But my stomach clenches—hard—like my body remembers something my brain can’t.
No,won’t.
I’ve spent so long trying to shut that out …
Temptation hits like a punch to the gut. I want to forget about the bar. Want to run into the office, plug the drive into a computer, and then?—
What?
Abandon my family to fix my broken past?
No. You don’t get to go down that road. Not again.
I should throw it away.
But instead, I shove it into my pocket like it burns. “I’ll check it out later.”
Dad smiles at us, and I wish I could ignore the tightness in his eyes that didn’t used to be there. “Look alive, boys. We have a job to do.”
Sean and I share one final look that’s as much conversation as commiseration.
Both of us had dreams as big as any kid can dream, and if either one of those dreams had panned out, we wouldn’t be here now. But I killed Sean’s hopes of playing in the NHLandmy own shot at something bigger, just like that.
I’ve always been a prodigy.
No one can ruin dreams faster than I can.
At the end of a long day, Dad drives himself home in his wheelchair-accessible van while Sean and I close up. It’s late, but it’s not like I’ll sleep after seeing that X-ray. And the price tag it’ll take to fix it.
For the millionth time in the last ten years, the guilt comes in waves. If I’d have come home after Dad’s accident, everything would be different. If I hadn’t let my own selfishness blow everything apart …
My fingers itch to take out my emotions on the piano in the lounge, but for now, I clean the fryer, wash dishes, and wish I could go back in time and rewrite history.
Out in the bar, Sean’s listening to music as he cleans up, and a song comes on the radio. A country-pop song that drives me crazy whenever it starts playing, partially because it’s so derivative. And partially because it’s an earworm. That first measure alone is enough to get stuck in your head for days.
“Turn it off!” I yell at the door that separates the bar from the kitchen.
“Make me!” Sean yells back. “I like Lucy Jane, and you can’t stop me.”
Lucy Jane. Her music showed up out of nowhere last year, and now it’s all anyone can talk about. I don’t get it, and I’m not trying to.
I turn on the garbage disposal for spite, but that just makes Sean laugh. And a few minutes later when he pops his head into the kitchen, he’s still smiling.
“You about done? Or is this all”—he stomps three times, clapping over his head in rhythm like the song—“‘a bunch of baby llama drama?’”
I throw a rag at him. “I hate you almost as much as I hate that song.”
He catches the rag and tosses it back. “You’re such a snob.”
“Better than having no taste,” I say. He snorts and watches me dry off a plate. “You should take off.”
“Okay,” Sean says. But he hesitates at the door. “What was on that flash drive Dad found?”
“I don’t know,” I lie. “Probably some fifth grade recital,” I say.
“That sounds fun. We’ll watch it later.” He taps his hand on the doorframe. “See you tomorrow.”
When Sean leaves, I pull the drive out of my pocket, holding it like it might detonate if I breathe wrong.
