Page 12

She nods and claps me on the shoulder. “Good. I’ll see you in the morning.”

My 1996 Ford Explorer is in desperate need of a good detailing. The moment I open my door, the smell of fermenting apple hits my nose. I have a habit of grabbing a fruit on my way out the door in the morning, and sometimes I forget to throw out the peels or apple cores I toss on the floor.

Even though I probably should head straight home and give my mother a call—I haven’t talked to her in two weeks, or my sisters for that matter—but a hunger pang reminds me I haven’t had much to eat since this morning’s apple. The fridge in my small, one-bedroom apartment doesn’t hold much more than a stray egg and some questionable milk, so I head in the other direction to grab some dinner.

The Kerrigan is quiet when I walk in; only two tables and three barstools are occupied. I pick one on the far side, near the doors to the kitchen and take a seat.

“Hey,” Len says, lifting his chin at me as he dries his hand on a towel. “What can I get you?”

“A draft and a burger,” I order, ignoring the fact my jeans are starting to feel tight.

I really do have to get some decent food in my fridge and start eating better before I have to go up a pants size. I’m at risk of becoming a permanent fixture here, like Buck Wilson, who is sitting a few stools away. I’ve rarely come in when he’s not in his regular spot.

“Kitchen’s closed,” the older man, who rarely misses a thing, volunteers.

“Yeah, man, I’m sorry,” Len adds. “No dinner service.”

My eyes automatically slide to the kitchen doors. “Stella?”

“Not good. Jacob and Dana are both still in Spokane,” the bartender informs me as he slides the beer in front of me.

“Still?”

“Both rushed out of here yesterday afternoon. I’m keeping the bar open but there’s no food service. Sorry.”

I lift my hand to wave off his apology.

“I’ll take it as a sign I need to get some groceries. But I’m sorry to hear she’s not doing well.”

I am. I like Stella. She’s one of those salt-of-the-earth types of people. Direct, capable, no nonsense, and at times a bit blunt, but with a heart of gold and a need to nurture. Dana has some of those same traits, although she’s a tad less outspoken than her mother can be.

Len moves down the bar to fill someone else’s order, and I take a healthy swig of my beer, letting my mind drift. I’m thinking of that phone call I should be making to check in on my own mother. My sisters usually keep close tabs on her, and I admit I conveniently leave it up to them to make sure they’ve got her covered. I’m pretty lucky I at least have siblings who pick up my slack without giving me too much of a hard time.

I’m sure this isn’t an easy time for anyone, but I’m mostly concerned for Dana. She doesn’t have brothers or sisters to share the load and already seemed stretched to the gills, trying to take care of everyone and everything. I wonder who is looking out for her. I don’t think she’d ever ask for that kind of support, but maybe she needs some.

I toss back the rest of my beer and when Len passes me on his way from delivering a drink order to one of the tables, I tap his arm.

“Any chance I can get Dana’s number off you?”

The transformation from laid-back bartender to protective gatekeeper is instantaneous.

“What do you need it for?”

I raise both hands defensively. “Hey, I just want to check in on her.”

He narrows his eyes on me before ducking back behind the bar. I think I’ve been blown off and will have to find her number some other way, when he tosses a napkin on the bar in front of me, a number scribbled on the thin paper. I pick it up, fold it, and tuck it in my pocket as I get up from my stool. Then I toss some bills on the bar and clap a hand on Buck’s shoulder in passing. The old man grabs my wrist.

“Best be gentle with that girl. Don’t have kids of my own, but I reckon she’s as close as I’ll come. She’s special.”

“Keep your shorts on,” I suggest. “I’m just checking in on a friend.”

Then I lift a hand at Len as I move to the door.

It takes me a frustrating half hour at the grocery store—where I end up grabbing a frozen pizza to toss in the oven for dinner—and a drive home, to come to the conclusion I’m full of shit. Just a friend, my ass.

Buck is right, Dana is pretty special, which means I’m treading on thin ice.

Chapter 5