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6
Jones
Backtracking into town,I pull into the only open spot in front of Fairview Tavern. Shutting off my car, I stare up at the old building. I love the architecture. It’s unique. It has character. The buildings in Denver don’t have any of the charm you find in small towns like Fairview. They’re modern and new, flashy. I prefer the classics.
Slowly making my way to the front door, my hands begin to shake when I reach for the handle.
I can do this. I’m strong enough.
It’s not like he’s going to be standing on the other side of the door when I open it. I can’t imagine he still spends his afternoons here. We’re not kids anymore.
Opening the door, I’m met with a wave of nostalgia as I step over the threshold. At eighteen, the Tavern use to be our hangout after school. Wyatt and I would come down here, work on homework, grab dinner and visit with his mom and sister, both of whom worked here back then. I sure as hell hope they don’t work here anymore.
The door opens behind me, forcing me further into the bar. As if on auto-pilot, I head towards “our” table in the back corner. Stopping myself before I reach it, I look around, admiring the changes that have been made in my absence.
Fresh paint. New wood flooring. The bar has been relocated, creating a better flow through the small space. There’s even a line of booths along the front windows that weren’t there before. That’s when I notice the table next to me.
New.
Chairs.
New.
Glancing at our table, I realize now how much it stands out from the rest. It’s worn and has a slight tilt to it. The chairs appear just as worn as the table. The one facing me is missing a wooden rung across the bottom.
My chair.
Our table.
The rest of the bar has been updated, improved. Everything except this table. It’s the only thing in the room that can tie me to the bar, to my childhood spent playing footsie with Wyatt as I tried to concentrate on my homework.
I want to sit in my chair, to see if it still rocks slightly, but I’m not brave enough. Instead, I turn away, the memories causing me to tear up a little, and head toward the bar.
Sliding onto a vacant stool, the cushion hissing slightly as I get fully seated, I reach for a menu when a hand grabs my wrist, stopping me. Looking up, my fears dissolve away and a smile quickly spreads across my face.
“Jones!”
“Chloe,I’d like you to meet Adam Jones.”
The guy standing next to Wyatt could be his twin. Same height, same build, and same heart-stopping hazel eyes. The only difference I see is the hair. It makes me wonder if he had hair, would it be the same color as Wyatt’s.
“Call me Jones, everyone else does.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Jones,” I reply. “How do you know Wyatt?”
The guys share a look and begin laughing at my question. “Isn’t it obvious?” Jones asks.
“He’s my cousin,” Wyatt offers, sliding up next to me.
“Willy’s son?” I ask in awe.
Willy’s a big man. Tall and muscular but also big. He has a presence to him that’s hard to ignore. When you see him in comparison to Kent, they look like exact opposites. You would never guess they were brothers. The fact that Wyatt doesn’t look like either of them led me to believe he looked like his mother.
Nope.
After meeting her the first time, I asked him if he was adopted. His sister, Willow, is the spitting image of her mother, right down to the slope of her nose. Wyatt looks like the black sheep of the family. A sexy black sheep, but still a black sheep.
“Yep.”
