Summer Fling
Page 9
Adam took a step back, striding to his living room. Val and I exchanged looks.
“Is it true?” he asked. My big brother, who loved me something fierce, had a coat of tears glossing his eyes, and in that moment I knew he finally saw what he’d been denying Adam and me. “Is it real?”
I nodded, not an ounce of hesitation in me. “Yeah, Val. It is.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I tried,” I whispered.
He hung his head down. “I’m so sorry.”
Three years later.
“AND THE OSCAR goes to…” A malnourished, creepily beautiful actress grins into a microphone, tugging a card out of an envelope on live television. “Adam Mackay, Sunny Side Up!”
The crowd explodes with applause, and I cannot help but stand up and clap, too, even though I’m many miles away, back in New England, super pregnant and in my childhood bedroom.
The starlet continues into the microphone. “Adam couldn’t be here with us today. He and his wife are expecting their son any second now. So, this one is for you, Adam! We hope you have space in your bathroom for this.” She flings the little statue around, giggling.
Adam walks into the room. My room. The room that holds so many memories. Some bad, some good. All priceless. His eyes flicker to the screen. He sits next to me, rubbing my giant belly.
“B-o-r-i-n-g,” he says slowly to my belly, one of his many conversations with our unborn son. “What a non-item. I stopped listening after Best Original Script. That was the only category I cared about.”
He says it because I wrote the script for Sunny Side Up, a dramedy (dramatic-comedy) where two lost souls find each other in Los Angeles years after a breakup. It was our baby. I wrote it. Adam acted and produced. I didn’t end up winning, but damn, I was close, and that in itself was the best gift I could ever dream of.
Other than why I’m here and not in L.A.
Our baby.
“It’s okay to be happy for yourself.” I laugh, kissing the tip of his nose. “I’m so happy for you. You worked so hard for it.”
“So did my wife.” He kisses my knuckles.
We don’t talk about the fact that Best Soundtrack went to Johnny Grady, who went onstage and had no one personal to thank for the accomplishment, because his wife had divorced him, and his young lover—Chris—had walked away from him days after the showdown at Adam’s condo three years ago. I felt no anger toward Johnny or Chris. Just sadness for them, for what they had to go through to stay a secret. If anything, the breakup with Chris brought Adam back to my life. It just goes to show sometimes you can find the silver lining in anything, even heartbreak.
I rub my belly. I’m three days overdue and would love to meet my son. “Can you believe we’ve made it this far?” I ask.
Adam grins. “Honestly? Yes.”
Val walks into my room with his fiancée, Skye, without knocking. She’s tall and curvy and has this magnetic smile. I cannot wait for her to become an official part of our family. They look between us, chuckling when they see I’m about to topple over on my giant belly.
“Ready to pop?” Skye asks.
“Any minute now,” I confirm with a nod.
“Congrats on the Oscar.” Val winks at Adam. Adam smiles, standing up. They do the bro-hug. Shoulder-bump and a clap on the back. Betsy, our ancient cat, strolls into the room, whining. We take her with us everywhere if we can swing it with the flights. It’s so much easier than letting someone we don’t know babysit her. She rubs against my ankles, clearly happy to be here.
“Thanks.”
“Also, thanks for agreeing not to touch my sister. That was really cool of you.” Val’s eyes drift to my stomach. The four of us burst into laughter.
“It’s hard, but I gave you my word.” Adam shrugs.
This feels like full circle. Like a dream come true. Exactly where I’m supposed to be. With the people I’m supposed to be.
Sure, it didn’t happen exactly as I envisioned it as a teenager, but it happened, nonetheless.
Like Joel convinced Clementine to stay in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Their relationship was flawed and turbulent, but it was real. The memory of what they were bone-deep.
The heart wants what it wants.
And my heart always wanted Adam.
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Lysa
“MAKE IT SHINE,” my grandma used to tell me that whenever I was cleaning the bar top. I had a habit of it when I was only four years old. She told me all about it when I got my first job here, the bar called Brick’s that used to belong to my grandfather. I thought she was lying at first when she told me, but the customers remembered it too. I’d take the little cloth rag from the little tykes kitchen in the backroom and I’d climb up the wooden barstools and get on top of the already polished bar top and mimic my father. Three small circles, then one large. My little arms couldn’t reach all the way across, but I kept going when Grandma told me, “Make it shine.”
With the fresh smell of pine and lemons lingering, I make three small circles against the hardwood top, worn down from years of doing its job, and whisper, “Make it shine,” with the last swirl.
I’ve spent long days and even longer nights in this bar. It used to only be the weekends but now it’s every day for almost three years now when the bar got passed to me. It should never have been mine at the young age of twenty-two, but life throws all sorts of things at you, and you just have to do your best to catch them. Yet another piece of advice from my grandma.
