Page 5 of Run to Me

Leaning against the backbar, I fold my arms over my chest and enjoy the grumbles and banter coasting through my kingdom. I love owning Bruno’s. I’ve worked here since I graduated from high school, and I jumped at the opportunity to buy it when the previous owner, Gerald, retired.

A chunk of my parents’ life insurance money went into the many renovations that turned the smoky dump into a clean, high-end gathering place. I installed a small stage for entertainment, stained and polished the concrete beneath the old hardwoods, and replaced the mismatched tables and chairs with modern bar-height sets. The only two things I kept are the long brass and wood bar—which took a week’s worth of elbow grease to bring to a shine—and the name. Gerald named every pet bulldog he had Bruno. The bulldog is also Walford High School’s mascot.

Texas is football country, and school spirit flows thicker than blood in these parts. Unfortunately, our school’s football program took a nosedive a few years ago, so spirits remain low after tonight’s penultimate game of the team’s losing season.

“The town’s falling apart,” Tom grumbles to the old guard perched around my bar top. This group of grandpas spends every Friday night complaining and gossiping over a round or two of beer, and Tom’s next words get their geriatric veins pumping. “We need a new mayor and a new football coach.”

“They need to make Rock the high school coach.”

“Shame he’s not in the NFL right now. Bad luck, that injury.”

“He and Logan would’ve made us proud. Damn shame.”

I leave the old geezers to reminisce about the past and pop into the kitchen to catch my breath. The topic of Logan’s glory days resurfaces every season, but hearing it never gets easier. Especially since I’m the reason that he’s no longer with us. No one has outright blamed me for his death, but I’m responsible for putting their hero in the situation where his life ended.

“You good, man?”

I glance at my friend, Javier Barrera, who’s shaking a basket of wings over the fryer. “Logan,” I say.

At the mention of that one name, he nods in understanding. The two of us—along with our buddy, Trevor Evans—were with Logan on that fateful day at the lake. Four rowdy boys left for a Spring Break trip, and three of us returned home as changed men.

Trevor withdrew from everyone and buried himself in his college studies. Javi embarked on a spiritual journey which entailed world travel, meditative yoga, and a relentless search for his dream wife. And me? I hunkered down in my guilt and began repaying my debt to Walford.

My buddies and I struggle when hearing stories about Logan, but we can’t ask others not to keep his memory alive. The town remembers the exceptional football star. We remember the body we pulled from the water.

“Give them two minutes and they’ll be bitching about the mayor again.” Javi’s stack of chakra-bead bracelets clacks when he raises an arm and points at me. “And don’t let them talk you into doing anything. Your journey of self-care ends with rewarding yourself for your hard work, not rewarding others.”

As a life coach, he makes a hefty income from seminars, private sessions online, and royalties from the bestselling book he wrote. He only works at the bar when I need him, but I suspect the real reason he hangs around is to keep an eye on me. These days, his mission is to guide me on a self-care journey to manage some of my tendencies, like my willingness to help anyone who asks without question.

A splatter of grease lands on his tunic-style shirt when the basket lands in the fryer tank. Bruno’s offers a small menu—burgers, a club sandwich, wings, and fries—and I keep the kitchen open for a few hours a day. Unfortunately, I don’t have a cook right now, so Javi and I take turns manning the fryer and grill. He’s helped me with every aspect of renovating and running the bar since the day I bought it. If something happened to me, and I could no longer manage things around here, Javi could easily slide into my combat boots.

I nod, knowing he’s right about the upcoming topic change, and inhale another fortifying breath before shouldering the swinging door. “Put on a hairnet.”

He shoots a middle finger in the air, and I chuckle. Javi’s had the same buzz cut and baby-smooth chin since kindergarten. I’m certain we’ll never know what his dark hair looks like grown out in either area.

Sure enough, the guys are complaining about Mr. Olson when I rejoin them even though the man’s still sitting here. Several minutes pass when Brody Carpenter, one of my brother’s friends, strolls in wearing slacks and a button-down shirt like he’s returning from a business trip. The shaggy blond hair and suntanned skin, however, give him a washed-up-on-the-beach look. He’s a dichotomy: third-grade teacher and Walford’s most infamous manwhore.

He nudges Mr. Olson off his stool and claims the seat for himself. The mayor slams his empty glass on the bar and grumbles on his way out the door. He lives a block behind Main Street, so he’s able to walk home rather than drive drunk and endanger others.

Brody’s eyes lock on Ainsley and track her movements. He’s dropped by most nights since I hired her, and I worry his constant presence will discomfit her.

I pop him with my rag. “No.”

Hands raised in surrender, he says, “Look, but don’t touch. I know the rule.” The fake smile he flashes with his signature wink makes me want to punch him in his pretty face.

“New rule. No looking.”

The smile stretches into a real one. “You calling dibs on that, bro?”

I huff and rake a hand through my hair. “Grow up, Brody. And show some respect. If you mess with her or run her off, I’ll kick your ass.”

Something in my statement changes his demeanor, and his expression becomes solemn as he straightens in his seat. “Noted.”

“Good.” My narrowed gaze remains fixed on his for a second to confirm our mutual understanding. His shoulders slump, ceding the loss of our staring contest.

Brody’s not a bad guy; he has a bad reputation. Plus, he’s not the sharpest tool in the toolbox and gets away with behaving more immaturely than any of us should allow.

“What are you having?” I ask, ready to bury the hatchet.