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“You’ll be waiting forever.”
“That will make that much more special when it happens. Have a good day, Jackson.”
“You’re not going to stay here and annoy me some more?”
“I’m playing the long game. Toodaloo.”
Toodaloo?She walks off so I open the ice chest again, searching for a less hoppy choice. I look at her again, walking toward an old man.
My mother approaches with a smile on her face. “I see you were talking to Shiloh. That makes me very happy.”
“Who’s the old guy?”
“Her grandpa, Earl Abbott. Used to come to the brewery all the time before his stroke.”
“She doesn’t drink, you know.”
“We know. That’s doesn’t matter to us. She’s sweet and a great worker.”
“She’s obnoxious if you ask me.” Cracking another beer, I down half of it as I look at the clock. “I’m here…for another nine minutes.” Mom knows about my timers.
“That’s fine,” she says, her voice cracking. “I’m just glad you’re out and…”
My mom, crying. The thing I hate the most, and it happens every time I show my face. Like it means a lot to her that I come, but the emotion just makes my skin crawl.
Just because I like to be left alone doesn’t mean a damn thing. Plenty of people are homebodies and prefer their own company. Two months alone in the woods has never sounded more appealing. No brewery events or small blond girls saying hello to me or writing me notes.
“I’m fine, Mom. I just hate these things.”
“I know.” She opens her arms, and here it goes. The sentimental hug. Once my mom gets a hug from me, it’s okay to leave; I’ve done my duty. She cups my cheek, and I can’t look at her.
“My baby. I’m so sorry.”
“For what?”
“That you want to live your life like this. Shutting out the whole world.”
The saliva coating my throat grows thick, and I grind my teeth. I’ve lived a full life. More life than anyone could dream of. I don’t know why anyone feels sorry for me. They shouldn’t.
At one time, I had everything.
3
Jackson
Ishove my key in the lock of my office and turn, just to feel no resistance.
My office is unlocked.
I’m very good at locking my computer and locking my files, after years of compliance officers breathing down my neck. My desk is usually clean and my trash empty.
However, when I open my office slowly, inch by inch, something isn’t as it should be.
In the middle of my large calendar sits a to-go coffee cup and a Danish on a paper plate.
I look around for someone to catch me smile, to record my reaction as a prank.
I inspect the breakfast like it’s a bomb.
