There was one table that was already clearly established. Center of the room, best light, farthest from the kitchen noise. Eight chairs, six of them occupied by people who clearly had not just arrived, who had been here before and returned with a sense of ownership.
At the head of that table sat a young man who had the kind of presence that's hard to look away from. Tall, blond. The specific kind of blond that costs money to maintain.
He was wearing a cashmere sweater in October, pale blue. And the fact that he was warm enough in it while everyone else was still in hoodies told you something about his thermostat and someone else's credit card.
His name was Shane Whitfield.
Reagan didn't know that yet. She just saw a table with two empty chairs. Reasonable distance from the noise. Good sight line to the exit.
She walked over and sat down.
The conversation at the table didn't stop immediately, but it slowed, the way a song slows when someone walks into the room and changes the feeling.
The young man in the blue sweater, Shane, looked at Reagan. Not a rude look, not yet. Just the look of someone assessing an unexpected variable.
He took in the duffel bag on Reagan's shoulder, the worn jacket, the old training gloves tied to the outside of the bag. Then he smiled. The specific kind of smile that isn't actually friendly.
"Hey there," Shane said. "You new?"
"Yes," Reagan said.
She put her tray down and started eating.
Shane watched her for a moment. A beat passed. Then another.
"This is actually our table," Shane said pleasantly. "We kind of have a thing going on here."
Reagan looked up. She looked at the table. Then she looked at Shane.
Not with defiance. Not with fear. With a kind of clear, steady attention that said, I heard you. I'm considering what you said. I haven't yet decided it requires a response.
Then she went back to her eggs.
The table went quiet.
Shane's friends, Pierce, who sat to his left, and Derek, who sat to his right, both looked at Shane to see what would happen.
Shane's close friend Ford Beckett was sitting two chairs down. He was a large young man who used his size the way some men do, as a kind of ambient suggestion. He shifted in his chair and looked at Reagan with the particular expression of someone who isn't sure whether to be amused or offended.
Shane tried again. Still pleasant. Still smiling.
"I don't think you understood me."
"I understood you fine," Reagan said. She didn't look up. "There are empty chairs. I'm using one. I'm not bothering anyone."
The smile tightened.
A moment passed.
Then Pierce, sitting to Shane's left, reached out and, with the deliberate casualness of someone executing a plan they're pretending is an accident, knocked over a cup of orange juice.