Bronwyn was watching Simpsons reruns; two empty bowls lay beside her and small popcorn bits dusted her black shirt. She didn’t laugh at the jokes, just stared blankly at the TV like a hospital patient.

I moved one of the bowls, nothing left inside but the greasy kernel duds, and sat beside her. For a while, we did nothing but watch. Episode after episode of Bart getting into trouble and Homer doing stupid things. Midway through the fourth, Bronwyn finally grabbed the remote and turned off the TV.

I waited. Asking her if she was okay was not only a dumb question, but probably a bad idea. If Bronwyn wanted to talk to me, she would.

She wiped the crumbs off her shirt and sighed. “Sorry I didn’t save you any.”

It took me a second to realize she meant the popcorn.

“I don’t like popcorn much anyway.” I shifted on the couch so I could look at her.

“What planet are you from? I couldn’t live without popcorn.”

I shrugged. “It’s the butter—grosses me out. And without it, popcorn is tasteless.”

“Weirdo,” she muttered.

I waited, my foot swinging up and down.

“I know what you’re doing,” Bronwyn said after a few minutes.

“What’s that?”

“The whole patience thing.”

“Do you want me to bug you?”

Her eyes lowered. I uncrossed my legs and recrossed them.

“He’s had it rough,” she finally said without looking at me. “When we first met, he wasn’t like this. I mean, he’s not like anything. He drinks more than he used to.”

I’d thought the drink conversation had to do with another girl, but it was the drink itself that was the problem.

“I’m so sick of it,” Bronwyn said. “I don’t want to deal with this, you know?”

Then why would she keep going back to him? I didn’t ask. She didn’t say.

She ran a hand over her short hair. “But every time, I wonder, why? Why does he get passed out drunk? I know his life sucks right now, but can’t he deal without forgetting his own name? Forgetting me?”

I didn’t know what to say, didn’t have any experience with this kind of problem. I wasn’t qualified to give advice. “What will you do?”

“What I always do. Go back to him. He needs me. And I love him.” Her eyes met mine. “What else is there?”

I looked away. What else? Everything. Or maybe nothing. I didn’t know.

We were at a little Italian restaurant called La-something-Italia. It had checked tablecloths and painted walls and it smelled like carb heaven. Brownyn had scarfed down almost the whole plate of garlic bread, the grease making her fingertips shiny.

“This is so good,” she said, grinning at Nico. He grabbed one of her fingers and stuck it in his mouth, licking off the flavor. I looked away. Clearly, Bronwyn had forgiven Nico and taken him back, just like she’d said she would. I mean, the finger sucking was a dead giveaway.

“Did you want some?”

I realized Bronwyn was talking to me when she waved the empty bread bowl in front of my face.

“No, that’s okay.” Even though I loved garlic bread, I had to treat carbs like the eighth deadly sin. I couldn’t let one ounce of fat chunk up my body. If I put on weight, Essence wouldn’t even look at me come spring.

In fact, the entire menu of La-something-Italia wasn’t good for my figure. But Bronwyn had practically dragged me out of the apartment by my hair, demanding I do something other than dance classes and diner shifts. I was starting to regret it as Nico and Bronwyn began to make out in front of me.

So they were that couple. The kind who break up and make up as regularly as a full moon. Misty/Melissa had been like that during high school with her boyfriend, Paco, all through junior year. They’d fight. Break up. Then be going at it in the janitor’s closet the next day. Then fight. Then break up. And on and on.

Not that I could compare Bronwyn and Nico to that. Their problems were way more serious than any petty high school drama.

“I’m gonna go,” I said, sliding my chair back.

Bronwyn came up for air. “Can’t handle our sexy?”

“I don’t want to see your sexy,” I replied. “It’s ruining my appetite.”

She laughed.

“We’ll save it for later then,” Nico said. His lips were covered in Bronwyn’s red lipstick.

“Thanks for making such a huge sacrifice.”

He cupped the back of Bronwyn’s neck. “You have no idea.”

“Ew.” I looked down at the menu. Even though I was seriously craving some arrabiatta, I’d have to go with soup and salad.

The waitress came, topping off our drinks and refilling the bread bowl. After we ordered, Bronwyn attacked the garlic bread again.

“What?” she asked, her mouth full. “I burned a lot of calories today. Besides, if you’re not having any…”

“Don’t like garlic bread?” Nico asked.

“Love it. Can’t eat it.”

“Why not?”

“She’s starving herself for her art,” Bronwyn answered.

“I am not.” I’d never starved myself before but there was nothing wrong with being careful.

“If you start puking in the bathroom, this friendship is over,” she said.

“Nice to know you’re supportive.”

Nico leaned toward me and lowered his voice. “You’re not puking up your food, are you?”

“No!” I swatted at him, but he was too far away to reach. “I’m limiting my carb intake. It’s the eleventh commandment: thou shalt not carb.”

“I can’t imagine Reverend Hale preaching that from the pulpit.” Bronwyn pushed the bread away.

Even though she had a funny way of showing it, Bronwyn did have my back. It was nice to know that someone here in Vegas cared. Two someones, since she and Nico were a package deal.

“How are your classes coming, anyway?” she asked. “Any more mean girl incidents?”

I shook my head. “No, I…” My voice trailed off.

Jay Thornton had entered the restaurant with two men. One was either Tweedledee or Tweedledum, I wasn’t sure which. The other was Officer Ting, only without the uniform. Instead, he wore an expensive suit, a flashy red tie, and a dangerous expression. At the diner, I’d seen one side of this man, the police officer side. Now, I was afraid I was about to see the other. The ugly one.

Jay’s eyes went from Nico, to Bronwyn, to me, in a matter of seconds. When he saw me, his jaw clenched.

Ting didn’t waste any time. He came toward us.