For Those We Love

by Lisa Sorbe

  A chunky laptop sits on the counter between them, and while I can’t see the screen, I recognize the theme music coming from the speakers. It’s the newest (and perhaps the most crass) reality dating show, Hands Off, B!tch. It’s so bad the television stations won’t even play it. But it’s picked up speed on the internet, and while the drama is so far out there it makes me cringe, Kendra loves it.

  “Oh, that’s bullshit!” the redhead says, lifting the spoon to her mouth and taking a bite so that her following words are thick and garbled. “Compede booshid!”

  She smacks the top of the bar again.

  “Really, Mimi? What did you expect?” The guy behind the bar shifts his eyes from the screen long enough to dip a spoon of his own into the pink box before edging them right back. “She’s money hungry. Of course she’s going to sabotage anyone who gets in her way.” He leans over, resting a forearm on the counter, and lifts the spoon to his mouth. Pausing, he shakes his head and mumbles, “Can’t believe you’ve got me watching this crap.”

  I’m hovering in the entrance, taking in this exchange, and it’s only when I feel the push of wind against my back that I realize I’m still holding the door open. When I finally let it bang shut behind me, the redhead—Mimi—peers over her shoulder. She smiles and waves a spoonful of something my way. “Hey-o! Be with you in a min.”

  I acknowledge her with a nod and, after a quick glance around, opt for a corner booth in the back of the room. The place is surprisingly cozy and not at all as dive as it appears from the outside. There’s a stone fireplace along the wall flanking the bar, and above the mantel is (yet another) deer head, a wreath made from evergreen boughs tossed around its neck and a red Christmas ornament dangling from each antler. The whole place is set up like a trapper’s cabin, the walls adorned with old fashioned snow shoes made of wood and animal hide, several large fish mounted on pieces of driftwood, and old black and white photographs of loggers and sportsman in action.

  And there’s buffalo plaid everywhere. Covering the booths, the bar stools, drawn up as curtains…

  I wrinkle my nose as I shrug out of Ben’s coat and toss it on the bench before sliding in after it. Then I rest my elbows on the table, prop my forehead in my hands, and press my lips together to keep from screaming. My right leg won’t stop bouncing, the ball of my foot popping my knee up and down, up and down, up and down. I’m so tired I’m wired, if that makes sense. I’ve been on the go for over twenty-four hours, since yesterday morning when I learned about Lenora.

  Jesus.

  Was it only yesterday?

  Was it really only yesterday that I so naively thought I had the world at my fingertips?

  I groan and pull out my phone, hoping to find a new message from Daniel. But aside from the response he sent to my text letting him know I’d landed safely this morning, there’s nothing new. I read the last thing he sent—Cool, followed by C U in a few—and feel a knot of something I can’t explain settle in my chest. But I push it aside because it’s Daniel and he’s never been one to throw sentiment into a text. I mean, I certainly didn’t expect an I love you and I miss you and life is godawful without you here babe. Because that isn’t who he is, it’s never going to be who he is, and I’m definitely not one of those women who thinks she can change her man. The brisk, no nonsense way Daniel approaches life is one of the things I love about him. He’s not wishy washy or indecisive or overly emotional or insecure. The man is a bull; he doesn’t just climb mountains, he destroys them.

  And when he knows what he wants, he takes it.

  Like me.

  That thought actually does bring a smile to my face, which eases the unidentifiable something in my chest, that knotted sensation that made my core seize up for just the briefest of moments.

