He looked horrified as White dragged him out of the sports bar, yelling “mañana,” which was funny coming out of him because it was probably the only Spanish he knew.
I was surprised that the others were ready to call it a night, all going home to their wives, which I envied, all except Kohn and Ryan, who actually wanted me to get lost because they were going bowling. Apparently Ryan had met a really nice girl who had a friend.
“Why Kohn and not Sharpe?” I asked Ryan as we left the bar.
“Sharpe’s still kinda mad at his ex,” he said with a shrug. “You can’t be nice to someone new when you’re still living in the past.”
My phone rang, and I told them to go ahead without me and enjoy their night, and walked down the street a little ways where it wasn’t so noisy before I even checked the display. When I did, confirmed that it wasn’t, in fact, Ian calling, my heart sank. It was stupid; he was busy with God knew what. But still, I felt like a boat drifting around without an anchor, and I needed my goddamn anchor to be with me.
I needed Ian.
“Hello?” I answered, all choked up, coughing quickly, trying to play it off for whomever was on the other end. It was probably someone I knew, but I didn’t recognize the number and I was too out of it to decipher the area code.
“Miro?”
Just her saying my name was enough to identify the voice. “Hey, Powell,” I teased Janet. “Whatcha doin’, Mom?”
She sucked in a breath.
I went from drunk to sober that fast. It always amazed me when that happened, but a sad, wet sound from one of my oldest, dearest friends did it instantly. “Oh shit,” I whispered, making the only intuitive leap I could manage. “Honey, it’s okay, you’re gonna make a great mom.”
“How do you know?”
Bingo. “’Cause you were the first person in my whole life who ever took care of me.”
And that was it. She was sobbing.
“Awww shit.”
Glancing around, in over my head, I noticed Ryan and Kohn still standing there.
“What?” I mouthed silently. Kohn made the sign for me to hang up. I made the sign for them to go. Ryan shook his head and I understood. No one drank alone; it was a Kage rule, a marshal rule, a federal mandate for all law enforcement that carried a firearm. It was why there were always two, why everyone had a partner, because there needed to be someone there to watch out for you and have your back at all times. Even if both marshals were drinking, unless they were at home, one drank far less. Someone always had to be, if not sober, then well under the legal limit. Neither Ryan nor Kohn would let me out of their sight until they talked to me and heard what I was doing and where I was going.
Putting my hand up for them to wait, I got back to my girl.