Everything about us felt like a secret. And Brady had confirmed it earlier when he’d asked if she and I were friends. I’d kept the truth to myself, wrapped it up warm and safe, and tucked it away in my pocket. Something just for me.
Despite my initial awkwardness with Brady, things smoothed out over the next hour or so. Mostly because of him. He was just good with people, whether they were my employees he happened to know or a random stranger two seats down at the bar. He put people at ease, and that went for me, too.
I relaxed and we chatted in between customers, talked sports and Kirby Falls politics. He invited me to the business owners’ association meeting tomorrow, assuring me the snacks would be excellent because he was making brownies. I’d laughed, not promising anything because I didn’t really do small-town involvement.
“I don’t know if you know this,” he’d said, “but you’re on their radar now, Coach. There will be no more hiding behind this here leafer bar.”
Brady stayed for one more beer before he’d said he was meeting Mac for dinner down the street at Apollo’s. He’d invited me to go if I could get away from the bar for a minute. Said Bonnie would be there too. He hadn’t given me a sly look or paused to gauge my reaction to that bit of information, but maybe I’d been looking for it too hard—expecting him to assume something. Maybe to warn me off his future sister-in-law, with me being from the wrong side of the tracks.
Later that night, after I’d closed down the bar and locked up, I pulled my phone out of my pocket as I walked up the stairs to my apartment.
There was an email notification and one new text message.
I made myself read the email first. Like I was saving the text message, holding on to it, drawing it out. The last piece of candy from my Christmas stocking, wrapped in a bow, going soft and melty in my hand.
Then I sighed because Brady had been right. The email was from Eloise Carter, the current head of the Kirby Falls Business Owners’ Association, with a reminder for tomorrow’s meeting. I briefly entertained the idea of attending. I was supposed to have the night off, my first one in a while. And there would be brownies.
Standing on the top stair, I swallowed and then switched apps.
Clyde: Brady yapped about practice all through dinner. I’m guessing it went well with the girls today?
I checked the time. 12:43 a.m.
Me: Yeah. He was a big help, and the girls loved him.
She replied before I could unlock my front door.
Clyde: Good. I’m glad it worked out.
Smirking, I typed,Should I say thank you again? What is the appropriate number of thank yous to fully express my gratitude?
My smile widened when her response came through, fast and sharp like I knew it would.
Clyde: Well, if you were actually grateful, you’d follow up with a baked good.
Me: Oh yeah? Something like ... blueberry muffins?
Clyde: No, that would be redundant. You can’t gift back the same thing you were already gifted.
Laughing, I paused.
Me: Right. They would probably cancel each other out.
Clyde: Exactly. Then you’d have to start all over again.
I gave in and just lowered myself to the top step rather than take the time to get inside my apartment.
Me: What would you recommend?
Clyde: Well, my three favorite baked goods are Pop-Tarts, caramel cake, and pumpkin scones. Unfortunately, they all contain self-flagellation, and I know you’re allergic.
I snorted. God, she was in a sassy mood.
Me: Oh, I’m sorry. Did you think I was aiming to thank YOU? No, these baked goods would be for Brady.
Her reply was a GIF of some celebrity giving the camera a glare and a slow blink.
I chuckled again.
