by Sarina Bowen
“You and me both,” I whisper. Then I slide off my stool and hug him. And, wow. A hug from Alec is the best thing ever. He folds me into his arms and hooks his chin onto my shoulder. He doesn’t crack a joke or proposition me. He just holds me tightly.
Naturally, my eyes sting. Shut up, emotions! “Hey,” I say to his back. “I made you something. I hope you don’t hate it.” I ease back from his addictive hug. And then I dart over to the sofa and grab the shopping bag. “Here.”
I hand him the bag. He reaches in, nudges the tissue paper aside and pulls out the sweater I knitted for him. “Whoa. You made this?” He holds it up to his chest and strokes a hand down my fine stitches.
“I did. It’s merino, which is dry-clean only, I’m afraid. You could wash it by hand, but you’d need to reshape it carefully.” If I do say so myself, it’s some of my better work. It’s all one color, but there’s a wide, intricate cable down the center, flanked by a couple of narrow cables on either side.
“It’s gorgeous.” He unzips his hoodie and tosses it aside, then pulls the sweater over his head. I hold my breath while he settles it onto his broad shoulders.
“It fits!” I yelp. “I’m so relieved.”
“Nobody ever made me a sweater before,” he says, running his fingertips over the stitches.
“It’s risky business. You can dash off a hat or a scarf in a day or so, but a sweater is a commitment.”
He lifts those big brown eyes to me. “Thank you.”
“I enjoyed making it. And I never baked that pie I promised you.”
“This is a hell of a lot more work than a pie.” He strokes a hand across his delicious chest.
“Yes and no. I knit my way through AA meetings. Actually, I started knitting in earnest when I was driving Jude to his Narcotics Anonymous meetings. I thought I was just there to help out a friend.” An awkward laugh escapes me.
Alec’s eyes widen, but he just listens.
“So many of the things people said in Jude’s meetings were thoughts I’d already been having. But it still took me another nine months or so to admit they were talking to me, too. Now I’m keeping two yarn stores afloat. Four meetings a week. It adds up. And then I stopped when Daniela made fun of me. So now I’ve started again. You helped me do that, when you told me to check every room of our house…” My throat is closing up, now. I like Alec so much. I’m just so confused.
“Should I open a yarn store?” he jokes. “Am I in the wrong line of work?”
“I’m pretty sure you’re not.” It’s just the wrong line for me. I don’t have to add that last part, because I think he’s getting the message. “Now tell me about this wake. When is it?”
I clear our lunch plates and wash them while he tells me his plans.
But when I leave, I don’t kiss him goodbye. And he doesn’t force the issue.
Maybe this is how it ends. And maybe it’s for the best.
Chapter Twenty-One
Alec
“Watch it,” my brother Benito says. “Incoming at two o’clock.”
I look up from the stack of cups I’m setting on the table just as Chelsea tackles me. “Heyyyyyy!” she cries. “Long time no see! You’ve been a ghost, Alec!” She gives me a big kiss on the mouth.
Uh-oh. I step back gently and try to smile. But I’m at a wake, for fuck’s sake, and I can’t seem to summon the energy. “Hey, girl. How’ve you been? How was…” It’s been a lifetime since she told me about her trip. “Florida,” I supply at the last possible second.
“It was greaaaaat!” she squeals. “Missed you, though.”
My brother does a crappy job of disguising his snort of amusement.
“Missed you, too!” I lie. “Welcome back to winter. All the ski mountains are open, at least.”
“Let’s go snowboarding!” she says immediately. “And maybe I’ll catch you later tonight?”
“Kinda got my hands full tonight,” I say, gesturing to the dozens of guests filling Hamish’s studio. “And then I have to close the bar. Already had to twist Smitty’s arm to work another shift.” That’s all true, but I’m glad to have an excuse. Chelsea doesn’t really fit into my life right now.
“Bummer,” she says, tossing her ponytail. “We have to catch up soon.”
“We really do,” I agree. I have to break things off with her, but it’s not the kind of conversation a guy has at a wake.
