Anything but Love (Wingmen #3)

by Daisy Prescott

  “Darn it. That one’s going to be blurry.” She frowns at the back of her camera.

  I lean down to pick up the scoop. Walking it over to the industrial sink, I keep my eyes on the petite woman wearing mom jeans and a cardigan decorated with orcas. I point to her camera. “Hi, Connie. You working for the paper now?”

  Connie considers herself a shutterbug. Her pictures of deer and eagles decorate the arts and crafts barn every year at the fair. Blue ribbons almost always accompany the photographs.

  Color dots her cheeks. She won’t make eye contact with me. Instead she studies her giant white walking shoes. “Oh, I hadn’t thought about the local paper.”

  I wait for her to explain, washing my hands, then drying them on a paper towel. As I turn around, I catch her holding up the camera again and pointing it at my backside.

  Okay, this is weird.

  I spin around to see if I have something stuck to my ass. I’m in a gray Whidbey Joe T-shirt, and a pair of ancient jeans with rips and holes on the front near the knees. As far as I know, there isn’t a giant hole back there. If she really wanted a view, she should come back when I’m in cycling shorts.

  Wait, what am I saying? She shouldn’t ever do that.

  Connie’s known my mom all their lives, which means she’s known me since I was a baby. She’s a gossip and a flirt, but also maternal. At least toward me and the guys I grew up with.

  Why the hell is she in here taking pictures of my backside?

  “Can I help you with something? You want me to pose for a couple pictures from the front? Mom always tells me I’m her handsome son.” Crossing my arms and leaning against the sink, I cock my head to the side and wait for her to tell me why she’s here.

  The silence extends into awkward while I focus on her face and she examines the rest of the room.

  She finally meets my eyes and presses her lips together. “Oh, you. I think I have everything I need. It was great seeing you. Looks like business is going great. Tell your mom I said hi.”

  Still talking, she speed walks out of the open garage door. No wave. No good-bye.

  Her car’s tires spin wet gravel as she speeds down the driveway.

  I shake my head. Unfortunately, not the strangest encounter I’ve ever had with one of my mother’s friends.

  I crank up the speakers and blast my favorite Pixies’ album. I don’t even bother with shuffle. It’s the kind of day to listen to old-school punk at top volume.

  When the beans are cool to the touch, I pour them into the plastic trashcan we use to move them from the roaster to where we bag once the can is full. I begin another batch.

  “Nice music.” Jonah’s voice carries over the noise.

  Using the remote, I turn down the volume so we can hear each other without screaming.

  “You want to start bagging?” I point to the full can of our most popular roast I pushed to the other side of the room earlier.

  “Sure, but I can’t stay long. I’m taking a shift in the hut this afternoon. Ashley was supposed to cover it, but she’s stuck over in town.”

  Jonah and his sister, Ashley, run three drive-up coffee huts on the island and a couple more on the other side of the ferry, collectively known as “town.” During the summer Jonah’s original hut, Fellowship of the Bean, could keep us afloat on what he makes serving skinny iced lattes.

  The success of their mini empire is how we funded our startup, Whidbey Joe, named after Joseph Whidbey. Yeah, that Whidbey.

  “How’s she doing? Haven’t seen her around the island much recently.”

  “I think she’s good. I don’t know. We don’t talk much about personal stuff.” Jonah wheels the full bin of beans over to the bagging station. “I find it’s easier to work with her if I’m not in the loop with all her life drama.”

  Ashley is in charge of the huts off the island. Much to my brother’s dismay. She’s all right, if you like her type. For years she followed Tom Donnely around with hearts in her eyes and her panties in a twist. Not that it’s any of my business, but she has a reputation because of it.

  As far as I know they were never exclusive or dated, mainly because Tom wasn’t that kind of guy. Yeah, wasn’t. Totally in the past. He’s engaged to Hailey King now. Lucky bastard. My crush on her started in seventh grade. Maybe it was being younger and shorter than she was, but she never gave me much attention. Even after I got contacts, and finally grew past her between junior and senior years. By that time she’d gone off to college and didn’t notice.

