Have the wind in their faces.
You can’t stop that kind of love.
“Yeah, Brian’s still carrying a raging hard-on against me,” Parry says. “Pissed I’m Colt’s best friend. Pissed I’m the cook at his bar.” He looks me up and down. “He’s going to be even more pissed I asked you here.”
“He doesn’t have to know you’re a part of this. I’ve come up with a bulletproof excuse for being here. One that doesn’t involve the truth.” I lean forward on the bar, closer to Parry. “To Brian and the entire town, I’m here on behalf of a publishing deal. I’m writing a book about Mistpoint Harbor.”
“Zoey.” Parry is near a grimace and a groan. He threads a concerned hand through his pretty boy hair. “Do you have a death wish? A Durand snooping around and profiting off the town’s history—the town she abandoned?”
“I know it’ll piss some people off.”
“Some people?”
“Okay, a lot of people—but isn’t pissing people off kind of the point? In their anger, they’ll get so caught up in the lie that they won’t even question why I’m actually here.”
Parry is still wincing, but he nods. “Maybe you’re right.” He pours himself a beer while I take a sip of mine. His eyes flit to me. “I still can’t believe you’re over twenty-one now. Don’t have to give you a coffee cup for your beer.”
I smile sadly.
I don’t like having missed everything.
“It’s good to be back,” I say. Despite my run-in with Amelia earlier, I do believe this.
He takes a swig from his beer. The small silver hoop in his left earlobe glints a little in the light. “How was Chicago?”
“Alright,” I say into a shrug. The six years in Chicago feel like another life. Not mine, really. Someone else’s. It hurts thinking about that life when I’m here. “I don’t want to talk about me,” I say. “I’m here for Colt, remember. Ever since you called last night, I’ve thought about a million tragic things that happened to him. Is he okay? Do we need to go to the lighthouse now?”
“He’s okay right now.” Parry grips his beer tight and glances to the window. “It’s going to get dark soon. He’s pretty particular about not being disturbed during nighttime. I think it’d be better to visit him tomorrow morning.”
“Have you…tried visiting him at night?” I wonder, tension spooling between me and Parry. The unsaid thing drawing a discomfort that I’d rather barrel through.
October taught me that.
Don’t just sit in discomfort. Do something. So I prod, “I mean, do you still avoid the dark?”
He lets out a frustrated noise. “No, you mean, are you still afraid of the dark, Parry?”
I don’t disagree. “Well, are you?”
“Yes,” he admits tensely, then adds quickly, “but I’ve tried visiting him at night with Enzo. This isn’t about my fear of the dark. Like I said, he doesn’t like being disturbed at night—it’s better in the mornings.”
The pressure on my chest still hasn’t released. “On the phone, you said he’s pretty messed up. What does that even mean?”
“It means he’s messed up. I don’t know how else to describe it. Tomorrow—you’ll see tomorrow. Maybe you can snap him out of it.” He lets out a heavier breath. “That’s what I’m hoping anyway.”
And what if I can’t help him? I keep that thought to myself and take a larger swig of my beer. Then I ask, “Do you get off work before sundown?”
“No, I’m the only cook. And I’m the only host. And sometimes the only bartender and waiter.”
A pang shoots through my heart. Of course he’s the one keeping this shithole from sinking. My dad always had trouble staffing the bar, and Parry is still coming to the rescue. “My family doesn’t deserve you, Parry.”
“Yes, you do,” he refutes with ease. Like it’s just known. “Brian doesn’t deserve me though.”
“Hear, hear,” I agree with the raise of my beer.
He wipes up a sticky spot on the bar. “He has done one semi-nice thing, even if it’s mostly for his benefit.”
“What’s that?”
“He agreed to walk me home every night, just so I’ll work until 2 a.m. It’s slight torture keeping his company, but at least I’m torturing him.”
I smile. Glad that Brian is getting a taste of his own bitter medicine.
Parry stares harder at me. “I don’t even know what you’re doing now. Are you really a writer? You graduated college a couple years ago, right?”
“Not a writer. I actually suck at grammar.” I smile at myself. “Honestly, I’d rather stick my finger in a pencil sharpener than write a five-page essay, let alone a whole book.” My cover story might be a shit one if anyone realizes I’m no Virginia Woolf or Agatha Christie, but it’s the best I have. I barely glance up at him, a little sheepish about my past. “And yeah, I did graduate two years ago.”
He tilts his head, waiting expectantly for me to keep going.
I stare down at my beer. “I’m not even sure where to begin, Parry. It’s been so long. And anyway, I didn’t come here to tell my sad story. I just want to help Colt.”
And then I’ll be gone again.
Parry frowns harder. “What sad story? Was everything alright back in Chicago?” His gaze sweeps me earnestly and swiftly like he’s trying to find a broken bone.
Concern furrows his brows off my silence. “Were you dating anyone?” he asks.
I knew this question might come up.
It’s also the one I wasn’t sure how to handle.
“I—” I start but I don’t get the words out.
A jingle echoes from the pub door.
Parry and I whip our heads toward the sound.
No.
I’m groaning internally.
My oldest brother is here.
Brian stands inside The Drunk Pelican with a box of frozen crab claws. A dark raincoat on, beanie over his chocolate brown hair, and thick but neatly groomed beard makes him appear even more like a gruff local than the last time I was here.
Like the Lady of the Lake birthed him.
He doesn’t even acknowledge me. His first order of business is turning to his cook. “Get the fuck out,” he tells Parry.
Parry barely blinks. “We’re open, Brian. What if a customer comes in? You burn everything you touch. But if you want to serve char then by all means.” He nods to my brother.
Brian saunters to the window and flips the Open sign to Closed. “Crisis averted. Now leave.”
Parry grumbles under his breath and tosses the rag onto the bar. His eyes flit to me. “I’ll text you, Zoey.”
My brother’s intensity bears down on our interaction. Like he’s gathering every morsel of information he can.
“Sounds good. See ya, Pear.”
Parry gives me a nod. On his way out, he passes Brian and says in smoky anger, “Eat shit and die.”
“Get bent, Parry,” Brian shoots back.
Parry kicks the door open with his shoe, and Brian glares at his shadow as he departs.