“Later, hottie,” she says, grabbing me into a hug that’s practically a two-person twerk. Jesus. Then she dashes off.
“Wow,” Benito says. “She’s a really enthusiastic girl.”
“No comment,” I grumble.
“I’m going to grab a beer. You need one?”
“Nah. Not in the mood.”
Benito’s eyes widen. “Call the paramedics.”
“Very funny.” I survey the crowd. Hamish’s party is in full swing. Only he’s not here to enjoy it.
“You okay?”
“Sure? Except this is, you know, a funeral.”
Benito tilts his head to study me. “I got that. But you’re the one who made a speech five minutes ago about how Hamish would want everyone to enjoy this party.”
“Yeah.” I sigh. I did make that speech. “It’s just...life is short, you know? He wanted to go to Costa Rica.”
“That sucks. But he did what he loved.” Benito’s gesture takes in the display of Hamish’s work I’d set up earlier.
“Sure. You’re right,” I say just to end the conversation. Hamish had a job he’d loved. But the man had also seemed lonely.
Or maybe I’m just projecting. The last three evenings I’ve worked elbow to elbow with May as she helped me get this place ready. I’ve been friend-zoned, apparently.
Right now she’s at the other end of the crowded room helping a couple of Hamish’s friends set up their instruments for a bluegrass jam session. And from twenty paces away, I still feel the pull. She has three retired musicians in her thrall right now. They’re looking at her like she hung the moon. And I don’t blame them.
Tonight we’re supposed to celebrate Hamish’s life. But I’d rather cross the room, take May’s hand, pull her outside and celebrate by kissing her until she realizes how good we are together.
“You have royalty at your party,” Benito says. “Look.”
“Royalty?” He nudges me and then I see what he means—Lyle, the owner of the Giltmaker Brewery, is in the corner talking to Uncle Otto. “Oh, fuck. I guess he and Hamish were pals. Hamish might have said something about that once. Goldenpour was his favorite beer.”
“It’s a lot of people’s favorite beer,” Benito points out.
“Yeah, but get this—I asked Chelsea if she could get me an extra keg for the wake. Full price, by the way. I wasn’t asking for a donation. And Lyle said no.”
“Yet here he is?” Benito snorts. “Nice guy.”
“Right? Jesus. I ended up donating all the beer and wine.” Not to mention the cups, napkins, and many hours of my time. My sister and Audrey made a bunch of finger food. And Griffin donated a keg of Shipley Cider. “You know that Hamish’s kid let me throw this thing? He didn’t bring a thing except himself.” I’ve been ignoring his selfish ass all evening.
“Did you ask him to?”
“No,” I grunt. He’s right. Tad’s lack of assistance is all on me. “I’m in the worst fucking mood in the history of moods.”
My brother grins. “Even worse than Zara with PMS? Even worse than Otto when the Patriots lose?”
“Pretty much. Go on, get a drink.” I give him a friendly shove. “Save yourself. I have people to thank, anyway.”
Benito meanders away, and a minute later I see him talking to Jill from his high school class. The Rossi brothers aren’t above looking for hookups at a funeral. We are made of class.
The band starts up, and when I scan the room, I’m looking for May. Later I’m going to get her alone. It’s been a little awkward between us since our little chat at my place. But I know I can get u
s back to where we were before I tried to change the rules. I’ll tell her it’s okay if it’s only sex, and then I’ll give her a chance to realize we’re more than that.
I can be very persuasive.
But I can’t seem to spot her anywhere. I only see her brother. And since I need to thank him for the cider, I start heading over in his direction. Hamish had a lot of friends, and the place is crowded with them. By the time I get close to Griffin, he’s standing with Lyle from Giltmaker and my uncle Otto.
Something makes me pull up short as I approach them. I think it’s Lyle’s gesticulating toward the corner of the big room. “Tad wants to sell quickly,” he says. “So I’ll need to do some fast work on permitting.”
My whole body goes cold.
“We’d put the tanks at one end and the serving counter at the other. Gotta check the rules about expanding next to the river, though. I dunno if we could cut down any trees for more parking.”
