Page 20 of Ruthless Edge

"It's a craft beer."

"Those words don't change what I just said."

He laughs, and it's the same laugh I remember from three years ago. Same warmth, same ease, same laugh.

We'd come to a Hacksack Blues show freshman year. Not just the two of us, It was a group from campus, several of us crowded around a high-top near the stage. But Knox had sat next to me the whole time, and we'd talked between songs. He'd known all the words to the two most obscure tracks on the setlist, and I remember thinking at the time that this might be the beginning of something. Then we’d gone to the front of the stage, with me being in the front, so all five-foot-two of me could see the show, and Knox’s hulking six-foot-three frame kept me safe from behind. And… it’d felt right. Safe.

That was before I found out what I actually was to him.

I haven't been back since. I still listen to the band, still keep up with what they're doing, but every time certain songs come on my playlist I'm nineteen again and standing in that gala feeling like a hideous ogre.

I take a drink and look at the stage.

Here's what I can't figure out. Before everything went wrong, Knox made me feel like I was interesting. Not interesting despite anything, just interesting. He remembered things I said. He showed he cared about me in every little way.

I don't know what to do with the version where all of that was real. Or the version where it wasn't.

What I keep coming back to is this… if Knox only saw me as the fat girl then, is this different because I'm not that anymore? Is he paying attention now because I've cleared some bar I was supposed to meet three years ago? I don't like that question. I don't like either answer. I don't want to be someone Knox Carter finally notices because I lost weight and he updated his opinion. I also can't stand the idea that's all this is.

I take another sip of my martini and decide the only safe move is to stop thinking about it.

The floor is filling up fast. Knox says something about the bass player's rig, and I tell him the bassist has been with the band since they formed, and Knox looks delighted by this for no reason I can explain, and I'm doing it again. Noticing things about him that I have no business noticing.

Someone hits me from behind, hard, the kind of impact that doesn't give you time to react. The martini leaves my hand and I watch it hit the floor.

"Hey." Knox is in front of me before I've finished processing it. His hand is on my arm. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. The drink is not."

He checks me over anyway, quick and thorough. Then he turns around.

The guy who hit me is mid-twenties, a little drunk, already looking past us toward his group. Knox says, pleasantly, "Hey, man. You owe her a drink."

The guy laughs. He thinks it's a joke.

Knox keeps smiling. But something else comes into his expression, something quieter. He doesn't move differently, doesn't raise his voice. He just goes still, and the six-foot-four of him, the shoulders built from years of checking people into boards, all of it becomes very present in the room. He looks exactly like what he is.

The guy notices it.

"It was an accident," the guy says, less sure of himself now.

"Totally," Knox agrees, still smiling. "Accidents happen. But she still doesn't have a drink."

The guy holds Knox's gaze just long enough before he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. He hands over enough cash to cover the drink twice. Knox takes it, thanks him, and turns back to me with the same easy expression he's had all night, like that didn't just happen.

"Be right back," he says.

He comes back a few minutes later with a fresh apple martini.

"You intimidated a stranger into buying me a drink," I say.

"I had a friendly conversation with a guy who owed you a drink."

"You looked like you were about to check him into the boards."

"I was smiling the whole time."

"Seriously?"