“Stop. You need to talk to Cooper about Cooper. Not me.”
She propped her elbow on the bar and rested her chin on her palm. Sighing, she said, “I’m going to kill him. I told him not to fuck up. And he went and did just that. Then, he came home and promptly dropped off the grid. It’s been over a month.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be eating dinner with your family?” I asked, glancing back at her group.
Over in the corner, several of her siblings were laughing and eating together. Since she’d been sitting with me, some of them had come over and kicked it for a moment or two before rejoining the big group. But she hadn’t even attempted to go over there with them.
Dallas looked back too. She shrugged. “They’re alright.” She took her second shot of the night and motioned to my glass. “Are you going to drink that?”
I stared down at my still-full first shot glass. The revelation that my dad wasn’t my father and my mother had lied about it for almost forty years had wreaked havoc in my life. For the past few days, I’d gone over every detail of my childhood, reliving unpleasant memories in an attempt to make sense out of everything.
After my mom had dropped that bomb on me, she’d closed herself off in her bathroom. To avoid tearing the door off at its hinges, I’d left her there. I hadn’t spoken to her since. Not because I hadn’t called her, but because she’d never answered. I’d driven to her house after work today, and she hadn’t been home. Instead of sitting at my place, wondering and worrying about her whereabouts, I’d come here. Partly to escape my thoughts, but mostly to prove to myself I wasn’t anything like her.
Ordering this shot was an exercise in willpower, one I’d performed many times. The good news was I could never bring myself to take the drink. I couldn’t use the same coping mechanism my mother had used all of my life. I didn’t need it to feel something—or nothing.
My relationship with alcohol was complicated. Sure, I enjoyed a beer with my homeboys every now and then. And I didn’t mind taking a shot of tequila or having Jameson with my cigar. But drinking just to be drinking was not my thing. I’d seen the effects of addiction on someone’s life. I had a firsthand seat to the destruction too much liquor could cause, and I didn’t want that for myself—or anyone I loved.
“Hey?”
I closed my eyes. Dallas’ voice was like balm on dry, cracked skin. Soothing, soft. I felt her eyes on me, watching me,seeingme. Still, I couldn’t face her; I didn’t want to show her even a glimpse of the turmoil I knew would be swimming in my eyes. It was best to keep that to myself, to hide that part of my life from her.
“Preston?” she called again.
“What?” I murmured, keeping my gaze trained on my glass.
She placed her hand on top of mine and squeezed. “You… Um. You… Shit.”
Unable to help myself, I peered over at her. Dallas was many things. But she was never someone who stumbled over her words. The fact that she was having a hard time articulating amused me. It also intrigued me.
She blew out a quick breath. “So… Yeah. I know we don’t really do…” She covered her forehead with her hand and muttered something incoherent. “What I’m trying to say is…you can talk to me. If you want to,” she added under her breath.
I barked out a laugh. The words were good, and I believed she was sincere, but the delivery sucked.
Dallas shoved me. “Don’t laugh at me. I’m serious.”
I searched her eyes. “I know.”
She smirked, drawing my attention to the dimple on her right cheek. Dallas was a beautiful woman. It didn’t matter if she wore jeans and a T-shirt, a business suit, a dress, or a ripped, dusty softball uniform. Smooth brown skin. Large expressive eyes. Curvaceous hips. Despite my best efforts to appear unaffected by her, I usually failed. Because I always wanted to kiss her, to touch her, to hold her.
That night in October had done nothing to dampen my desire for her. In fact, it’d only made every woman who’d come after her pale in comparison. And it wasn’t just the sex—which was definitely unforgettable. It was just her.
Over the years, I’d dated many different types of women. Some older than me, others younger than me. Women who loved sports, ladies who loved the ballet. Women who worked corporate jobs and women who worked on the assembly line at an automotive plant. Dallas ran circles around all of them. She was consistent, intentional, honest. Always thinking, always moving. Never stagnant. She spoke her mind, and she knew when to be quiet—sometimes. I knew what I was going to get with her. I also knew I could trust her, even if she didn’t think she could trust me.
“You look…” She licked her bottom lip. “You’re sad.”
I wasn’t surprised she’d recognized the sadness. She’d grown up with parents who studied and taught the human mind. Many of her siblings had followed in their footsteps and had become therapists. Although Dallas didn’t work in the field, she’d majored in psychology in undergrad.
“Yeah,” I admitted, shocking myself.
“I meant what I said, you know? I’m here to listen, if you want to talk.”
Talk. Listen. The words were simple but loaded at the same time. She was offering me a lifeline, but I wasn’t sure I could use it. In the end, I decided not to. “Thanks, but I don’t want to think about it.”
“Okay.” She waved the bartender over and ordered onion rings. Glancing at me, she grinned. “What? I’m hungry now and I deserve fried food.”
I chuckled. “Because you played softball?”
“Hell yeah. And I won the game.”
