Brooke and her wife, Lauren, used to run the shop together, but now Lauren goes to law school while keeping her title as owner of the place, which her parents left her when they died.
“Well, I don’t have any worries then because I’m never getting married.”
Brooke laughs. “Oh, give me a break, Oli. You’ll meet someone, fall madly in love, and probably marry, to the great disappointment of your parents, just like I did.” She says the last part so casually that I honestly believe it doesn’t bother her that her parents haven’t spoken to her since she married Lauren.
“I’m not the marrying type. Hell, I’m not the relationship type.”
Brooke purses her lips and looks at me, her eyes scanning me up and down like she’s seeing me for the first time. “Yeah, right. You’ve got hopeless romantic written all over your sullen attitude.”
Completely unbidden, I think about Amy, which I’ve been trying very firmly not to do. But I can’t seem to get her out of my head, and it’s only getting worse.
As if he knows exactly what I’m thinking, Marshal pipes up, “What do you guys think about Amy?”
I grind my teeth together and keep my eyes on my cards. I swear to God, if he’s about to announce his intention to ask her out …
But I guess it doesn’t matter, since she has a boyfriend.
“Cute as hell,” Brooke says immediately, and I snap my eyes over to her. She thinks Amy is cute? I guess I’m not all that surprised. Amy is cute as hell. “But Oli hates her.”
I roll my eyes. “I don’t hate her. She’s just…”—sweet, funny, adorable, smart—“… weird.”
Brooke smiles at me, but not in a nice way. “She’s weird because she’s not a brooding piece of work, like you?”
My phone rings. Saved by the bell. I pull my phone out of my pocket, fully expecting it to be Mom, calling to let me know that she’s home from work, like she always does when she works late into the night.
But it isn’t my mom. I sigh.
Brooke nods at my phone. “What’s up?”
“It’s my dad.” I want to not answer. God, I want it. Why does it have to be tonight? Why does it have to be when I’m having fun with my friends? When I’m attempting to have a normal life? Why can’t he just stay sober for one weekend?
“Yeah?” I say, pressing my phone to my ear.
“He doesn’t like his dad?” I hear Marshal whisper to Brooke at the same time that I hear a familiar voice in my ear.
“Hey, Oliver. It’s Carson. Come get your dad, please. He hasn’t passed out yet, but he’s gettin’ close. Barfed on a guy’s shoes already.” Carson is the bartender at my dad’s favorite bar, the one he passes out in with the most regularity.
“Yeah, okay. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Brooke is frowning by the time I hang up. “You have to go?” she asks.
I shrug. “Can’t leave him there. Sorry. Here.” I toss the CDs I brought from my own collection into the pot and put on my jacket.
“Aren’t you here first thing in the morning?” Marshal asks.
“I’m always here,” I tell him.
OLIVER
“NEED HELP GETTING him out to your truck?” Carson asks as I throw my father’s arm over my shoulder. He’s still conscious, but barely. His eyelids droop but he smiles at me nonetheless.
“Oli, m’boy,” he slurs. “You’re here. How nice.” He draws out the last word so that he sounds like a hissing snake, and he’s spitting on me.
“Dammit, Dad. Stop.” He smells like cheap whiskey, and if he keeps it up, I will, too. “Thanks, but I’m good,” I tell Carson. I’ve dragged Dad out of so many bars that I have legitimate biceps from hauling his weight.
Out by my truck, I shift him to one side and open the door to the cab before forcing him up and onto the back seat. He isn’t wearing a jacket, and I’m almost certain he left it inside the bar, but there’s no way I’m going back in for it. I lay him down on his side, just in case he pukes again, and I’m leaning down over him to make sure he can breathe okay when he burps in my face.
“Dear God,” I groan. “Did you drink all the whiskey they had?”
He laughs, a strange gurgling noise in his throat.
“Try not to fall off the seat.” I slam the back door shut and sigh, my hands still pressed to the side of my truck. My father’s court date is in twelve days. If he gets caught doing something else stupid before he can even answer for the last thing, he’s screwed. I text my mom to let her know that I have to take Dad back to Independence. Why the hell can’t he drink there instead of the northern side of Kansas City?
I get on Highway 70 and head for Independence. Now that I’m sitting still, with my stereo off and the darkness closing in around us as we move farther from downtown, I’m starting to feel a little groggy myself.
My headlights catch a figure on the side of the road. The closer we get, the better I can see that it’s a girl, a girl with long dark hair, walking down the road in skintight jeans and wedge shoes.
I’m not sure if it’s the hair or the way she walks or the curve of her hips, but there’s something about her that’s so familiar that I slow down. From behind, she looks like Amy. And then I realize, it is her, and my stomach does a weird jumbled thing.
I’m the only car on the road as it’s almost one in the morning, and I pull off a few feet in front of her, hoping I’m not going to scare the shit out of her. What the hell is she doing, walking down the highway in the middle of the night? I look in my rearview mirror and realize that she’s stopped walking, her eyes on my truck and her hands balled into fists. Shit. I definitely scared her. I push my door open slowly. I don’t want her to think I’m some creep about to attack her.
“Amy?” I call out. I put my hands up in the air, the only way I can think to show her I’m harmless.
There’s something about the way her body sags, the way her relief is visible, that makes my stomach flip-flop again. She’s relieved to see me.
“Oliver?” she calls out, finally continuing her walk toward me.
“Do you need a ride?” I ask before she’s even gotten to me. It’s freezing, and even though she’s wearing a coat, when she’s finally close enough for me to see her face, I can see that her cheeks and nose are red. How long has she been walking out here?
I see her moment of hesitation, and all the warm feelings I got when she seemed relieved to see me vanish. She doesn’t trust me. I can see it on her face, the way her eyes flit to my truck and then back to me. And I guess I get it. She doesn’t really know me. We’ve only been working together for a month, and we both know the kind of horrors humans are capable of.
Before I have the chance to reassure her, she smiles at me, showing all her teeth in the shadow of my truck. “That would be nice. Thank you.”
“You’re not listening to music” is the first thing she says to me when we get in the truck. “That’s weird.”
Of course, that’s her first thought. Any time Amy is on break, she either has music blaring out of the speaker of her phone or has her earbuds in her ears, the music up so loud that she can’t hear me trying to get her attention.