“You good wrapping this up?” Andy asks me on his way out. With his worn leather jacket in one hand, its creases matching the ones around his eyes, and his car keys in the other, the old man waits for me to tell him what I always tell him at 2 am.
“Darn right I am. Have a good night, Andy.” His gray beard leads the way as he gives me a smile. I’ve nearly turned away when I hear a sound of surprise come from him.
“You may have company,” he informs me with a raised brow and I’m already saying, “We’re closed,” from across the bar to the heavy front doors but then I get a peek of who it is on the other side.
Flip, twist, a little somersault happens inside my chest. His blue eyes meet mine first, even though he’s nodding a thanks to Andy as he takes his baseball cap off. His stature is dominating, as are his broad shoulders, when the man walks in, his boot steps taking their time and thumping right along with my heart.
Tall, dark and handsome, with a slight southern charm on his tanned skin. Jeans that look broken into, boots made for working, and a simple dark gray Henley stretched across his shoulders fit his frame and spell out my kryptonite. The man of my dreams is a real thing.
“It’s alright Andy… I think I can serve up one more drink.” Pulling out a bottle of beer from the fridge underneath the bar, I keep my eyes on the man who just walked in. In a deft motion I uncap it
, the piece of tin falling into the bucket beneath the bottle opener screwed into the bar top and place the glass bottle down onto the bar, listening to it fizz. “As in I can open a bottle of beer. I’m not washing any more glasses tonight.”
I’ve made a number of mistakes in my life and one time my father said they could all lead back to my attitude. He laughed when I reminded him that it’s his attitude I inherited so technically they could all lead back to him.
Maybe I am no-nonsense, but when you grow up in a bar you learn not to take any shit and to know your limits. I’ll be damned if I’m cleaning anything else tonight. Besides, the man of my dreams is an IPA kind of man.
“Thanks,” his voice is deep and has a draw to it that I love. It echoes down into the hollow of my chest and I find myself raising my hand to meet the vibrations.
“Have a long night?” I make small talk with him as I tidy up the place. Technically we’re closed, technically I’m not working anymore, technically Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome shouldn’t be here.
In my periphery, I watch him fiddle with the torn edge of his hat before tossing it down onto the bar and taking his seat. “Long week,” he finally tells me with a heavy sigh. “Just got a lot better though.”
I pay his compliment back with a small chuckle that warms me from the inside and ask back, “Oh, did it now? A beer can turn it all around for you.”
I stare at him, letting his gaze sink into mine and feeling the longing and the heat there.
He only offers a boyish grin, answering, “Something like that,” with the bottle neck of his beer at his lips before taking a long swig.
“How about you?”
“How about me what?” I ask him, blowing a stray stand of hair out of my face. I note that his is long on top, just long enough to make it look like he doesn’t care. Like he’s just rough around the edges. I like that.
“Long night?” he asks.
“Always,” I answer, finally taking a seat behind the counter. My back hurts, my body’s sore, but we did good this week. I put everything I have into this bar. Keeping it alive and just like it was in every way that I can remember. It’s my constant, my life really. Everyone I ever loved has memories in this bar. So it can have all of me. I’m fine with that.
“You ready to go home? I don’t want to keep you up.”
Home for me is just a walk next door. My dogs outside stay in the back behind the bar and the German Shepherds walk me down the stone path to my little raised ranch. They’re my babies and the only family I have left.
The second that house next to the bar went up for sale, I bought it. I was only twenty and my dad had to help me, but it’s mine and it’s the perfect set up. I have my dogs, the bar, I have my house, and I have the people who have been here all my life in this small town. And then there’s this man right here.
I try to ease his conscious, “You aren’t keeping me up.”
“You look tired.”
“Hmmm,” I hum and lean back so I can get a good look at him.
“I don’t mind walking you home and helping you get to sleep,” he offers with that smile I love.
“Dean Andrews, you are the biggest mistake I ever made.” I love saying his name. Dean Andrews. Grandma loved it too. She always shooed the guys away, but never Dean. I could curse her out for that with the way he’s played with my heart. But then she’d slap me silly and I was always taught to respect my elders anyhow.
“Made as in past tense?” he offers me a charming asymmetric smile. “I was hoping you weren’t done with me yet.” That smile is one that knows how to bring heat to my cheeks, a blush rising up my temples. No man has ever made me feel like he does. Maybe that’s why I just can’t say no.
I don’t answer him, wiping down the rest of the liquor bottles, even though I’ve already wiped them down once, with my back to him. Very well aware that my hips sway just slightly with every movement I make. Let him watch. Let him want me even though he’s not able to have me. It’s only fair.
“You come into town once a month for a weekend, maybe twice a month at most… and you think you aren’t a mistake for a girl like me?” I question him, peeking over my shoulder just in time to see him gaze shift from my ass up to my stern gaze. He knows I’m all his. He knows I’ll bring him home and my bed will be filled with both of us tonight. This push and pull is just a game.
