Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 90972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
I wonder why they got lucky and I didn’t.
“How’s it going there, anyway?” Carter turns to me and I wish he wouldn’t. He’s only trying to be a friend—I know that. It’s not his fault he doesn’t understand the shit I’m going through, especially since I don’t talk about it. I don’t talk about much of anything. Life is easier that way, cleaner, simpler. The less I say, the less I have to remember later on. There’s nothing as pathetic as somebody who gets lost in their own lies.
“We should come in some night, keep you company.” Preston winks at me and wiggles his eyebrows. “Could be fun.”
“Would Emma think it was so fun?” I ask, snickering. I have to doubt their girlfriend would be a fan. She’s pretty open minded, dating twin brothers, but everybody has their limits. The Archer’s Den is well-known for the type of women who drink there. If the new girl in town doesn’t know that yet, she’d find out once her boyfriends started hanging out there.
“Okay, it’s not like we would have to get in a bar fight or whatever,” Preston points out.
“Oh, damn.” Briggs snaps his fingers and scowls like he’s disappointed. “I was really hoping for a bar fight.”
“Who invited you?” Easton asks him, and I laugh along with them even if my mind is miles away.
No, that can’t happen, and not only because they’re too young. Hell, I can’t remember the last time anybody got carded before coming in. If a patron’s got money, there’s a stool empty at the bar. If I didn’t know better, I might think Dad genuinely cared about bringing people together and giving them a place where they can kick back and forget about life for a little while.
As soon as Briggs’ eyes light up when he looks toward the door, I know the brief break from the girls is over. I sit up a little straighter, grinding my teeth, swallowing back disappointment. I should be glad for my friends, shouldn’t I? They look happy. I should want that for them, and I guess I do, really. It’s just harder to swallow on days like today, when I was up half the night dealing with a lot of shit that did anything but make me happy.
There’s a dark cloud hanging over me the rest of the day, too, making it tough to get through without showing everybody what’s happening in my head. But that’s something I’ve gotten good at over the years, too. That’s why I’m so quiet. Being quiet is easier. People expect less of you when you’ve got a reputation for silence.
Silence comes in handy throughout my life. I can’t remember how I ended up first seeing something I wasn’t supposed to see, but I’ll never forget the way my dad looked at me. The way his eyes went hard and sharp. Not that he was ever loving or anything like that—the most I ever got was a smile and maybe a pat on my shoulder. But in that moment, staring down at his eight-year-old son, he let the mask of parent fall to his feet so I could see what was underneath. It’s a mask he never bothered putting back on.
“Whatever you think you saw here, you didn’t.” I can still feel his fingers pressing tight against my shoulder, like he was trying to break it, but it was the look in his eye that mattered more. “You’re going to keep your mouth shut, understood?”
I understood then and I still understand as I park my 4Runner behind the bar which has been my second home for as long as I can remember. It’s only late afternoon, meaning the bar itself will be mostly empty except for the handful of regulars who show up like clockwork before the doors open. Sometimes I get things started in the morning and I find them waiting out on the sidewalk with their cigarettes and coffee. We don’t even exchange words anymore – all it takes is me flipping the lock for them to stub out their smokes and filter inside, where they take the stools down from the bar and the tables and settle in to watch TV while I turn on the lights and power up the register.
That’s already been done by the time I enter through the back door leading into the kitchen. A couple of dishwashers hang around, eating an early dinner while they have the time to do it. We nod in recognition before I poke my head into the bar through a swinging door. Lorna, one of Dad’s longest running employees, stands behind the taps and fakes interest in a story from one of the regulars which she’s probably heard thirty times. Even I know it by now. But there’s another rule we have to follow around here, and I’m sure it’s pretty universal. Make the customer feel at home and you’ll always have their business. That means nodding in the right places, shaking your head sympathetically when the time comes.