  Feeling a bit better, I pull up my social media accounts, read through a few messages from Instagram and Facebook, and then close the sites without responding. Seventy-five people have contacted me on Facebook and well over two hundred on Instagram, and I need to be in the mood—read that lounging on the couch with a mug of coffee or a glass of wine—before I can tackle wading through the bullshit. Don’t get me wrong; most of my subscribers are great. But this is the age of the internet, where free speech doesn’t need a tongue and opinions can be dealt with utter anonymity, and I get more than my fair share of troll mail: dic pics, request for tit pics, request for pussy pics…just to name a few. Then there’s the hate mail that makes up a small portion of my messages: people looking for an argument, people telling me I’m too ugly/too fat/too pretty/too thin/too vanilla/too vulgar and that my hair is either too curly or not curly enough. And, of course, my favorites—the religious nuts who tell me that I’m going to Hell for wearing makeup, a bikini, freaking shorts…

  After closing out my messages, I swipe over to Daniel’s account, the weird feeling slinking back into my chest and sitting heavy over my heart when I see the picture he posted from his parents’ party last night. He’s decked out in his Armani suit, the jacket open to expose a crisp white button down left causally undone at the collar. He’s holding a glass of champagne and leaning against the railing of a rooftop deck, and the sunset blazing behind him is fanning the LA skyline in vibrant hues of orange and red. It looks like a photo from a magazine, and I don’t doubt that’s a coincidence. Like me, Daniel knows how to stage a photo, and his Instagram account boasts no less than manufactured perfection. Beneath the photo are the words Well done LA followed by #sunset and #killingit.

  “Dang! He’s hot.”

  I glance up to see the waitress with the red hair peering down at my phone, bright pink lips forming an O as she coos over the photo of Daniel. Her t-shirt is large and boxy and tucked into her jeans, which are high-waisted and stonewashed. Now that she’s closer, I can see the red in her hair comes from a box, the bad dye job a bit too orange around her scalp. Her make up is all wrong for her color, and her fried locks are crying out for a moisturizing hair mask.

  I bristle, turning my phone over and resting it on the table. “Yep, he is.” My response is curt, though the waitress—Mimi, I think the guy called her—doesn’t seem to get the hint, because she continues to nudge the conversation away from taking my order and onto my personal life.

  “Do you know him?”

  I nod. “Yeah. So, can I get a Classic…”

  “Like, personally?” Her eyes are saucers at the mere thought.

  I sigh. “Yes. He’s my boyfriend.”

  Though I’m not sure how that’s going to work now.

  The thought induces a frenzied anxiety that I’m desperate to tame, and before I even know what I’m doing, I slide my left hand under the sleeve of my right arm and, pinching a small section of skin between my nails, squeeze. Hard.

  It’s an act I haven’t done in years, not since I was in high school, when some days that little pinch was the only thing that proved I existed at all, and I’m annoyed this situation has caused the habit to resurface.

  A sharp little sting. Nothing more, nothing less. But the pain stops my whirling thoughts, brings me back to the present moment. And, as a bonus, the hurt is also causing my eyes to water, blurring my vison and turning Mimi into an amorphous blob.

  Unfortunately, it doesn’t have any effect on my hearing.

  “Holy shit, are you serious? Well, you’re obviously not from around here because they don’t make ‘em like that in Lost Bay, I can tell you that much. I mean, this one guy I dated last summer was way hot, but he wasn’t, like, from here or anything. Just visiting from Des Mo—”

  I hold up a hand, interrupting her. “Look, it’s been a long day and I’d really, really just appreciate it if you could take my order minus the chitchat. Okay?”

  Mimi’s face falls, and I immediately look away, fighting the flicker of guilt tightening my throat.

  “Yeah. No. I mean, of course. Absolutely…” But her perkiness is gone, and the red in her cheeks matches the hue of her hair.

  I bite back a sigh and sand th
e edge from my voice. “It’s okay, it’s fine. I’ll just have a Classic Manhattan.” My stomach growls, as if to remind me that there’s no way it can handle straight up liquor without some substance. Remembering I haven’t eaten anything in close to twenty-four hours, I add, “And a menu, please.”

  “Oh, um.” Mimi shifts her weight. “The kitchen’s closed. Our cook, Earnest? He’s out sick and Chevy didn’t want to bother Jerry—he’s our other cook—on his day off on account of the blizzard that’s headed this way and everything. It’s too bad, too, because Jerry’s loose meat sandwiches are the best around, I swear. Jerry normally only cooks on Wednesdays and Fridays, so those are the only days we can serve ‘em because he refuses to give out his recipe to anyone, even Earnest. He also makes this onion dip that’s, like, totally to die for. Don’t get me wrong, though! Earnest’s dip is good, too. Though kinda too oniony, if you know what I mean. But Jerry’s, though…”

  Mimi fans her face and I’m pretty sure just the thought of this onion dip turns her on more than Daniel’s photo did.

