Blow

by Fall, Lucy

  “Haven’t been myself in a long time.” He’s still quiet. Dad’s not one to raise his voice normally. “It was wrong for me to just take off like that—leaving Xander in the lurch to run the business alone wasn’t right. I’ll talk to him about that, make it up to him. But all the driving around, just letting myself think, it helped me realize I’ve been surviving but not thriving.” Dad pauses, takes a draw from his beer.

  “There wasn’t a better way to rediscover yourself without scaring your sons shitless with worry?” I ask in a pointed tone.

  He shrugs. “That’s fair, and I’m sorry. Your mom would have had my hide over that. She was always protective of you boys.”

  To say the least. Mom was smothering on her best day. But her overprotective nature aside, she did care about our feelings, I admit. She really would have lashed out at Dad for scaring us this way.

  “I miss her too,” I tell him.

  He nods, then looks back at the TV.

  Now that Dad’s back, though, the house doesn’t feel so much like only hers. More like it used to be, with both their presences giving weight to the place. Looking around, I see pieces of Dad starting to creep in, take over, and it’s losing its museum-like feel. His packs of half-empty cigarettes stashed around the end tables. A pair of dirty socks tossed in the far corner. War-themed DVDs stacked by the TV.

  Would he ever sell this place? Does he want to leave the last of Mom behind and try to find happiness alone? I don’t know how to feel about it. This was my childhood home, and I never imagined it being sold. Of course, I always thought my mom would be around, too.

  I scrub my face, my head starting to pound at the temples. Now’s not the time to push him for answers. He’s not much of a talker, so even opening up this much is surprising. “I’ll help Xander with the bar, of course,” I tell him. “I wanna go to school, get a degree, but I plan to work in the meantime.”

  Dad grunts his approval and raises his beer bottle to me, a nonverbal cheer. “I’m sure you’ll be great at whatever you do.”

  The praise makes me flush, and some of my stress fades. I shake off the compliment and sip my drink. “So, you think they can come behind from this big of a deficit?” I ask, nodding at the TV. The game’s going to restart in a few minutes, and the commentators are yammering on and on about stats and injuries and expectations for the second half.

  “Dunno. Guess we’ll have to see.”

  We watch the rest of the game, not talking about anything serious, offering thoughts on the plays. I can’t help but feel a bit uneasy still, and that headache won’t quite go away. I want to talk to someone about this, find out the right way to handle it with my dad.

  I want to text Lauren. Call her, hear her voice in my ear, her soothing me that everything will be fine. So badly it’s like my whole body craves her.

  Instead, I keep my phone tucked away, fight the impulse. I’m still hurt and confused and frustrated about what happened between her and her sister, between her and I, and for once, I’m the one needing space to figure out where to go from here.

  At the end of the game, Dad stands, stretches, empty beer bottle in hand. “Heading to bed.”

  “Night,” I say.

  “See ya in the morning.” With that, he goes up the stairs to his room.

  I click the TV off and, grabbing my phone, go to the back patio. Cool evening air greets me, and I settle into a metal chair, the cushion a little too thin to be comfortable for long. I kick my legs back, stare up at the starry sky. A few trees in the backyard obscure my view, but stars dot between leaves. It’s clear and pretty out.

  Once again, the urge to call Lauren hits me, and once again, I fight it off. I’m not fucking doing that. Instead, I dial my brother’s number. Hopefully I’m not waking anyone up. He’s usually a night owl, though.

  “’Lo?” Xander says.

  “Hey, how goes things?” I say.

  “Fine. Got the little shithead to bed. He was in a mood today.” My brother groans, and I can almost see the sour look on his face.

  “We used to be like that too, remember?”

  “Don’t remind me. I already know I’m paying for the sins of my youth.”

  I laugh, then sober quickly. “So…Dad’s home.”

  “Really. How is he? What did he say to you? Is he still up? Can I talk to him?” Xander’s questions are rapid-fire, and when he finally stops to take a breath, I interject.

