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And, I can’t figure out who I am — who I want to be — in a relationship when Meghan takes too many risks with me.
Those two problems have twisted together, and now we’re not together anymore.
I don’t miss Meghan’s big fancy lake house. Nor her estate in Raleigh.
But I do miss…her.
I miss our little game.
The look. The necklace. The signal.
And then, the taking. Her pretense of fighting me off turned me on like flipping a switch. It scared me at first, and I should have heeded that instinct.
But the way Meghan played at resisting. Sometimes she was too convincing. The performative fear in her eyes when I held her down by the throat unsettled me, yet it made me hard as fuck. The memories still make my cock stand up, and I am chagrined with myself when I think too hard about it.
Shaking off that side of me, I try to stay focused on other things, like improving myself and rebuilding my relationship with Dad.
Dad and I still have our issues. Specifically, the main problem is I never visited him while he was in prison. I was a real asshole about it. And, okay, I’m still pissed about how everything went down. If he hadn’t made the choices he had, my life would be different now.
But I’m not still boo-hooing about all of that.
Dad’s crimes are in the past, and he and I are working on putting together some semblance of a father-son relationship. It’s what Mom would have wanted.
I crave a shot of whiskey to take the edge off this hangover, but even I’m not that stupid—not when I have to drive a pontoon boat full of tourists around for six hours.
And so, I shower and trudge downstairs to help Devin, the bartender, rearrange the twelve shabby tables and their chairs in the tight dining space. Shambles is mainly a bar that caters to locals, with its rickety dock and the upper deck in the shadow of Rumbling Bald Mountain.
“Weird that we’re the cool dive bar now,” Devin says, pushing three tables together by the far window overlooking the dock.
“Blame Dia for making the best chicken wings in the state,” I joke, referring to his wife, who runs the kitchen.
He sniffs. “That shouting pink-faced man on the Food Channel hasn’t helped keep this place a secret, unfortunately.”
Sometimes it seems like Devin doesn’t like tips.
But then again, I get it. If only tips didn’t involve interacting with other humans. I used to be a gregarious type. Not anymore.
When Devin and I finish rearranging the tiny dining room, I head to the kitchen to help Devin’s wife, Dia, prep the chicken for dinner. On my way, I take a peek at the logbook, just out of curiosity. We don’t often have people polite enough to call ahead for a party of less than ten.
And there it is, scrawled in Leondra’s handwriting: Twelve o’clock, a party of nine: Meghan.
Shit.
Maybe it’s not her. Plenty of women in the world with that name. But if it is her? Then I might know who the other eight people are.
Me: Are you in town?
The three tiny dots appear, then disappear, then appear again. Uh-huh. My twin sister is trying to decide how to answer me. How hard is it to say yes or no?
Cass: Almost.
So, my hunch is correct.
Me: Were you going to tell me you were getting together with Meghan, etc., or were you going to let me figure it out when you guys showed up at Shambles?
Cass: How did you know where we’re eating?
Me: Because I work there now.