  I’m not sure what to do with this information. None of it is helpful to me now, when I’m starving and my stomach is about to start eating itself.

  “But, hey!” Mimi claps her hands together, making me jump. “Do you like pie? ‘Cuz Chevy—he’s my brother,” she cocks a thumb over her shoulder and Chevy gives a brief two finger salute without looking up from the book he’s reading, “picked up some pies on his way back from Duluth this morning and oh-my-god they’re so good. They’re from Betty’s Pies, it’s down in Two Harbors? Have you ever had one? Pecan is my favorite. But the apple is good, too. Chevy got two apple pies ‘cuz those are his favorites. But I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you had a slice. I mean, it’s his fault we don’t have a cook, right? I told him to call Jerry in, but he said no because he didn’t think anyone would come out this afternoon, what with the snow we’re supposed to get and everything. But then again, you did. Which makes him wrong, something I’m sure he hates because he’s, like, never wrong. Which I really hate because he’s always trying to tell me what to do and it so gets on my nerves. You know what I mean?”

  Oh. My. God.

  I just nod, even though I don’t have a clue what she’s talking about. “Sure. And no worries about the food. I’ll just take the drink. Thanks.”

  Mimi nods and scurries off, and when she gets to the bar, I hear her loud-whisper, “What’s a Classic Manhattan?”

  So here’s the deal.

  I’m sharing my inheritance with Ben.

  Well, to be more exact, I’m actually sharing it with the animal rescue that Ben will be opening this fall.

  You might be wondering why that’s so upsetting. Why I’m acting like a spoiled brat about the whole thing. Stomping out of Roman’s office and away from my only point of contact in this godforsaken town.

  And I get it. I get it.

  After all, I’m still walking away with just over three million. Not to mention Lenora’s house and half of her land. So who wouldn’t be happy about that? What kind of person wouldn’t appreciate that kind of wealth dropping straight into her lap?

  If only it were that simple.

  The nuts and bolts of the matter are this:

  I stay in Lost Bay for one year, on site, helping set up the rescue and making sure it runs okay once it’s established. And when that’s done, I get my inheritance.

  Or I waive the offer…and have to wait until I’m thirty-five to see so much as a penny of it.

  I’m halfway through my drink and lamenting over my phone’s low battery when the bar’s door blows open and Ben stomps in, bringing with him a flurry of snow.

  Seems the storm has started.

  He scans the bar, his eyes narrowing when they land on me, and makes a beeline for my booth. Without a word, he slides in across from me, rests his elbows on the table, and folds his hands together. “You know,” he says, his words measured, “I have more important things to be doing than chasing after you all day.”

  “Then don’t,” I snap. Lifting my glass, I down the rest of my drink before holding it in the air and giving it a little shake to catch Mimi’s attention.

  Ben’s sigh is heavy. “Have you had anything to eat today?”

  I glare at him. Since he’s been with me since eight o’clock this morning, he knows very well I haven’t. Then again, there’s accusation in his tone, which is probably the point. “All they have is pie.”

  He perks up. “Really? From Betty’s?”

  “Um, yeah. I mean, I guess. That’s what the waitress said.”

  Ben cranes his neck toward the bar. “Yo! Mimi!”

  Mimi turns from where she’s leaning against the bar, waiting for Chevy to finish making my second drink, her face lighting up.

  “You got any apple back there?”

  Mimi nods, a knowing grin stretching from ear to ear. Reaching behind the bar, she retrieves another pink box, flips the lid, and dips a knife into it.

  “Bring two,” Ben calls before returning his attention to me. He leans back in his seat, much more content than when he entered, and flashes a rare grin. “You’re gonna love this. Best pie in the state. Probably all of the Midwest, as a matter of fact.”