  “He’s fine. He’s up in bed right now. I figured he needed some sleep. He looked tired.” I sigh. “Haven’t seen him like that since the funeral.”

  “Is he coming to work tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know.” I debate for a moment if I should mention the bar aspect of our conversation to Xander or leave it to Dad to bring it up.

  “What are you not saying?” Savvy as ever. My brother knows me too fucking well.

  “He’s…” I clear my throat. “Dad doesn’t want to run the bar anymore. He asked me to help until you two can find someone to buy him out as partner.”

  “Holy shit,” Xander breathes. “Really? I—I don’t know what to do here. I’m glad he’s home but I’m still pissed at him for taking off like that. It wasn’t right.”

  “I think he feels bad,” I offer, “for what it’s worth. And I’m sure he’ll talk more tomorrow. He knows he needs to talk to you too. So maybe sit on that info until he brings it up.”

  “Fuck.” The curse is little more than a low growl. “Fine. But if he doesn’t bring it up tomorrow, I’m hunting him down and making him talk to me.”

  “Don’t blame you.” And he will, too. My brother is already overstressed and tired. He can’t keep running like this much longer. At least he has a direction to move in now, something I’m sure he’s glad about. The worst part is not knowing.

  “So…thanks. I know this isn’t in your plans, but I really appreciate you helping me out with the bar. Hopefully we can find a new partner soon and you can go back to working part-time hours or whatever you want.” The appreciation in his voice is clear, and a bit more of my tension fades.

  “No prob. Glad to help. I could use a distraction anyway.” Shit, I didn’t mean to admit that. Kinda slipped out.

  “Hm.” Xander doesn’t say much more, but he doesn’t have to. I know he’s figured out I’m not exactly happy right now. “When you wanna talk…”

  “I’m good, thanks.” While I needed to unload the shit about Dad on his shoulders so we could figure it out, together, I don’t need to whine about what’s happening with Lauren. “I’m gonna go. See ya tomorrow at the bar.”

  “Okay.” There’s hesitation in his voice, but he doesn’t push. “Later.”

  We hang up. I exhale hard, trying to loosen this knot in my chest. It aches to not turn to my best friend. But I have to start distancing myself from her, have to stop leaning so much on her, because it’s clear she’s never going to love or want or need me the way I do her. This is so one-sided it hurts.

  There’s a wall between us now. And I don’t know if that can ever be fixed. All I know is it’s going to be a long, long time before I can go back to being just friends with Lauren.

  * * *

  “Can I get two Bud Lights?” a brunette in a tight tank top asks. She’s a few years younger than me, not a day over twenty-two, but her smile is wide and her appreciation clear as she eyes me. “My friend and I both had a shitty day at work, and we’re ready to shake it off.” She gives a little shimmy as she speaks and flashes her teeth.

  “No problem. It’s definitely been a Monday.” I pop the tops off, and she pushes me a ten.

  When I go to make change, she says, “Keep it.” Her wink is broad and flirty. She’s definitely not trying to be subtle. She sashays away, beers in hand, her ass bouncing left and right.

  I’m a guy. It’s hard not to notice. But it’s not sparking anything in me other than a base interest.

  I pull my gaze away and serve other customers. It’s been a surprisingly busy Monday evening
. Xander and Dad have been in the back office for two hours now. I’ve been tempted more than once to crash back there and demand they tell me what’s going on, but this isn’t my business—literally and figuratively. So I’m busting ass with the other bartender behind the bar and keep things running while they hash out their issues.

  The Bud Light woman sits at a table about twenty feet from me. Every once in a while, I catch her eyeing me. She doesn’t blush, doesn’t shy away, maintaining eye contact to let me know she’s interested. Her friend, a thin, tall blond, shoots looks between us, a crooked smile quirked on her lips.

  I give them both a friendly nod—Xander drilled in me the importance of being as nice as possible without crossing a line as a bartender—and start washing glasses in between serving beers.

  Women have been interested in me before. Hell, I’ve even hooked up on occasion. My feelings for Lauren were one of those things I knew would never come to fruition, so if I found myself attracted to another woman, I tried to see if we could make it work.

