I’m a little stunned by her severity. “Our shit?”
“Yes,” she bites back. “Our shit. This—you. Your attitude.”
“This is because of you, one hundred percent.” I gesture between us.
“Really? And what did I do, exactly?” Bethany huffs and leans back in her seat.
“I have a whole list,” I tell her easily. “How much time do you have?”
She almost looks disgusted with me. “What are you, five?”
Knowing she’s feeling an ounce of the frustration I feel around her gives me a teensy bit of satisfaction, even if I know it’s juvenile. I’m tired of her indifference toward me, and right now she’s a captive audience.
When I don’t say anything, a sneer parts her lips like I’ve never seen. “You’re unbelievable. Did you drop your rose-colored glasses this morning, and on top of that, you have to have me as a partner? I’ve made your mood worse, haven’t I?” She tsks, mocking me.
“You don’t know anything about my morning,” I grind out.
“Yeah, your perfect life must suck.” She leans forward again, a venomous gleam in her eyes. “I’ll figure this out on my own. I don’t have time for this . . . Find a new partner.”
It all happens so fast, I don’t realize she’s gathered her things and exited the room until the door slams shut behind her. I don’t even have time to process anything before Professor Murray walks toward me.
I silently curse myself.
“Mr. Turner,” he drawls, glancing around the room at the students huddled in pairs. “Is there going to be an issue working with Miss Fairchild?”
I can’t bring myself to say yes, so I shake my head and stare out the door, wanting to go after her, if only to set the record straight. “No, sir,” I say instead. “We just had a misunderstanding.”
“See that it gets straightened out, Mr. Turner. Both of your graduations depend upon it.”
I nod again. It’s all I can do without losing my shit.
Thirteen
Nick
Three Years Ago
Hip-hop and laughter reach my ears before the roaring fire comes into view beyond the dunes. People collect around it, students and post-graduates alike, excited for the first official summer bonfire of the year. Despite Sam’s frown and slow footsteps, I think tonight might actually be fun, which we all desperately need.
I glance back at her and Mac. “Sam, if you keep making that face, no one is going to talk to you tonight,” I warn. “Which defeats the purpose of getting out and living a little.”
“Yeah, come on, Sam,” Mac says, nudging her a little. The wind picks up, catching Mac’s dark hair in a frenzy. She smooths it down and leans in to loop her arm through Sam’s, tugging her closer. “You need to join the land of the young, wild, and free again at some point. Tonight’s as good a night as any, right? Booze, shadows to hide in, enough people-watching to keep you distracted . . . Besides, you love the beach, and it’s a beautiful night.” I can hear the concern beneath layers of pep and joviality in Mac’s voice, a concern we both share. But, whether it’s a girl thing or just their friendship, Mac has a way with Sam that I never will. So, I walk a little further ahead, trying to give them more space.
“I know it’s hard, Sam,” Mac continues, “but it’s been months. You can’t stay holed-up at the ranch forever. Your dad wouldn’t want you to miss out on your life because of him.” Her voice is low but soft, and she’s got Sam this close to the land of the living again, which is saying something.
“Look, I appreciate your intervention, you guys,” Sam says loud enough for me to hear. “But this isn’t about Papa right now.”
“It’s not?” Mac glances between us.
Sam shakes her head. “No—well, not really.”
Shoving my hands in my sweatshirt, I stop and wait for them to pass me, curious to hear her answer.
Sam shrugs. “What if they’re here?” she finally says. Her gaze shifts from me to Mac, and then to the fire on the beach. “Mike and Bethany—together—is the last thing I want to see tonight.” She looks down at her feet, trying not to stumble in the sand.
I don’t want to see Mike—or Bethany, for that matter—any more than Sam does. Looking back into the throng of partiers, I search for familiar faces in the dying sunlight. There are some, but none unwanted, that I can see.
“I doubt Mike will be here,” Mac finally says, and we stop at the outskirts of the party. “At least, he better not be.” She grumbles the last part.