  The joys of being a late bloomer.

  I shove my glasses up my nose and return to the roaster. We work together for a bit, when I remember my strange encounter with Connie.

  “Did you set up an interview with the paper about the business?” I ask.

  “No, why? You want to get some local press?”

  “Could be a good idea to build buzz and help us get into more stores around here. That’s not why I asked. Connie was here earlier taking pictures.”

  “That’s cool.”

  I scratch above my eyebrow, feeling embarrassed to share the next part. “Yeah. Kind of. Except she only wanted pictures of me from the back.”

  “It might be your good side.” Jonah pauses with a bag in his hand. “Turn around.”

  I hesitate. “You want to check out my ass, too?”

  “Fuck off.” He twirls his index finger in a circle.

  I oblige.

  “Nothing there to see. Maybe she was snapping a pic of our logo on your T-shirt?”

  I twist my mouth to the side. Occam’s razor comes to mind. The simplest explanation is usually true. “You’re probably right. Maybe she wants to surprise us with an article or something on her blog.”

  With a shrug, he goes back to his task. “Plus, you can’t even see your ass in those baggy pants. If you were hoping Connie has the hots for you.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Hey, I’m not judging. Makes sense why I never see you with a girlfriend. I didn’t realize you liked the older, married ladies.”

  The scoop I chuck at his head misses and bounces on the floor.

  His laughter continues as he picks it up and tosses it into the sink.

  AFTER A LONG day of roasting and bagging a backlog of wholesale orders, I flop down on the couch in our small living room. For about half a second I think about phoning Mom and telling her about Connie’s drive by.

  Asking Mom about whether or not her friend has the hots for me might be more uncomfortable than the sex talk she gave us in elementary school.

  My body shudders at the memory. I couldn’t eat a banana for years.

  If Connie does have a weird mid-life crisis crush on her friend’s son, probably better my mother doesn’t know.

  Connie’s in her early sixties.

  I’m twenty-eight.

  My parents are in their fifties.

  Totally could be my mom.

  Yeah, not bringing this up with Mom. Or Carter. He’d never stop teasing me about it.

  The island’s a small place. Growing up here, we know most everyone who lives on the south end year round. If we don’t know them personally, we probably know their last name, their grandparents, or their cousins.

  Carter and I rent a place in the woods above Bell’s Beach from the brother of my track coach in high school. Our landlord is also the former husband of my mom’s friend Sandy’s sister, Pat.

  Pretty much need a forest of family trees to remember who everyone around here is related to or married to, or divorced from.

  Things can get incestuous without fresh people being introduced to the mix.

  Explains my recent dry spell with women. I’ve either grown up with everyone, like Hailey and Ashley, dated them, or had random hook-ups. Lately, every woman I encounter is engaged, married, or pregnant.

  There’s something about turning thirty that brings on a marrying and breeding madness. One of them gets a diamond ring and it’s like chum in the water. Shark feeding frenzy. The women a
re the sharks in this scenario. This might be the reason only one letter separates chum from chump.

  Take for example John Day and Tom Donnely. John fell for Diane like the giant tree he is. Within a year Tom was moon-eyed over Hailey and proposing marriage.

  No one saw that coming.

  My phone chirps with a text from Carter.

  *Dad’s at the Legion. You free?*

  Groaning, I quickly reply:

  *I picked him up last time.*

  I watch the bouncing dots as Carter types. I really don’t want to drive all the way over to Bayview.

  *I’ll owe you one.*

  He doesn’t even give me the option to argue with him.

  With a sigh, I agree.

  *Be there in fifteen minutes.*

  The misty-rain covers everything in tiny droplets when I walk out to my truck. It’s my prized possession. A 1973 Bronco Baja. On a nice day the entire top comes off and it turns into a beast of a convertible. Best thing I’ve ever bought.

