He unlatches the screen door and leans against the doorjamb. “It’s Amy, right?” he asks, and even though Oliver told me his dad is Scottish, I’m surprised to hear such a thick accent.
“Yes, I’m Amy. Is Oliver home?”
“Oh, girlie. You are barking up the wrong tree. Oli’s at work, and even if he wasn’t, I wouldn’t let you into this house after what you done to him.”
It’s such a shock to hear these words out of his mouth, that I look up at the house, at the black numbers nailed to the siding, as if I’ve somehow stepped up to the wrong house. This house must belong to a different Oliver.
“I just—” I start, but Oliver’s father cuts me off.
“You just what, honey? You came to tell him you messed up and you did wrong and that you love him?”
I grip the fabric of my dress in my hands, refusing to be intimidated. “I do love him.”
His father snorts. “Look, let me tell you something maybe no one else ever has.” He glances over my shoulder, his eyes going glassy. “True love doesn’t exist. But you know what does exist? Sadness. Heartbreak. Reality. Your bills and your taxes and your fucking dead-end job, and Oli’s in the midst of figuring that out. So why don’t you just go back on home, because I’m not letting you in this house, and I’m not telling him you were here, and I’m not telling you where he works.”
I’m surprised to feel anger rise in me, and I know that what I have to say is completely out of line, but I say it anyway. “What would he say if he saw you like this? What would he say if he knew you were drunk after all the work he’s put in—”
“All the work he’s put in?” He takes a step toward me, and I scuttle back away from him, until I’ve taken one step off the porch, and now this man is towering over me, and I hear a car door open behind me, know that Petra is getting out and maybe coming toward us. “Oli’s been off wooing you, hasn’t he, while I dealt with this? You don’t know the first thing about me.”
“And you don’t know the first thing about me,” I say, my chin coming up. I hope I look more confident than I feel. “Maybe I’ve let Oliver down, but you’re not exactly the poster child for being there for him.”
He lets out a stuttering, wet laugh. “You’re right on that count. But he’s here with me, now, isn’t he? And you, you’re going to run on home, and you’re never going to see him again, because whatever pretty picture you have in your head about true love, it’s all bullshit.” He makes a shooing motion with his hand, and surprisingly, I step the rest of the way off the porch.
I want to cry. I want to cry for myself, for letting Oli go, and for Oli, who’s hurt and will be so disappointed when he finds out his dad is drinking again. I want to tell him that I’m disappointed in him, too, even though I don’t know him, but I don’t have the words.
It’s too late anyway. He speaks over me. “I’ve fucked up a lot by Oli. I’ve been an awful father. But if there’s one thing I know, it’s that he doesn’t deserve to have his heart eaten by the likes of you.”
As angry as I am, I know his father is right. At least in this one thing. Oliver deserves better than me. I just nod, taking another step back.
“And don’t you come back looking for him,” he says. “He doesn’t love you.”
I’m shaking as I turn back to the road, and even though I can still hear him yelling after me, I keep walking until I’m back in Petra’s car.
“Are you okay?” she asks, getting back in, but I just shake my head, and before I know it, I’m crying, and Petra has her arms around me, rocking me back and forth in her prom dress.
OLIVER
WHEN I GET home from Charlie’s, Dad’s truck is gone. He’s probably already at work. I walk past the empty driveway and up the front steps, but I stop when I’m in front of the door, staring down at the welcome mat that I can see between the spaces between my keys.
There’s glitter stomped into the brown fibers. I blink down at the shimmering doormat for a long time before unlocking the door and going inside.
I drop down onto the couch and kick my shoes off before turning on the TV, but unlike Mom, Dad doesn’t pay for cable or streaming TV or anything like that, so there are exactly four channels, three of which are airing news programs, and the last that’s airing a documentary about pumas. I turn the TV back off and stare down at the carpet, aware, painfully so, that I’m right back where I was four months ago, before I met Amy, and I had something to be excited about.
At least then I had Spirits.
But I can’t walk in there now without thinking about her, so even though Brooke is a little pissed at me for leaving, it’s better that I quit.
I tug my phone out of my pocket to order a pizza when I see that Brooke tagged me in some photo on Spirits’s Instagram account. I sigh. The only reason I got a stupid account is because Brooke made me. She said that as the assistant manager, I had to do social media stuff, so I periodically took pictures of albums I thought were great and posted them, but that pretty much ended a few months ago.
My stomach clenches when I see the picture Brooke posted.
#tbt to when our very own ex-assistant manager sang the Cure for karaoke night.
I don’t know why she’s doing this to me, but seeing that picture, me doing karaoke for Amy, is enough to make my insides feel like they’re on fire.
OLIVER
I START DRIVING to Hassey’s before I even really know what I’m doing. Honestly, if it weren’t for Dad, I wouldn’t even know where to look for a bar in Kansas City, but as it is, I know how to get to Hassey’s as easily as I know how to get to Spirits. The turns from Dad’s house to the bar are burned in my brain, but this is my first time driving them in this order.
I can’t remember ever stopping to look around in Hassey’s, an Irish pub that only feels Irish because the owner, Carson, is from Kilkenny. Mostly, I was just pointed in the direction of my father, often slumped over the side of the bar, and then hauled him out to the truck without a second glance. But tonight, I take it in, the smell of alcohol and cigarettes, the neon lights behind the bar, the sound of cue sticks striking billiard balls.
“Fergus ain’t here, man!” Carson calls from behind the bar.
“I know,” I say, stepping up to the bar and having a seat. “I came to have a drink.” I don’t drink often, mostly at parties and other social engagements, should I find myself at one, but I’ve always been careful. Tonight, I can’t help but wonder, I can’t help but think that maybe my dad has had it right this whole time.
I try to think about beers and cocktails, but honestly nothing comes to mind. And then Carson leans his elbows on the bar and looks at me.
“You’re mad if you think I’m serving you anything.”
I grind my teeth together. “I’m almost twenty.” A lie. I have eleven whole months before I turn twenty.
Carson scoffs. “It’s not because you’re a teenager, Oli. It’s because you know better.”
I spin the barstool I’m on away from him. “Fine. I’ll just get something at the liquor store.”