  None of them could compare to her. Not even close. The desire they lit in me was a small candle in comparison to the sun. Still, I tried.

  Last week, I thought I was finally going to have the sun.

  The brunette comes back up to the bar—she has a server for her table, but I guess she decided to not wait for him. I have a feeling it’s less about his service and more about flirting with me.

  “So, what’s your name?” she asks me. Her eyes are golden and they flicker in the light. She’s really pretty, now that I look at her.

  I force myself to smile wider. “Cole.”

  “You in the service?”

  I glance down. My dog tags are hanging out. I tuck them back in. “I was. Retired.”

  “Thank you for serving,” she tells me, and the genuineness in her voice makes me give my first real smile of the night. “My dad was in the marines, and I think he would have stayed in forever if he could have. He was a career serviceman.”

  “Good for him.”

  The brunette presses herself closer to the bar, the bottoms of her breasts brushing the bar surface. “My name is Eleanor. I know, it’s super old-fashioned.” She pulls a face and laughs. “I got called ‘Roosevelt’ so much as a kid.”

  “I think it’s a nice name,” I tell her. “Nothing wrong with old-fashioned. They’re classics.”

  “You’re sweet.” Her face flushes and she swallows, bites her lips.

  Eleanor is throwing all the signs my way to show she’s interested in me. While I’m flattered, and talking to her is nice, it isn’t stirring anything in me. Which actually makes me feel a little frustrated. I don’t want Lauren to have this stranglehold over my heart. I don’t want her to, but she does. Even now I’m comparing this woman’s hair to Lauren’s red locks, remembering how good her hair smells.

  Fuck.

  Eleanor digs into her purse and pulls out a pen. She grabs a bar napkin, scrawls across it, pushes it my way. “So…here’s my number. If you ever want to go out, give me a call.” She smiles again then steps away from the bar, her eyes warm and locked on mine. “Bye, Cole.”

  I nod as she departs, then pocket the number. It burns a hole in my pocket. I should throw it away. I feel like I’m cheating on Lauren by even holding it. But Lauren doesn’t view me as more than a friendly fuck. She was too ashamed or embarrassed or whatever to even tell anyone we became more than friends. Because I know this much for sure—if she didn’t tell her sister about me, she likely didn’t tell anyone else either.

  And I haven’t heard one fucking word from her since I left her place yesterday morning. Not an “I’m sorry I made you feel like my dirty secret” or “I don’t know what to do, but we should talk about this.” Nothing.

  I have to try to move forward, and dating is the best way to do it. Eleanor is nice, sweet, not too shy. The way I normally like my women. I should call her this weekend, ask her out to dinner. There’s a weight in my chest as I think that, and I ignore, ignore, ignore.

  One date at a time. That’s how I’ll move past my feelings for Lauren. Chipping away at them little by little until this love I feel becomes less painful and more manageable. And eventually, this raw ache in my chest will heal.

  Time heals everything. Clichéd but true. But I can spur it forward by taking actions, not just sitting back on my heels waiting to feel better.

  The rest of the evening, I serve customers. Smile and laugh. And I try to stop looking at the door every five minutes hoping Lauren will come walking in.

  Lauren

  My office phone rings, but I ignore it and let it go to voicemail. I’m trying to decide which contractor we want to go with for the Mickey’s Pub remodel. I started the bidding process at the end of last week, and we had several contractor firms reply that they’re interested and offer their project rates.

  I should be happy, because the remodel’s moving forward, on time.

  I should be happy, but I’m not.

  Last week was just plain terrible. After Cole left my house that awful Sunday morning, I puttered around and cleaned everything from top to bottom to distract myself—scrubbed, mopped, swept, dusted, the whole nine yards. Went on a long walk. Called my sister a hundred times and left a hundred voice mails.

  During the first couple of days of last week, I continued to call Christina, asking her to please talk to me. Nothing.

