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“What was I supposed to provide?” Javier asks while licking his orange fingers. “Fruit?”
We all make gagging noises.
“Fruit is for suckers,” Lennon says. “Bring on the meat sticks and fake cheese.”
“I can do better than that.” Javier wipes his orange fingers on one of the moving blankets. “If you all suck back some mouthwash, beers are on me at the Barrel. A thank-you for your help.”
He doesn’t wait for our reply. Just heads inside to grab his wallet, because why would we say no to free beers? Except the Barrel is slang for Jolene’s establishment—the Barrel House. The one place I want to avoid.
“I’ll call Kiyana. Let her know I’m heading out.” Ben pulls out his cell and leaves the porch.
I scratch my neck and look everywhere but at my brothers.
“So, Callahan.” Lennon’s tone is pure patronization. “I assume you’ll be joining us at the Barrel?”
“Since you’re not avoiding Jolene,” E adds, reading my face for clues.
I want to growl or tear off in my truck, but I keep it contained. I have no one to blame for this painful situation but myself. By feigning nonchalance where Jolene is concerned, I have no choice but to join these nitwits, where they’ll no doubt analyze my every move.
“Beers at the Barrel sounds absolutely perfect,” I say evenly. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” Unless you count getting tortured in the Nine Circles of Hell.
chapterfour
Callahan
I spend the drive to the Barrel House stewing in regret over my past mistakes. And over the fact that Ihave beenavoiding Jolene, when I truly miss my best friend.
It’s an odd thing, losing the person closest to you, when she’s alive and well. Especially when that person is Jolene Daniels. We met during our awkward preteen years. I was ten and she was a much older eleven. I’d just moved to Windfall and was apprehensive about starting school. I was a scrawny kid, more of an observer than a talker. It was the early fall. School was already underway. Jake and Desmond were at Windfall High. Lennon and E were at my school, but Lennon has always been a chameleon, friends with everyone, quick to camouflage and fit in. E is his own man—an artist who’s happy blocking out the world while he sketches.
Back then, I had social anxiety.
That first day of school, I stood on the sidewalk, gripping my backpack straps like they were life preservers. Groups of boys walked by, joking and laughing and horsing around. Girls moved in small cliques, swishing their hair and talking over one another. I stood by myself, a lone rock damming the social stream, happiness flowing around me.
My breathing became more labored. Sweat gathered under my armpits.
“Hi,” came a small voice.
Nearing hyperventilation, I hadn’t noticed the girl standing beside me. She was thin and short, with long brown hair and bangs so thick I could barely see her eyes. But there was no missing her beauty mark. A single, intriguing spot at the edge of her curved cheek. She held a couple of books tight to her chest, and when she tipped her head and smiled at me, I breathed easier.
“Hey,” I said. Or at least, I tried to speak. My anxiety-ridden voice barely squeaked out.
“I’m Jolene Daniels. You’re Callahan, right? My mom said to say hi to you, because you’re new and all. And I don’t really have friends. So we could be friends, if you want. Unless you don’t like being friends with girls? But I’m not girly. Not like them.” She jutted her chin to the hair-swishers. “I like sports and stuff. And adventuring. Do you like adventuring?”
I didn’t know what adventuring was. I didn’t like hearing that this nice girl was a loner like me. But my death grip on my backpack suddenly wasn’t so tight. “Adventuring sounds fun.”
She made a small, excited sound that had me smiling. “We can start at lunch. Meet me at the cafeteria doors.”
She waved at me and walked ahead. I watched her intently, feeling less anxious and less alone, so damn thankful for this chatterbox girl. Then some asshole smacked into her side.
Her books fell. The guy didn’t apologize or bend down to help. He laughed at her, nudged his buddy, and kicked her books farther away.
That’s when it happened. My first flare of protectiveness toward Jolene—a rush of anger blasting up my neck, demanding action.
Being new in town and scrawny, I didn’t launch myself at the bully. I hurried over and helped Jolene with her books, but I took a mental snapshot of the jerk, who was still laughing and pointing at us on the ground.
Then I made a plan.
I kept tabs on him for a few days, learned his name was Lane Ternent. I figured out which bicycle was his and what time he left school. I also learned what adventuring was.