“And if he is?” There’s a plea in Sam’s voice, one I’ve grown familiar with over the past five months, even if I’ll never get used to it. It’s the tone she uses when she’s not ready for us to leave her with her thoughts; the desperate side of her that can’t understand why Mike would treat her the way he did when they were so happy. It’s a different Sam, a broken Sam.
“Then, we’ll leave,” I promise.
“At least I don’t have to worry about Reilly,” she grinds out. I’m still getting used to the brittleness in her tone when she speaks about our best friend. She might think Reilly is to blame now, in all her rage and broken heartedness, but I don’t blame him for stepping in and breaking them up, especially not after learning Mike was cheating on Sam with Bethany. Sam distanced herself from all of us while she was with Mike, so I might not have been completely in the loop, but even I could see he was bad news. The chaos Mike created in his wake will haunt all of us for the rest of our lives, and the son of a bitch could care less about all of it. What asshole doesn’t return your calls after you almost die in a car accident—after your father does?
Mac peers around at the crowd. “This town is getting too big, I don’t think I know everyone here anymore.” She’s only partially joking. “So many people came this year.”
Sam groans. “I already feel sick.”
“Deep breath, Sam,” Mac says.
“Here. I have just the remedy,” I say happily. I pull a beer out of my ice chest and hand it to her. She just needs a little something to loosen her up, we all do after the year we’ve had.
“Hold the bottle tight,” I tell her and pop the cap off with the butt of my lighter. Sam’s face scrunches and my smile widens. “Pretend it’s a wine cooler. Go on, take a big swig.”
Her grimace is very Sam-like, and it makes me happy that there’s still part of her in there somewhere.
“Yo, Turner!” Slinsky shouts. I nod at him and second baseman, Chet Tompkins, as they make their way over from the other side of the bonfire. Although I have nothing against either of them, I don’t want to reminisce with them about baseball tonight, especially when half the team went on to play minor league or coach, one of them was even drafted to the Dodgers. Me, on the other hand, I stayed behind to go back to school, the farthest thing from living my dream, even if I do like architecture.
I meet up with the guys closer to the bonfire, knowing Slinsky is one of Mac’s least favorite people, so I try to spare her. The guys are grinning, their eyes enlivened by firelight and they seem almost giddy to be here tonight.
“Dude, what’s it been—a couple years since I saw you?” Tompkins says as I grab a beer from my handheld ice chest.
“Something like that,” I say and situate my Igloo in the sand. Save for a few waves around town, we haven’t seen each other in a while. It’s definitely not like it used to be.
Tompkins comes in for a side clap on the shoulder.
Then Slinsky. “What’s new man?” he asks.
“Not much. Same shit, different day.” I nod to Slinsky. “You still painting with your dad?”
“Yeah, it’s temporary,” he says and takes a gulp from his plastic cup.
I glance over at Mac and Sam as they wade further and further into the group. Mac is all smiles and flirty laughter as familiar faces surround them, but Sam’s eyes dart around the party, and she really does look like she might puke.
“And you’re at your dad’s firm now, huh?” Tompkins says. “That’
s cool.”
I shake my head, taking a swig of my beer. “No, not yet. I’m still working on my degree. What about you? Still coaching?”
He nods. “And getting married this winter,” he adds. “But I have to say, I thought I’d hate it, but surprisingly I don’t.”
“What, getting married?” Slinsky says. “I could’ve told you that.”
“No,” Tompkins chides. “Coaching little league. I actually like coaching the little shits. They remind me of us, only they’re half the size, and I’m pretty sure they’re bigger assholes than we ever were.”
We all laugh, but it feels forced and a little awkward, like time has stolen our comradery, which used to be the most dependable part of our lives.
“So,” Slinsky says, “What’s up with Reilly, is he still deployed?”
I nod and take another swig of my beer. “Yep, I’m not sure where, but I got an email from him a few weeks ago.”
“Yeah, I bet he’s somewhere miserable,” Tompkins mutters. “Does he at least like the Army?”
Reluctantly, I nod. “I don’t know if he’ll be back anytime soon,” I say sadly. Although I get to take the Rumbler out every now and again for a tune-up, I miss my best friend.
“It’s crazy. It’s like we’re all adults now and getting old or something,” Tompkins says with a sigh.
