Tears burn in my throat. “I know it does. It means something to me.”
“I just don’t see this going well.”
“Dad, I’ll delete my social media profiles. It’s not a big deal.”
“The fact that you don’t see it as such is a problem.”
I get to my feet. “When the hell are you going to stop seeing me as a child?”
“When you stop acting like one.”
Not trusting my next words to not include some form of the phrase ‘fuck you,’ I spin on my heel and storm out. I fling the front door open and stomp back out to my car, tears blurring my vision. Thankfully, no one tries to stop me as I turn over the ignition and peel out of the drive.
4
Dean
Sun shines down, gleaming off the pond before me. I smile, happy that the frame for my mom’s ‘For Sale’ sign came out even better than I’d planned. The dark mahogany blends perfectly with the white sign boasting her brokerage logo and a smiling image of her beside the first house she ever listed.
It’s her first month as her own full-time boss, and I couldn’t be happier for the woman who worked four jobs to support us when I was a kid. She’s my hero, one hundred percent.
I stretch then withdraw a red handkerchief from my pocket to wipe the sweat from my brow. Just as I’m lifting the small metal toolbox I brought along with me for any last-minute adjustments, a red car comes into view on the horizon. I squint, staying on the pasture side of my truck so I don’t get hit, and as it gets closer, I’m damn happy I did.
The car nearly clips the backend of my truck before swerving into the center of the road. My truck rocks slightly from the force of the small car passing it, and I shake my head. Fucking city assholes passing through have no damned respect.
Dropping my toolbox in the bed of my truck, I head around to the driver’s side and pull open the door, sliding onto the worn seat before slipping the key into the ignition. It’s old, but this ’67 Chevy I built in shop class nearly a decade ago has never failed me. Well, at least not in such a way that I couldn’t fix it.
I check my mirrors before pulling out onto the highway with one last glance at the large sign I spent the morning putting up. My mom’s going to be stoked when she sees it.
The drive back to the center of Turner Cove takes less than ten minutes. Window down the whole time, I enjoy the warm air as I drive, the sun already high in the sky. A beer and a burger are in my future, and I would say they are more than well-earned.
I pull up in front of Moe’s Bar and Grill right beside the same bright red car that blew past me a few minutes ago. I glare at it, wondering if the asshole is inside Moe’s or the floral shop next door. My best guess is Moe’s. A red cherry air freshener hangs from the rearview mirror, the seats covered in red and white Hawaiian print.
Definitely an out-of-towner.
After turning off my ignition, I climb out and head for the bar. The moment I pull open the glass door, I’m greeted with the welcoming aroma of fried food and fresh hops. The only bar in town, Moe’s has been open since the eighties, and their homebrew has been a staple in my life since I turned twenty-one six years ago.
Moe Davis gave me my first job, my first beer, and has been a surrogate father since mine died overseas when I was four. Moe and his wife, Daisy, have always been a part of our lives, and I owe a hell of a lot to them. Not that they would ever remind me of it.
“Dean! How’s it going?” Moe greets me as I slide onto a barstool at the end of the long bar.
“Good, got Mom’s sign up on the Andersons’ place.”
“Man, I still can’t believe they’re moving to Texas,” he says sadly with a shake of his head. “I’m sure your mom’s going to be excited about the sign though. I bet it looks great. We still on for her party?” he asks, lowering his voice.
“Definitely. It’s a surprise though, so make sure you remind everyone not to bring it up.”
“Will do.” He reaches up and adjusts the cord holding his silver hair up then leans down, placing both hands on the bar.
“Simon says he’ll have her here by seven.” My mom’s new husband put months of planning into this surprise birthday party, and I know she’s going to be thrilled. My entire life, she never dated. Not once. So I’m pretty damned glad the first guy wasn’t an asshole.
“Sounds good. Daisy is coming by once the library closes. We’ll have everything ready.” He grabs a clean glass and expertly pours my favorite dark brew, his skill and experience evident in the perfect foam ring around the top. “You eating?”
“Burger and fries would be awesome.”
“You got it, kid.” After gently tapping the bar with both hands, Moe turns away and heads toward the kitchen.
I nurse my beer, savoring the flavor as I gaze out over the other customers. I try to appear relaxed as I search for the face of the person who nearly wrecked my truck. Moe’s is fairly empty right now, most everyone either at work or waiting for the full lunch rush at noon.
I offer a nod to Hector and his wife Esmerelda, who sit in a corner booth. Then return a wave at Polly who’s setting a tray of food down on a table occupied by the town’s Sheriff Fawns and Lenny, her husband and Deputy.
There’s no one I don’t recognize, so I turn back to my beer. Hmm. Must be in the floral shop. I’m lifting my mug to take a drink when the bathroom door opens, and Aphrodite her-fucking-self walks out. My mouth goes dry as I drink her in, long legs bared by shorts that barely reach mid-thigh, revealing the black ink of a tattoo barely concealed. A white T-shirt stretches over full breasts and showcases a sliver of skin between denim and cotton. Blonde hair falls in loose waves, spilling over her shoulders.
She’s gorgeous, stunningly so, but when she looks up at me and I get a look at her face, all that attraction turns to something far less enjoyable.
Kleo fucking Turner. Turner Cove’s own perfect princess has made her return. Anger bubbles inside me as my blood heats for an entirely new reason. She must be the asshole who sped past me this morning. Fucking figures.
My only hope is that she’s not here for long. Not that she’d offer me a whole lot of trouble. We haven’t spoken since I tutored her in the eleventh grade. She’s a year younger than me, and when her father contacted my mother to see about private tutoring, I’d taken the job. The initial payment helped repair the alternator in my truck, and the experience taught me that a pretty face does not necessarily equal a sparkling personality. I’d been practically half in love with her all through school, an ailment that was quickly remedied when her friends turned me into a laughingstock and nicknamed me Nerdean. She hadn’t exactly joined in, but she sure as shit did nothing to stop it.
Even with my help, she barely passed, nearly costing me the bonus he offered me after her final. Money I’d used to help my mom make the last payment on her car.
That was years ago, though, and I doubt she’ll even recognize me. It’s not like we spent much time together outside the hour-long sessions three times a week. I watch out of the corner of my eye as she takes a seat on the barstool at the other end of the bar.
Moe comes out and smiles at her. “Well, if it isn’t little Kleo! How are you, darling?”