“Marcus, that small town has what? One bar? Where the hell would we party? We'd have to hang out with the same people over and over again.”
“We're twenty-eight years old, Gretch, maybe it's time to settle.”
That should nail the coffin shut on our relationship. Bury us six feet under next to my dad.
“Settle down?” She lets out a caustic laugh. “You going to marry me, Marcus? Have me be Mrs. Kent, and we'll live in your dad's house with our two point five kids and a dog? I'm sure white picket fences are cheap down there since they probably sell them by the truckload.” She's laughing again.
“Yeah, you don't want to marry me?” My voice is straight, no hint that my leg is bouncing a mile a minute because I’m hoping she doesn’t call me out on my bullshit. Rather I’m hoping she’ll break up with me like I want her to.
Her laughter chokes to a stop. “You can't be serious.” I remain silent, but the silence is overflowing with anxiety on her end. “Marcus?” she questions.
“I take it that’s a no?”
Another long beat of silence and then I hear her suck in a breath. “I'm not built like that.”
Gretchen isn't a bad person. She's selfish and only wants to do what she wants to do, but she's a good person and we've had more than a handful of fun times in the last couple of months. I’m not trying to hurt her but I need her to see that we’re each heading down separate forks in the road.
I've realized one thing since the opposite sex peaked my interest as a kid going through puberty; if you break up with them, they pine over you, conjuring up some bullshit imagine of how perfect you were for them. But if she breaks up with you, the guilt she bears makes her keep her distance. Hey, I'm doing her and the next guy a favor. This way she can find her real prince rather than wasting her time on me.
“I get it,” I say, relieved.
“I'm sorry, Marcus, but I'm not meant to be a wife.”
“Maybe it's just my dad's death that has me thinking of how short life is,” I add an extra sprinkle of guilt to make sure I achieve the desired result.
“Yeah. That's why you shouldn't live in a small Podunk town. You should come back to Portland and go to Blake's concert. Have fun while you still can.”
“I'm starting to like it down here.”
Not really. She's right, there is one bar, one diner, a small community center and a hundred or so people who keep stopping by with casseroles and baked goods.
“Oh,” she says, disappointment heavy in her voice.
There’s silence again, and I tap my fingers on the table, waiting to see how long she'll draw this out.
“Maybe we should take a break?” she offers and I imagine her slightly crooked teeth biting down on her pink lip.
“A break?” I ask, like the idea as foreign to me as the fact I'm considering staying in Climax Cove.
“I see no other way. I'm sorry, Marcus.”
I place a mask of sadness over me, although she's not in front of me to see what I look like, I’m hoping I’ll channel it through my voice over the phone. My goal here isn’t to hurt her. Just to end things.
“Okay,” I say simply.
She sighs. “I guess I’ll let you get going.”
“Take care of yourself.” I say nothing more, not wanting to draw this conversation out any further.
“Bye, Marcus.”
“Bye, Gretchen.”
I hit the red circle on my phone’s screen and All American Rejects starts blasting out through the tiny speaker again.
Seems like I’m taking after my dad—single in the town of Climax Cove.
Three
After getting all the paperwork sorted with the lawyer and making an appointment with my dad's accountant, I locked up Kent’s Restoration and found the one bar in town, Happy Daze Tavern.
Other than whiskey, my dad has nothing to offer in the mind-numbing department, and I could use a beer.
Dodging the two cars traveling down Main Street, I place my hand on the worn handle and pull the door open. Happy Daze is exactly what you'd expect of a small-town bar. Dark, dingy and small. The stream of light from outside gets swallowed up as soon as the door closes and my eyes squint to see for a second.
“Kent!” a group of older gentlemen at the far end of the bar call out in greeting.
What is this Cheers? Yeah, my mom likes to watch reruns.
I wave my hand in the air to greet them and sit down on a stool at the bar.
A guy, probably close to my age, places a napkin down in front of me. “I wondered when you'd show up here.” His lips turn up into a smile.
He has one of those auras about him. One that suggests that even if he were homeless without a dime to his name, wearing ratty clothes and living in a cardboard box, he'd still be smiling.
“Excuse me?” I ask, shrugging off my sweatshirt and placing it on the empty stool beside me.
“You're George Kent's son?” he asks.
I nod.
“I'm Theo Murray's son.” His head nods in the direction of the back. “Our dads were friends.”
I nod.
“Well, what can I get you?” He snaps his fingers. “Actually, let me guess.”
He looks me over, studying my face. Not in the mood to play this jackasses’ game, I interrupt his test of his psychic abilities. “I'll have…”
“A Miller Lite. You're a beer guy.” He points his finger at me like it’s an imaginary gun.
He grabs a glass from behind the bar and starts filling it from the tap before I can argue.
“No bottles?” I ask because I'm not much of a beer on tap kind of guy.
He glances over to his dad and back to me. “No. Tap only.”
The smile fades for a second, but he smacks it back on. He places my beer on the napkin and I throw a five on the counter.
Returning from the cash register, he leans on the other side of the bar, the lines of bottles to his back.
“I'm Dane. Dane Murray,” he steps forward and puts his hand out in front of him.
“Marcus.” I shake his hand and that perma-smile cements itself on his face once again.
“So, Marcus.” He leans on the bar, his weight resting on his crossed forearms. “I really want to get into Deidra Hinkle's pants and if I have the dirt on you, she might just let me get to third base tonight.” He winks and I look him over again.
Light scruff, light brown hair pointing in all different directions. Broad shoulders. There's no way this guy is in high school. Isn't it illegal to serve alcohol under eighteen anyway?
“Dirt? Get in her pants? Is this a bar or a high school cafeteria?”
Dane laughs, his head falling back and he smacks his hand on the top of the bar, pointing to me.
“Well, I didn't really know what kind of guy you were, so I was testing waters.” He leans closer. “I’ve wanted to fuck Deidra Hinkle for a few years. She's the one good girl in town that refuses to fulfill her lifelong dream of being a bad girl. We're taking it in baby steps.” He shrugs.
“And?”
A low conniving smile stretches across his face. “So, everyone in this town is talking about George Kent's son. Will he sell the shop? What’s he like? If I supply the answers maybe she'll let me finally have a piece.”