There’s a drink waiting for me before I can get comfortable on the ripped leather barstool at The Hideout later that night.
“To my favorite meteorologist,” Harlow says. “It’s not champagne, but we can still celebrate.”
“Thank you to my favorite bartender.” I grin and take a sip of the gin and tonic, relaxing after a day that’s been nonstop since she left my house earlier this morning. My battery is drained but my heart is full, giddiness bubbling inside me from all the good things happening. “Don’t feel like you have to entertain me, Har. It’s a busy night, and you have money to make.”
The Hideout is hers, in all its dilapidated glory.
Harlow bought the bar five years ago, and she’s been at the helm ever since. Made up of antique hanging lights and pine floorboards that creak when it rains, if you’ve never stepped inside, chances are you’d drive right past it.
There’s no curb appeal. No aesthetically pleasing wallpaper or backdrops for social media posts. It’s cash only, and the neon sign out front is on the verge of going out, but it’s cozy in here. Welcoming and warm and somewhere that feels like home away from home, with loud laughter and stories between old friends.
I’m not sure how she’s kept it up and running, but if anyone could, it’s Harlow. The Hideout is her heartbeat, and she’s put every ounce of herself into this place.
“I’m a good multitasker, and I know how to read a room.” She proves her point by popping the top off a beer bottle and tossing itin a plastic bucket that has the logo of Fred’s Crab Shack scrawled across the front of it. “I probably missed out on a job as an assassin.”
“Really?” A laugh tumbles out of me. I set my glass down after another sip of the strong drink. “I’m getting you a stack of romance books for Christmas. No more thrillers. You’re cut off.”
“Thrillers are more believable than romance books. Stalkers and serial killers exist in real life, Quin. There might be one in here with us right now.”
I survey the bar, my eyes landing on a guy sitting by himself at a high-top in the corner. He looks out of place with his dress shirt and the shiny watch on his left wrist. There’s an empty glass next to his elbow. A stack of folders and loose paper on top of the spiral-bound notebook, a pen caught between his teeth.
If he’s one of the ones Harlow is talking about, he’s the nicest dressed serial killer I’ve ever seen.
Douchebag-adjacent, almost, and someone who probably knows more about 401(k)s and Roth IRAs than I do weather, but financially savvy is significantly better than homicidal.
“It’s him, isn’t it?” I gesture in his direction. He lifts a crossword puzzle under the hanging light above him and frowns at one of the clues, sealing the deal of menacing when he rubs a hand over the scruff on his jaw. “It’s like he’s not even trying to hide his diabolical plans of murder.”
“Please. That guy’s only crime is that he’s blond. He has hand towels in his guest bathroom and an oil diffuser in his living room. I bet he cries when he kills a bee. No way he could go through with a murder.” Harlow puts a hand on her hip. “I’m serious. Happily ever after? A couple that loves each other until they both die?” She drops a lime in a tall glass of tequila and soda water with a disbelieving snort. “It’s all a sham.”
“There’s the cynical pessimist I love.” I reach over the counter and pinch her cheek. “You’ll believe in it one day.”
“I’ll believe in it the day you admitTwisterswas scientifically accurate.”
“For fuck’s sake. You can’t stop a goddamn tornado.”
“They should’ve kissed.”
“They should’ve done a lot more than kiss. It would’ve saved the movie.”
She points over my left shoulder. “Speaking of happily ever after. There’s Ms. Till Death Do Us Part.”
I spin on my stool and spot Mia Dunn bounding toward us. Harlow and I met her our junior year of high school. A transfer student who was a year younger than us and moved to town over the summer, the three of us became fast friends. Friday nights were spent at the movie theater together and Sunday afternoons were made up of kayaking on the lake up the road from Mia’s house.
Adulthood brought college and jobs. Boyfriends, breakups, new friends, and traveling. There are moments when life gets busy and we go a week or two or more without spending time together, yet we always find our way back to one another.
I’ve never been a big believer in soulmates, and the older I get, the more I know a man will never have my full heart. It belongs to these two, my biggest cheerleaders and greatest joy.
A romantic relationship won’t ever come close.
Mia waves, dodging a man holding a plastic basket of fries with an apologetic smile. She slides into the seat next to me, breathless and pink-cheeked.
“That run from the parking lot told me I need to start going to the gym.” She puts a hand over her chest. “Sorry I’m late.”
“Please don’t go dying on me.” I give her knee a squeeze in greeting. “Busy day?”
“When isn’t it? I’m on a deadline that’s kicking my ass and drowning in wedding planning.” Mia drops her elbow on thecounter, chin cradled in her hand. “Who knew there were so many silverware options to pick from?”
“A new book? What’s this one about?”