“Hey now, speak for yourself,” Slinsky laughs. “I’m in my prime.” He winks at a young blonde who’s probably still in high school, and I shake my head. Some things never change.
Peering around the bonfire, I realize Mac’s right. There seem to be fewer people I actually know at these things anymore. I meet Mac’s wide eyes and register her “come save us” look as she nods to the guys standing around her and Sam. With a smirk, I pull out a beer for Mac since she’s bottleless, and plan my escape.
“Hey, I’ll catch up with you guys later.” I nod to Mac and Sam. “Duty calls.”
Slinsky winks at me, which I ignore.
“See ya, Nick,” Tompkins says over the sound of the music. “Let’s grab a beer sometime!”
“I’m working at Lick’s now—stop by anytime!” I shout back.
Jogging up to Mac and Sam, I wonder when, exactly, I became their cock-blocker. It was gradual, but I don’t mind it, especially when Sam is out of sorts and Mac might as well be flying solo.
“Ladies,” I say, stopping beside them. “I hope I didn’t keep you too long.” I look at the two guys talking to them. They give me a once over. “Hey, I’m Nick,” I say, introducing myself with an affable smile.
They nod at me, and I hand Mac a beer. “My lady.”
She smiles, grateful, and looks at the two John Does. “Anyway,” Mac says sweetly. “It was nice meeting you guys. Enjoy the bonfire.” To anyone else it’s a polite smile, but I see it for what it is, painted on and desperate to be unhinged. The guys glance between Mac, Sam, and me, clearly confused before they turn and walk away.
Mac sighs and chugs some of her beer. “Thanks,” she says, letting out a deep exhale. “I don’t even care that this taste horrible. I needed a drink. My wingman is MIA tonight,” Mac says, nudging Sam playfully.
But Sam’s eyes widen before they narrow and a familiar laugh catches my ear. Sam’s face says it all, burning red, even in the darkness. When I turn around, Bethany is lip locked with a guy I’ve never seen before, sucking on his face like she’s rabid.
“Homewrecker’s already moved on, I see?” Mac mutters beside me.
But when Bethany comes up for air and sees me standing there, her expression surprises me. I’m not sure if it’s my frown or the fact that she’s clearly wasted, but for a fleeting moment, I think I see the sad-eyed girl from middle school. Her glassy eyes are fixed on me and her grip on the dude she’s hanging on loosens.
“That was fast—” Bethany’s gaze darts to Mac, like she hadn’t noticed her until now. “Mike too boring for you already, or is this the other guy?” Mac sneers.
“Let’s go,” Sam says, turning for the dunes again. Mac is all too willing and they head toward the pathway. Bethany’s date tugs on her to follow him to the fire, but Bethany’s eyes narrow on Sam and she tugs her arm away from him as she watches the girls walk away.
All I can do is shake my head, and I follow after the girls. When I reach the top of the first dune, I peer back to find Bethany is straddling the guy’s lap at the fire, lips locked on his again. I don’t know what happened to the Bethany I thought I knew, but she’s long gone. The girl I see now is lost.
Fourteen
Nick
“Brady!” I shout above the noise. “I need a margarita on the rocks for the young lady in the pink sweater.” It’s Friday night, which means Lick’s is where it’s at. The city kids come out of the woodwork, teachers let loose, and Saratoga Falls becomes a college town on ‘roids. The locals, well, they come in for an after-work drink and stay for five.
Taking the ID from Pink Sweater’s friend, I glance between the hottie and her license. She doesn’t look old enough to buy cigarettes, let alone drink, but it’s legit, even if my gaze lingers on her bright blue eyes longer than it needs to. I might even call them mesmerizing, if it weren’t for a pair of smoky gray eyes I haven’t been able to get out of my head all week.
I wink at Pink Sweater and her friend as I return their Oregon IDs, because that’s my thing—I wink and smile and, mostly, the ladies eat it up. Then, I rest a pint glass against the Lagunitas tap to fill ‘er up.
