“You’re great, but no way would my body do that,” Quinn declares, leaning back in the booth.He surveys us with amusement in his eyes.“And from what I know of him, neither would Bryson’s.”
“Little bit of yoga would do you both some good,” I suggest.“Get to where you can touch your toes.”
“Aw, that’s not fair,” Bryson complains.“I have long legs.”
I snort.“Such a victim complex,” I tease.“Short people have a lock on the height complaint thing, Bryson.That’s our thing.You don’t get to have the best view everywhere, the ability to reach anything you want, and get to complain about your height.It just doesn’t work that way.”
“Sure it does.”He drapes his arm around my shoulders.“I got bad knees!”
“Same,” Quinn chimes in.They actually clink their beers together at that - weird thing to celebrate, but to each their own.
We stay for a little while longer.Bryson has another beer, but I switch to water.I’ll sleep in a little tomorrow, but I need to be able to get up early enough to do my run before it’s too hot.I zone out while Bryson and Quinn are talking about something sports-related that I’ve got no interest in, and stifle a yawn.Just when I’m proud of myself for hiding my tiredness so well, Bryson gets the bill.
“Oh, Bryson, you don’t need to leave on my account,” I protest.“I can get home just fine by myself.”
“Not letting you take the subway home alone at this hour, Carleigh,” Bryson says, handing the waitress his credit card.
My eyes roll.His protective streak has reared its head a few times lately; it’s sweet, and most of the time, but he’s being a little crazy.“Bryson, I take the subway at this hour all the time after work.”
“That’s different.”
I laugh.“What?How is it different?”
“Just is.”
I sigh and sit back, waiting for the waitress to return.I look at Quinn, who just raises his palms to me as if to announce he’s not going to take a side.“I think you’re being a little silly.I can get a cab, if it makes you feel better.”
“I’m not, and it doesn’t, but it doesn't matter anyway.I’m tired, too, Carleigh.”
The waitress returns with a receipt and Bryson’s visa.He signs it, then we make our goodnights with Quinn, Bishop, and Paul, and head out through the crowd.Once we get to the street, Bryson moves to peer out at the traffic, hoping to hail a cab.I watch, anxious.
I should drop it.I really, really should drop it.But I’m curious: he’s been a little off since we got here, between the brief tension with Quinn to the way his hand held my leg, even to the way that he stiffened up when a friendly, seemingly harmless guy approached our table and offered me a drink.I want to know what’s going on.
So, before he can raise a hand to hail a ride, I reach out and brush my fingertips against his forearm.“You okay?”
Bryson turns halfway and looks at me, his blue eyes piercing.“I’m fine.Just trying to get us home.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” I say slowly.“You’re not usually like this.”
He frowns, turning fully toward me now.“Like what?”
I sigh and wave my hands.“Like … this,” I emphasize, gesturing to him.“Overprotective.”
Bryson’s eyebrows shoot up.“I shouldn’t be worried about you going home alone at night?”
“No, that’s - well, no!It’s fine.I’m fine.I’m a big girl, Bryson.I’ve done fine for myself on the train for a long time in this city.”
“Jesus Christ, Carleigh,” Bryson swears, grabbing my wrist.He tugs me to the side, out of earshot of another couple who are standing nearby and giving us an odd look.“I swear to god, you’re blind to it.Totally blind to it.”
I’m hopelessly confused.“What are you talking about?”He’s holding my wrist a little tightly; I tug at it slightly and he drops it, looking briefly apologetic.
“Half the guys in that place were staring at you, Carleigh,” Bryson tells me, his voice fierce in a way I haven’t heard before.“Jesus, this dress isn’t even showing anything and you’re the best thing anyone’s laid eyes on.And you didn’t notice, probably, just like you didn’t notice the guy at your bar trying to look down your shirt or the others staring at your ass - and that’s just the night I was there!And - fuck,” he swears, running a hand through his hair.“I feel like such an idiot, because they all make me so mad, but I’m turning around and doing the same thing.”
He turns away from me and takes a few steps down the sidewalk.I can hear him breathing slowly, in and out with audible sighs.I can see him raise a palm and run it over his face, sighing again.
“Bryson,” I try, unsure of what to say.I don’t understand, still, what his outburst is about.I get hit on with somewhat regular occasions when I’m at work, but it’s usually nothing obscene and certainly not cause for him to be concerned about my safety.I made that clear to him weeks ago.“I don’t -”
Bryson cuts me off, but he doesn’t turn around.“Sorry, Carleigh,” he says, his voice almost crumbling.“You’re right.I’m being a sexist dick.I know you can take care of yourself.”