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Chapter 1
Mydaysfollowasteady rhythm: take care of Gran, work at the bar, sleep, repeat. It’s fine. Mostly. At least it keeps me from dwelling on the fact that I’ve never been far from the small town I grew up in and my dreams of travel are on a semi-permanent backburner.
Gran’s soft chuckle slips down the hall, barely audible over the background audience laughter from the show she’s watching,The Golden Girls. I mouth Sophia’s next lines and finish tying my hair back in a ponytail. It’s Gran’s favorite and, if I’m telling the truth, mine too. We’ve seen every episode so many times now that I know half of them by heart.
Light from the television—the only halfway new thing in our entire house—illuminates the living room. It wouldn’t have to if she’d just open the curtains, but she can’t stand the glare when watching her shows. Gran turns my way, a pleasant smile pulling at the wrinkles around her mouth. Her glasses, which she really should be wearing, sit atop her white perm, and she wrings a mug of hot tea between her hands.
“I’ll be home late,” I say, grabbing my purse—an old midlist designer tote I snagged on a deep discount—from its home on the dining table. “Closing tonight.”
“That late already?” She deposits the tea on the side table and starts to rise.
I wave her off. “Sit. Sit. I’m almost out the door. You have meatloaf in the fridge, just need to microwave it.”
She settles back into her navy-blue recliner with a deep sigh. It’s a sound I’m all too familiar with. That mild disappointment she wants me to ask about. And darn if I can’t help but fall for it every time. I shove my feet into my cowboy boots, savoring how my soles sink against the padded supports. When you’re on your feet as much as I am, comfort is a must. But looking cute means better tips, and these beauties always snag me a few extra bucks.
The TV has Gran’s full attention as I shuffle back across the thick carpet to her recliner. Her hands fold and unfold in her lap. She doesn’t laugh at Sophia’s joke—one of the better ones in this episode. My brows wrinkle as I place a kiss atop her head, savoring a hint of her knockoff Chanel perfume. It’s our routine. Easy as breathing.
“Love you,” I whisper. That, though…that’s different. Oh, I say it every time but usually silently. Otherwise, Gran will cluck her tongue and swat me away.
But I do. I love her more than anyone.
After all, she raised me once my parents died years ago, and now I do the best I can to care for her as she did me.
The playful swat I expect doesn’t come. Instead, she’s still staring toward the screen. Her hands are the only thing moving.
My stomach drops. “What is it?” Another second passes, and I can’t stand the silence. “There’s one of those baked chickens from the grocery in there too.” I was totally saving that for lunch tomorrow, but… “You could heat it up or—”
She beams up at me. “Meatloaf is fine, dear. I was just…just hoping to talk to you is all.”
“Okay, now you’re worrying me.” My hand finds a home on my hip as I force a smile, trying to hide the fear from my face. We talk all the time. We live together, for crying out loud. And no way did she forget I had work tonight.
The old chair creaks as she shifts her thin frame.
“Well…” She clears her throat. “I’ve been thinking, and then I ran into Ms. Martingale the other day. She said that applications open up at State soon and—”
Tension flees my shoulders. I barely hold in my sigh as the rest of what Gran has to say slips in one ear and right out the other. Another summer, another lecture about trying to enroll in college. Should have figured. It might be nice—someday. But State’s too far away from our podunk little town to commute, and living near campus would mean leaving Gran. Not an option. No way. No matter what she says, Gran’s too old and frail to be on her own. I’d never forgive myself if she got hurt because I wasn’t here to care for her.
“Thanks, Gran. I’ll think about it. Really,” I say, the first chance I get to jump into the conversation. And I will. Not that it’ll change my mind. “I’m off tomorrow, so let’s talk more about it then?”
“Sure. All right, dear.” The stiffness I hadn’t noticed till now slips from her shoulders as she relaxes back into the chair with a smile. “Any those boys get too flirtatious, and they’re gonna have to answer to me.”
I barely stifle a laugh. Most of our regulars this time of year are over fifty and know better than to try their luck with me.
The chair rocks subtly back and forth as she reclaims her mug and focuses back on the TV. This time, she’s actually watching her show.
The crowd at Jolene’s is light for a Saturday. A few locals—mostly men—occupy the barstools. A few families dot the tables in the dining area. The pool tables stand racked and vacant, waiting for someone to hustle a game. It won’t be this way in a few weeks, not once college football starts up again. Then I’ll be praying for nights like this where I’m not asleep on my feet at the end of my shift.
“Wren,” Derrick nods my way as I take my place behind the bar. He’s short on words—probably why he hired me to tend the bar—but he runs a solid business. He’s fair, pays well, and treats his employees kindly. I couldn’t ask for more, really. “I’ll leave these gentlemen to you.”
“Thanks, Derrick.” I flash him a smile as he wanders off toward the dining area, probably to help Molly.
The tray she’s carrying across the room looks heavier than her. Families flood in around dinner time for our staple food offering, a traditional southern meat and three. The sides are always the same, but the main course rotates throughout the week. But in another hour, they’ll dwindle out, and it’ll be just the small crowd at the bar with Derrick and me left to tend them until closing time.
“So,” I say as I scan the line of half-full drinks sitting in front of patrons along the counter. “What are we having tonight? The usual?”
Smiles and nods greet me before the men focus their attention back on the news where it plays on the TV above my head. TheboysGran worried about would be more likely to score with her than with me. Not a one of them under sixty today. They’ve been regulars all three years that I’ve tended bar here, and honestly, their good-natured compliments make a bad day brighter sometimes. It helps that they don’t get their feathers ruffled when I return their volleys with little jabs of my own. It’s one of the reasons I love this job. Friendly faces make any day easier.
“Looks like they found them kids,” Mr. Murdock says, pointing at the screen with a weathered hand.