“This is an historic building,” Griffin adds. “You’d have to take care to preserve most of the place.”
“I’ll get an architect in here next week,” Lyle says. “I’ll see what he says. Maybe it’s not a travesty to blow out one end of the place.”
That’s all I can stand. “Excuse me. Are you talking about this building?”
Three heads swivel in my direction. My uncle’s lip curls, because I’m sure he doesn’t like my tone. But fuck it.
“It’s a private conversation,” Lyle says. That cagey bastard. I want to slug him.
“This is my nephew,” Otto says. “Alec Rossi.”
“The bar owner,” Lyle says, and I swear to god his eyes narrow.
“Next door,” I add, in case it’s not clear.
“Pleasure to meet you.” Lyle’s his tone suggests it’s not at all a pleasure.
“Tad didn’t tell me he was in a hurry to sell,” I say, hoping someone will enlighten me.
“Might happen,” Otto says lightly.
“You know Hamish isn’t even in the ground yet, right?” I ask. “Think you can hold your bulldozers off until Father Peters tosses the first fistful of dirt?”
“Alec,” Griffin Shipley says with a chuckle. “That’s a little…”
“A little what?” I bark. “True?” Everyone thinks Griffin is so fucking high-minded. But I know the truth. Griffin’s father fired mine, and then I never saw him again. It shouldn’t be terribly surprising that his son would be the same kind of cutthroat businessman. “Thank you for donating cider tonight,” I growl. “I’m sure Hamish would have appreciated the gesture.”
Then I turn on my heel and walk away, my hands clenched into fists. I can feel their eyes on me as I go. The anger that’s risen up inside me is too big for this room. So I thread my way between the milling people and go all the way outside, where the December air is bracing. I let the door fall shut and then yell, “FUCK!” as loudly as I’m able.
It doesn’t even help.
I was supposed to buy this place someday. In the days since Hamish died, I’ve realized that it might not work out for me. I don’t have a real contract on paper, and I don’t have a funding plan in place.
In my life I’ve gotten used to disappointments. But if Giltmaker expands next door to the Gin Mill, I have a big fucking problem. The beer tourists will all be foaming at the mouth to watch the stuff get made.
And Otto is one of his backers. He’ll watch me fail, and he won’t be nice about it.
The door swings open and May comes out of the building. “Hey! Are you all right? I saw you run out.”
“Fine,” I say through a clenched jaw. I’m not at all fine. But it’s not May’s fault. “Come here, would you?” I open my arms. She only hesitates for a split second, but it’s long enough to depress me even more. Then she steps close and I fold my arms around her. She feels warm and vital in my arms. I tuck my chin onto her shoulder and sigh. “I know I’m supposed to be your fun friend. But I’m not feeling super fun tonight.”
“No snaps tonight,” she whispers. “Not even one.”
“Not even one,” I echo. Except holding her is doing funny things to my tight chest. When I feel her heartbeat against mine, it matters a little less that my friend is dead and a bunch of smarter businessmen than me are going to crush me under their tires on their way to world domination. I take a deep breath of May’s feminine scent, and sigh it out. “Come home with me tonight.”
She pulls back a little bit. “Alec, I can’t. I have work in the morning. And you won’t be done with the party until late.”
“And you’re here with your family,” I add, because I’m angry and not behaving all that well. “Your brother might wonder why you’re slumming it up with me.”
“Alec.” She lets out a soft sigh.
“What? I don’t get it. What’s wrong with you and I spending time together?”
“Not a thing. But I don’t want to re-explain myself to my family every few weeks.”
Usually I take this explanation at face value. But tonight I just ache.
It must show, because May tilts her head and studies me. “Oh, Alec. What the hell am I going to do with you?” She stands up on her tiptoes and kisses me.
And it’s a kiss that makes promises May can’t keep. Slow and tender. Even if her words disappoint me, May’s kisses are never ambivalent. That soft mouth welcomes me inside to plunder and stroke. I push her up against the bricks and let her know how much I need her right now. Come to me, my kisses say. I’ll make it worth your while.