  I crank up the classic rock station and roll down the window on the short drive to the lodge. For a shortcut, I take the road past Whidbey Joe. My glance flicks to the driveway and parking lot. A couple of cars fill the area in front of the café. Nice to see things are busy on a late Thursday afternoon.

  I spot Dad’s truck in the lot of the log building that houses the Legion. There are a surprising number of cars here given it’s not even four o’clock. After pulling into a narrow space, I put the Bronco into park.

  Not ready to deal with my dad and his “buddies” just yet, I tell myself I’ll go inside after the next song ends.

  My phone beeps again.

  A text from Mom.

  *Did Carter get a hold of you?*

  *Yeah. I’m here.*

  I wait for her reply, tapping my finger on the side of my phone.

  *Thank you. I’d be there, but I’m stuck at the office for another hour.*

  Anger begins to build under my skin. My mom shouldn’t have to work as hard as she does. The travel agency is one of her two jobs. She picks up extra hours at the card store. I don’t believe her when she swears it’s for the discount.

  Who needs discounted greeting cards that much?

  *You should stay for dinner. I’d love to see you.*

  Knowing what’s waiting for me inside, my instincts tell me to make up an excuse. The good son in me knows I should have dinner with her as a thank you for getting us the trip to Cabo. As much as I don’t want to say yes, I do.

  *Sure. Sounds good.*

  On the radio, Pearl Jam’s “Daughter” finishes playing. No more stalling.

  I tuck my phone into my jeans as I walk across to the heavy doors. Inside the dark entry, I let my eyes adjust. Boisterous male laughter echoes around the main room. Empty banquet tables and chairs fill most of the space. A wooden shuffleboard and a pool table occupy half the room. Despite the sun coming through the wall of the windows, the room sits mostly in shadow. The space smells of stale smoke, beer, old stories, and regret.

  Around the corner from the open area is a cramped and darker bar. A small group of patrons sits on stools and at the tables.

  Besides Mel behind the bar, the patrons are all male and no younger than early-fifties.

  Slumped in a chair—loudly telling a story about his high school football glory days—sits Dad. Two other guys keep him company. With salty blond hair and a nose only lifetime drinkers get, the kind that kind of resemble cauliflower, the three of them could be triplets. Dumb, Dumber, and Dumbass.

  Carl Kelso, All State football tight end, prom king, once successful business man holds court among his people. Paint splatters cover worn boots. His jeans, T-shirt, and arms are paint free, telling me he didn’t work today. Years of manual labor and hard drinking line his face and give him an older, tired look. He still has the Kelso height and broad shoulders. If I squint, he looks like the golden boy he once was.

  “Hi, Mel.” I wave at our family spy. With two silvery braids, she bears a feminine resemblance to Willie Nelson. She went to high school with my parents, and she keeps an eye on him for us. Gives us a head’s up when he stops by and loiters for too long. Makes sure he doesn’t drive when he shouldn’t.

  “Erik!” Dad shouts in the small space. “Buenos dias!”

  At least he remembers we were in Mexico.

  I inhale and roll my shoulders back before exhaling in resignation. “Hey, Dad. How’s your day going?”

  “Good. Good. Finished up work a little early and came by to check on the fellows. Make sure everyone is staying hydrated.” He raises his beer. “I’m practically the unofficial island health commissioner.”

  The last word comes out a little slurred. His buddies all laugh and raise their glasses to the commissioner.

  Glancing at Mel, I silently ask her how many. She holds up three fingers.

  Okay, not terrible.

  It’s still early.

  On the weekends when the local bars are crowded, it’s more difficult to keep track of the drinks. My dad turns into everyone’s best friend who likes to buy rounds on his “tab.”

  A tab he then forgets to pay in most cases.

  I shift from foot to foot as I plot out the excuse I’m going to use to get him to come with me willingly. He appears to be in good spirits, but that can change in an instant.

  “Where you working this week?” I know he lied about being on a job today, but don’t want to embarrass him in front of the guys.

  “Ah, down on Maxwelton Beach. Painting interiors for some summer people.” He finishes his pint and gestures over to Mel. With his deep voice he croons, “One for my baby boy, and one more for the road.”

