I swear roughly and reach out a hand to steady her, but she steps back to avoid my touch. I drop my hand. I can’t blame her for recoiling, but I hate it all the same. I’m a monster.

“Olivia . . .”

“Don’t apologize,” she says quietly. “I shouldn’t have tried. I’m sorry.”

She reaches down to pick up the purse that she dropped, and scoops her keys off the counter. “Mick said I could borrow one of the cars. I won’t be late, but I have my cell if you need anything.” She heads toward the door.

“Wait,” I say, moving toward her.

Olivia pauses, giving me a look over her shoulder. “What?”

“I . . .”

I have no f**king idea what I’m trying to say. I don’t know if I want to tell her to stay, or have fun, or something even more godawful and unimaginable, like beg her to take me with her.

Take me with you on a Friday night where there are people and beers and laughter and shitty music, and my old friend Kali.

But I say none of those things, especially not the last one.

I don’t go out. Not anymore.

“Thanks for making me dinner,” I say gruffly.

This time she doesn’t even turn around. “Just doing my job, Langdon.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Olivia

I’ve never been to a bar by myself.

And I can’t say I’ve ever imagined my first foray into solo drinking being at a tiny local bar on the outskirts of Bar Harbor, Maine. But tonight I force myself.

Lately I’ve been terrified that Paul’s reclusiveness will be contagious. Like if I don’t get some outside human interaction, I’ll turn into a hostile turd like him, and become this wretched beast who doesn’t have to be accountable to anyone for my pissy moods.

Actually, that’s only part of the reason I left the house tonight. Truthfully? I hoped he’d come with me. Not that I asked. I intentionally didn’t ask, being stupid enough to imagine that the thought of being left all alone might be enough to spur Paul into leaving the house of his own volition.

My plan was to make it look very much like I wanted him to stay. I made what Google claimed to be the Ultimate World-Famous Chili, avoided him all day (actually, he avoided me first, but whatever), and I dressed carefully in an outfit intended to be sexy but understated. You know, a girl going out on the town for her own amusement, but if she happened to meet a cute guy, then hey, why not?

But Paul didn’t take the bait. I guess I should count it as progress that he even came out of his lair in search of food, but the truth is, I’m disappointed. It’s just not right for a twentysomething guy to be cooped up in the house for years. How long until all of that isolation turns him into one of those weird hermits who can’t function in normal society even if he wanted to?

I’m parked outside of Frenchy’s. I want to turn right back around and go home, but Lindy’s lecture from earlier that afternoon is still rattling around in my brain. Just because he wants to pretend he’s dead doesn’t mean you have to. We may not be New York City, but we have good people here. Work your thing, sister.

Okay, so the talk had been half sweet, half awkward, but Lindy made a good point. I don’t want to end up like Paul: socially stunted and on a one-way street toward freakdom.

I get out of the car.

From the outside, Frenchy’s—I assume the name comes from its location on Frenchman Bay—looks like a combination of ski lodge and roadside dive. The wood beams give it a homey, welcoming feeling, while the smattering of neon beer signs in the windows lends just the right amount of bar vibe. On the right side of the building is a covered deck, which I imagine is the place to be on a clear summer’s day, but in late September it’s deserted. However, the faint thump of music shows that inside, at least, there’s some activity.

I take a deep breath and open the door.

My worst-case scenario is that the entire place falls silent as everyone turns to stare at the newcomer. Best case is nobody notices me and I can find a bar stool, preferably on the end, where I can sit and get my bearings.

The reality is somewhere in between. The old-school rock music rocks on as I step inside, and although the majority of the clientele is far enough along in whisky and beer to be oblivious to my arrival, people at the handful of tables nearest the door turn to glance at me. And then glance a second time.

Lindy assured me that this was a local hangout, a place where I’d fit right in, but I think she may have been forgetting the not-so-tiny detail that I’m not exactly a local. I don’t fit right in. Not even a tiny bit.

Even if my clothes don’t scream city girl (which they do), I stand out just by virtue of being a girl at all. I count maybe five women, sure, but the majority of the clientele is men. Fishermen, judging from the attire.

Still, it’s not quite the painful scene I was fearing. It’s uncomfortable, sure, but most of the looks are curious, not lecherous or leering. I give a tentative smile at a middle-aged couple, and the woman gives me a half smile back as her companion turns back to his phone and beer, totally disinterested.

Although there are plenty of available tables, sitting alone at a table somehow seems a little too lonely considering I’m after human companionship, so I make my way to a cluster of empty bar stools.

Almost immediately a glass of water is in front of me, followed by a white paper coaster with Frenchy’s scribbled across the middle in a no-nonsense font.

“What can I get ya?” asks a friendly voice.