“And . . . what can I get for you, sir?” I ask the man at the end of the bar. With a quick tip, I pour the excess foam from the glass in my hand and slide it over to the woman patiently waiting for it. I take the guy’s order and everything else is automatic.
My hands move swiftly, wiping wet spots from the bar, and my eyes scan the other patrons’ drinks. I check on the man at the end who’s been sipping his beer for what feels like an hour, and then on the guy with an empty tequila shot, hitting on a girl who’s clearly not into him.
The girl he’s with leans over the bar when she catches my eye. “I’ll have a whiskey this time,” she says. “A double.” At the rate this date of theirs is going, I’d say she’s going to need it.
I nod. “We talking top shelf or—”
“JD, please,” she says, checking her watch.
“A woman after my own heart.” I flash her a smile. “Coming right up.”
I flip a highball in my hand and clank it down on the bar top, pouring two shots for her before she can even get her wallet out.
“Seven-fifty,” I say, sliding her shot over on a black, square napkin. I glare at the guy next to her who hasn’t moved for his wallet once tonight. He’s clueless.
The woman slides me a twenty. “Keep the change and keep them coming,” she says. It’s getting late, and at the pace the night is going, it’s going to end one of two ways. Either a bar fight is going to break out and/or someone is going to puke. I’m hoping it’s only the latter.
“You’re it,” I tell Brady, cashing Miss Jack Daniel’s out. I give him “the look” and nod at her as she downs her double shot.
Brady glances down the bar at her, sweat beaded on his brow, much like mine. He shakes his head. “Not a chance.”
“Dude, I’m not on barf duty tonight,” I say, stepping closer.
“Dude,” he says, mocking me. “I’m your boss. You’ll do whatever I say.”
I smirk at him and wring out a wet towel. “Whatever you say, boss.” I make a mental note to keep my eye on Miss JD tonight as I scoot her another shot and a bowl of pretzels.
If I hadn’t been a fixture in this place for the last few years, I wouldn’t push my luck with Brady, but we go way back, and I know he would never fire me. Not unless he closed this place down, which would be a true-life sob story.
With a whistle at Brady, I nod to the floor and head out from behind the bar to make the rounds. Peanut shells and half-full, forgotten beers litter the room and tables. A damn waste and shame. Shaking
my head, I glance over at the jukebox in the back corner where Mac, Sam, and Reilly are hanging out. I notice Bobby and Anna Marie standing by the dartboard, separate from the group, but I don’t see Bethany anywhere. I try not to think about her as I clear off the tables, but that doesn’t last long.
I’m gathering discarded pint glasses, when a vision of tussled blonde hair, long legs, and a black fuck-me dress consumes every ounce of my attention. Bethany saunters into the bar, wearing those goddamn pink heels I can never get out of my head, with her arms wrapped around some guy I’ve never seen before.
Bethany’s all smiles, her eyes are glassy, and her lipstick is smeared a little, and I know she’s feeling good. She’s a temptress tonight. By the look of her now, you’d never know how angry she got in class on Wednesday.
I walk back to the bar with the dirties and submerge them in the suds tub. I do a quick drink check around the bar, pour Miss Jack Daniel’s a single shot, and ask Brady to get another line of margaritas going for Pink Sweater and her friend.
“How did I get stuck on margarita duty?” Brady asks.
“You want to play bus boy?” I’m more than happy to switch with him.
Brady shakes his head. “You missed some glasses over there,” he says happily, and pours a line of tequila shots for one of the groups at a cocktail table. I head back around the bar for another load and try to steer clear of Bethany when she sees me.
“Oh, Nick!” she calls over the noise.
“That’s my name,” I drawl and grab an empty glass before finally looking at her.
“Can you get us a drink?” Her date nuzzles the side of her face, like he can’t take his grubby hands or eyes off of her. I’m not a jealous guy by nature, but I don’t like the way her date stares at her lips, like he’s a predator and hungry.
“Uh . . .” I hesitate. She’s pretty drunk.
“I’ll take a whiskey sour,” she says, oblivious, and her friend with the bad hair asks for two shots of tequila. “Top shelf,” he clarifies.
Saratoga Falls: The Complete Love Story Series Page 76