Until the door bangs open.
I back off, but not before finishing the kiss I was in the middle of giving May.
When I’m good and ready, I look up to find Chelsea standing there, cigarettes and lighter in hand, mouth hanging open. “I guess this means you’re not free later?”
“Uh…” I truly don’t know what to say.
“I should probably go,” May says quietly, sidestepping me.
“No,” I catch her hand and give it a squeeze. I wasn’t done talking to her yet.
Chelsea’s eyes widen further, and it dawns on me that holding May’s hand bothers her more than me making out with May against the side of the building. “I see,” she whispers. Then she turns and stomps off.
“Fuck.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. There’s a headache brewing behind my eye sockets. “We had a casual thing a few times…”
“You don’t owe me an explanation,” May says quickly.
“I know that. But…” I groan. “She and I aren’t that close. I didn’t know she would get quite so offended.”
“Oh, please.” May looks at me like I’m the dumbest man alive. “I don’t think you know your own power. It’s way too easy to get attached to a guy like you.”
“A guy like me,” I repeat slowly. I don’t know what the fuck that means. Furthermore, it doesn’t make any sense. “Then how come you’re immune?”
“I’m not immune, it’s just…”
She doesn’t get a chance to finish the sentence, because my waitress Becky comes running out from the path in the woods. “Alec!” she yells.
“What now?”
The wild look on her face is terrifying. “Smitty OD’d in the storeroom!”
“He what?”
“There’s a needle and he’s not breathing.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
May
“Becky—go inside and find Benito.” Alec points at Hamish’s studio door. “He has Narcan in his car. And call 911 if nobody did that.”
The moment he finishes the sentence, Alec takes off like a shot toward his bar. And I follow him. It’s dark out, and the moon hasn’t risen yet. So after I get about ten paces into the trees, I can barely make out the path. The only way I can see at all is that starlight reflects off the snow on either side.
Alec is fast. I’m twenty yards behind by the time he disappears inside the Gin Mill. When I open the door a few seconds later, the bar is in chaos. Many of the customers are lined up in front of the bar
, trying to see beyond it and into the storeroom. Other people mill around, wondering what the hell is happening.
Connor—the Scottish part-time guy—is behind the bar, trying to keep everyone at bay. “Kindly take a step back,” he says. “Leave space. The paramedics will need to get through.”
I hear the distant wail of a siren. But before it becomes truly loud, Benito Rossi bursts through the door behind me, an orange pouch in his hands.
“Look out,” I say to a couple of gawking customers. “Step aside.” I find myself blocking for Benito, nudging people out of his way, and then lifting the pass-through at the end of the bar.
“Thanks,” Benito pants.
I follow him to the storeroom. Benito drops to his knees beside Smitty, who’s stretched out on the concrete floor looking blue-lipped and way too still.
Benito makes a fist and rubs his knuckles up and down Smitty’s sternum. “Hey!” he shouts into Smitty’s face. “Wake up, man. Let’s go.”
Alec gets in on the action, but less carefully. He slaps Smitty. Hard. “Wake up you stupid fuck! Don’t you dare die on the damn floor!”
Ben puts a hand on his brother to nudge him back. Then he checks Smitty’s airway. He puts a hand beneath the unconscious man’s neck, pinches his nostrils and puffs a breath into his mouth. Then he does it again.
“Give him the shit!” Alec cries. “What are you waiting for?”
Ignoring him, Ben gives Smitty one more breath, then unzips the orange pouch. He starts assembling a small plastic contraption.
That’s when I see the syringe. It’s right there on the floor right beside Alec’s hand. It’s just lying there on the concrete, its sharpened end pointing at Alec.
And I realize I’m shaking. My knees feel squishy and my heart is racing. Look out for that needle. The sight of it terrifies me. I edge a little farther into the room and kick the syringe away from Alec. It bounces toward a case of beer bottles, and Alec doesn’t even notice.
I don’t know why I’m shaking, or exactly why the needle freaks me out. But I’ve never seen someone so close to death by his own hand.