  I frown. So now he decides to be chatty. “I don’t want any pie.”

  Ben ignores me, and when Mimi brings the two plates over along with my drink, Ben doesn’t hesitate to push one my way.

  “Hey, Ben,” she says, pulling a bottle of beer from the pocket of her apron and plunking it down in front of him. “Figured you could use this after today.” Her smile falters, but she catches herself quickly.

  Ben nods, eyes trained to his plate. “Yeah.” His voice is rough, but when he lifts his gaze to me, his words are needling. “You have no idea.”

  His sarcasm is evident; I know what he’s doing.

  I fold my arms over my chest and arch a brow.

  Yeah, well. You’re no peach, either.

  Just as I’m thinking it, debating on whether or not to let the words roll off my tongue, his lips lift into a smirk.

  And he winks.

  The asshole winks.

  Like he knows what I was thinking, what I am thinking, and he finds me…amusing.

  Small and amusing.

  Well, I’ll show him just how small and amusing I can—

  Ben must sense that I’m about to blow, because he clears his throat and waves a hand my way. “So, Mimi. Has Lenora here officially introduced herself yet?”

  Mimi’s already round eyes widen. “You mean?” She looks at me, the shock on her face evident. “Nora’s Lenora?”

  He nods, and my mouth falls open.

  “Oh, my God!” Mimi smacks her head. “I should have known! Obviously you’re Nora’s glamorous granddaughter from L.A. I mean, duh Mimi!” She considers me with a new appreciation, and then twirls a finger in front of her face. “You have her eyes.”

  Ben scoops a forkful of pie into his wide-open trap and cocks his head. “I don’t see it.” His stare is pointed. “At all.”

  It’s clear that’s meant to be an insult, the fact that he doesn’t find any similarities in our appearances. Because I know we looked alike. Maybe not in her later years, but I’ve seen pictures of Lenora at my age and, when she was younger, we could have been twins. Granted, fashion choices and makeup and personality quirks may detract from the similarities a bit, but for Ben to state so bluntly that he can’t see any resemblance is just plain spiteful.

  And I’m the one who should be spiteful, here.

  Me.

  “Well, I think you do. Look like her, anyway.” Mimi rests a hand on my shoulder, and her voice is uncharacteristically subdued. “I’m so sorry about your grandmother.”

  I can only nod. Because right now, I’m so mad, so frustrated, so furious with Lenora that any sense of sadness I had regarding her passing is now buried beneath mounds and mounds of anger.

  Mimi retreats back to the bar, and I hear another episode of
Hands Off, B!tch starting up on her laptop. But within seconds, the music cuts off abruptly and a string of incredibly foul expletives fly from her mouth.

  I snort. “Sounds like Motormouth has a dark side.”

  Ben chuckles as he works his fork, scraping the last bits of pie from his plate. “Yeah, well. Internet sucks up here.” He lifts his eyes to mine, takes a bite, and points his fork my way. “You’ll get used to it.”

  The pleasure he gets in telling me this is evident.

  Because he knows how much I need the internet.

  My day just went from bad to worse.

  But I don’t want to let on how much I’m bothered by this. At least, more than I already have. What with the way I flew out of Roman’s office not even a half an hour ago, I think it’s safe to assume that I’m wearing my mood on my sleeve.

  I stifle a groan and reach for my plate. My world has just been upended, so what’s the big deal if I chow down on a desert that will forever sit on my hips? I shove a forkful in my mouth and have to hold myself back from moaning out loud.

  Damn. Ben was right. This shit is the bomb.

  We’re quiet while I eat, the only sound some early 90’s rock that Chevy put on the old juke box after Mimi’s laptop failed to catch a signal. And though I could chalk our silence up to the fact that we both seem to dislike each other a whole lot, I think this is just how Ben is.

  A man of few words.

  In fact, it’s not until I finish and push my plate away that Ben even looks my way. “You want to talk about it?”

  I huff, crossing my arms over my chest and falling back against the booth. “With you? Please.”