  The other men chuckle at my expense.

  I wave off Mel and reach for my wallet. “Nah, I’m good. How about we head home and you can have a night cap there?”

  Dad’s eyes narrow at me and he tries to take another sip from his empty pint. “Mel? Your kegs run dry over there?”

  Ignoring him, she pretends to wipe down the bar.

  With a huff, Dad sets down his glass on its edge and it wobbles before tipping over. Good thing it’s empty. “Gentleman, it appears I’ve been summoned.”

  I focus on the dark ceiling. I hate this. I’m angry with myself for standing here. Pissed at Carter for guilting me into coming to get Dad. Sad for my mom that she has a system of spies around the island to keep an eye on her husband. Most of all, I’m mad at my dad for becoming this man.

  He’s not the dad we had growing up.

  The man I admired and looked up to as my hero got lost in the bottom of a bottle.

  “Until we meet again, my friends.” Dad uses the table to stand on unsteady feet. I suspect the Legion wasn’t his first stop today.

  “Same place, same time tomorrow, Carl.” Pickleface Chester laughs at his joke. It’s only funny because it’s the truth.

  “Parting is such sweet sorrow.” Dad throws his arms wide before attempting a sweeping bow.

  I catch him by his shirttail before he bends head first into a table.

  “Thanks, Mel.” Still holding my dad’s shirt, I put a twenty on the bar. “Keep the change.”

  Beers are cheap at the Legion. Mel knows to take a few bucks for a tip and put the rest toward whatever tab my dad has running. Carter or I make the rounds and settle up the open tabs once a week.

  The nice part about a small community is you can do this sort of thing. People know where to find someone who owes them money or a favor. A family’s name is built on their word as much as their history on the island.

  Our Kelso name still carries some respect. Not every football team makes it to the state championship. Not every prom king marries his queen. I guess people help us out because they want to believe in the happy promise of the American Dream.

  Can’t say that I blame them. Not one bit.

  We all need to believe in fairy tales where the big bad villain is caught and punished, the prince finds his princess, and true love co
nquers all.

  My favorite part of those kinds of stories? The dragons.

  I think they’re misunderstood. Not evil.

  The princesses annoy the fuck out of me.

  After about five minutes home, Dad falls asleep in his recliner. His snoring drowns out the local news Mom has playing on the TV while she cooks dinner.

  I fidget on the faded blue overstuffed sofa. I’d offer to help her, but the kitchen is her domain. I suck at cooking. I can steam crab, grill salmon, and shuck an oyster, but that’s about it other than mac and cheese from the box and frozen dinners.

  I swipe my phone’s screen to text Carter about dinner.

  He doesn’t reply.

  The local news is too depressing. I hate it in fact. Car crashes, crime, and political nonsense repeating in a never-ending loop of crisis and despair. If there’s something major going on in the world, I figure Carter or someone else will tell me about it.

  My dislike of media extends to social media. I barely check my Facebook account anymore. It’s mostly people lying about how happy they are and how perfect their lives are. I roll my eyes at the thought. If my family is anything to go by, we’re all fronting lies.

  Jonah and Ashley keep telling me we need a social media “presence” for our business. He’s all about brand personality to increase visibility. His marketing degree from U-Dub gives him some credibility when he slips into business jargon. I suppose I should listen to him.

  I’m on Instagram, but a man can only post so many pics of milk foam in various designs before he wants to poke out his own eyes. Coffee is brown. Roasted coffee beans are brown. Raw beans come in brown burlap bags. My entire photo collection looks like various degrees of dirt. Or shit.

  Jonah has me following some other coffee places and local foodie accounts. Bored with sitting on my ass, I scroll through my Instagram and randomly like a few pics.

  I open Facebook and log in to my account. It only takes three times for me to remember my password. That’s how often I bother to check it.

  My notifications number is high and there are several private messages, which I can’t check without another app. Do I need another app? No. Those will have to wait.