A game that’s going to break my heart one day. Since I gave it to Dean Andrews and he doesn’t even know. Shoot, I didn’t even know I’d done it until it was too late.
Dean
IT’S BEEN AT least four years since I first saw Lysa Hart. My father was showing me “a hole in the wall” bar he’d found. Since I was a little kid, every summer I’d gone with him in his truck for the rides during the summer. My dad’s a truck driver, my uncle, my brother. So it just made sense to me that I would be too.
I was twenty-three and I’d had my own truck for a while when my dad brought me in here four years ago. Craft beers, football games, a pool table and a small town vibe that made you feel at home. That’s what he told me it was like, but when I walked through those doors, there was only one thing that felt like home to me.
It was her laugh that I heard first, and I caught her swinging her hair around to the other shoulder and telling someone to ‘shut their mouth’ before swatting them with an imaginary towel. Her long hair matched her deep brown eyes and her smile… her smile was everything.
It only took one look… and that was years ago. Just before her life changed forever.
I work on drinking the beer quickly, knowing she’s got to want to get out of here.
“How long have you been on the road?” she asks; she only ever makes small talk. The thing I learned about Lysa first was how guarded she was. She could make friends with anyone, but to get to know her took time. And I know her, I know every little thing about her. Because after I’m inside her, after pulling down all of those walls and giving her everything I have, she bares it all. Heart and soul.
“Came in from Georgia, so a little while I guess,” I joke and she winces, the idea of spending nearly ten hours on the road isn’t her kind of fun. I don’t mind it. With the audio books and the sites along the way, it’s been good to me. But she’s better.
Every time I come back, Lysa’s made at least one change to the bar, this time the felt on the pool table’s new. She does that, trying to keep the place updated… but a few things never change.
“Still have the photos up?” I question although the answer is clear. The photograph paper is yellowed from decades and decades of simply existing. Lysa’s done a hell of a lot to fix up the old bar, but she’s stuck in the past in a lot of ways. Understandably. “You could move them to the backroom you know?” I suggest for the second time. The first was a year ago, maybe more. I know she wants to move them because they just look dated, but she’s dead set on the fact that they belong there.
A brunette lock slips out of place from her bun of messy hair, falling gently against the curve of Lysa’s jaw when she turns to look over her shoulder.
I know her body better than I know the backroads. And damn do I miss it every time I leave. I spent my life in a truck, she spent hers in this bar. Both of us taking after our fathers.
“I just don’t want to move them; you know?”
“I get it, it just might help bring the bar up to this decade… or,” I offer up, “You could take it back. You know, make it look like a speakeasy or something? Isn’t that the look that your grandpa went for back then?”
I’ve been thinking a lot about this bar and what Lysa could do on little money and even short time.
She laughs at me, “No. It was not a speakeasy. It was a biker club.” The hint of a smile at her lips is addictive.
“Make it a biker club then,” I shrug knowing damn well what she’s going to say.
“In a small town with no bikers, I bet that would go over just wonderfully.”
“You know what they say, you build it
and they’ll come.”
She shrugs it off, tiredness forces a yawn out of her.
I finish off the last bit of my beer and the empty bottle clinks when I set it back down.
“You want to get out of here?” she asks me.
No. I don’t want to get out of here. I want to stay with her and bring that smile, sweet and innocent, full of hope, back to her beautiful face. Just like it was when I first saw her. I want to stay here and fix this with her. Sometimes though… all a person can do is stand beside them and wait.
“If you do,” I answer her, lowering my voice and letting my gaze drop to those lips of hers. Lips I dream about kissing every night. She parts them just slightly, taking in a sharp inhale. “Yeah,” I tell her, pushing myself off the stool and grabbing my cap. “Let’s get out of here.”
Lysa
IT’S QUIET BETWEEN us all the way to my house, the dogs padding along as Dean pats them and occasionally scratches their backs on the way.
The crickets are out, the early autumn night has just a slight chill to it, but still warm enough. And the moon is clear, shining down and giving me enough light to see the rough stubble on Dean’s jaw.
He keeps his arm around my waist the entire walk and it makes me feel weak because all I want to do is lean into him.
The backdoor shuts with a loud groan and I lock it, feeling Dean’s eyes on me. The house has charm and features from a century ago. Just like the bar. It’s expensive to maintain, but every penny tile, and carved molding feature is worth it.
Some people say I’m an old soul. I just think I have good taste.
Dean doesn’t waste his time taking off his boots and stretching out his back. Maybe he’s trying to hide it, but I know he’s tired too.
“You want to just go to bed?” I ask him, feeling a ping of vulnerability. He could stay at the truck stop, and sleep in the back of his truck like I know he used to. He could get a hotel. Or he can come here, where I give everything to him freely. My girlfriend Laura had something to say about that a while back. Two years ago before she moved to Texas with her boyfriend, now husband.