  And on top of it all, Cole’s been pretty much MIA. I texted him Tuesday to check on him, and his reply was a curt I’m fine, busy with work. I even called him a couple of times but he didn’t return my call. He hasn’t dropped by once to say hi. It’s been over a week since I’ve heard his warm voice. I’ve scrolled through my phone’s pictures of him more times in the evenings than I want to admit.

  I hurt Cole; I see that now. Clearly the stuff he overheard during the fight has caused a big problem between us, because this is totally not normal. So I’ve backed off him and Christina to give them space to think, despite my compulsion to keep hounding them both to talk to me.

  I’ve never felt so alone in my life.

  A deep-down fragile part of my heart also wonders if overhearing what happened between me and Christina’s boyfriend turned him off, pushed him away. Maybe Cole is keeping me at arm’s length now because learning about this shameful part of my past made him realize he’s not as into me as he thought he was. That I’m not the person he believed me to be.

  I don’t want to think he’d judge me like that, not after all the things we’ve shared with each other over the years. But the prolonged silence makes me wonder. And I can’t get him to engage me in a conversation in order to find my courage to ask him about it.

  I shove away my building anxiety and flip through the half-dozen bids we received for the hundredth time, forcing myself to focus on the task at hand. This ache in my chest has been present for a week now, and I just have to learn to work around it.

  God, I miss Cole so badly I want to cry. I miss his broad smile, I miss the way he touches me, I miss how he always listens. I haven’t been the friend to him lately that I should be. No, I can’t fix this stuff with Christina, not yet, but maybe there’s hope I can repair the damage with him.

  I need to stop being scared and go talk to him. My heart throbs hard, and I swallow down my sudden rush of anxiety. It’ll be fine. Deep down, Cole’s a reasonable person. And if he is judging me for something bad I did in my past that had nothing to do with him…well, that tells me a lot about his character, doesn’t it?

  But I can’t sit here and do nothing, or I’m going to lose my best friend.

  It’s just after lunchtime. The bar crowd should be a bit slower right now. Decision made, I gather the bids and stuff them into a folder. My hands only tremble the slightest bit, and I smooth down the front of my skirt as I stand.

  My stomach is a crowd of butterflies, and my heart won’t stop hammering as I walk to Emme’s desk. “We’ve received all the bids for the Mickey’s Pub remodel, so I’m
going to swing by and see if the client has a contractor preference. There are a couple I think would be perfect, but he might have his own feedback on it.” It’s a thin excuse to go see Cole; even I can hear that.

  To Emme’s credit, she doesn’t give me any kind of look. I know she saw how droopy and depressed I was last week at work. Frankly, she’s probably glad I’ll be getting out of the office. I’ve been putting in a lot of late hours each night to avoid going home.

  I can’t stop feeling Cole in my cold, empty bed, and it’s killing me. Sleep has not been my friend lately.

  “No problem,” Emme tells me smoothly. “Do you want me to call ahead and let them know you’re coming?”

  “Nah, I’ll handle it,” I say. “Thanks. I’ll be back in a bit.” My low black heels clack across the floor as I head to the elevator. Go down to the main level of the building, hop in my car.

  Grip the steering wheel and navigate my way to the bar.

  Traffic is light, so it doesn’t take me long to arrive. I find a parking spot near the front of the bar and pull in. The flock of butterflies in my stomach start whirling harder, and I draw in a few steadying breaths, staring at the brick façade of the building.

  What do I say to Cole? Will he look happy or disappointed to see me? God, I’m scared. I feel like everything is on the line right now, and I’m afraid to make it worse. I just don’t want this distance between us anymore. It’s been too many days of not speaking, and I gotta try something.

  I press my fingers to my belly, draw in more slow breaths, exhale until I’m not so light-headed. Then I grab my purse and the folder and head into the bar.

  Xander’s behind the massive wooden countertop, drawing a dark beer for a customer. The room has patrons scattered throughout at various tables, with a few sitting at the bar itself, nestled comfortable on bar stools. Adult alternative music plays soft in the background.