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I replay the look in his eyes when he saw me, and my stomach does an impressive flip. He was surprisingly hypnotic, in a wounded kind of way. Like Patrick Swayze in that old movie with Sam Elliott,Roadhouse. Ensley was right. He’s hot, in addition to whatever his gray sweatpants were broadcasting this morning. But more than that—he seems lonely. Like the kid on the playground who sits by himself because he isn’t sure how to join in.
Maybe I can’t fix that. But I can try. I can make friends with the best of them. And all of that starts by finding a way to break the ice.
Chapter Two
Weston
The face looking back at me in the mirror is so grim that I almost don’t recognize him. Framed by several cracks, streaks of grime, and faded stickers for local bands and small-time politicians, he seems so much older than he should be. I wonder how long I’ve looked this miserable—how many kids and babies and dogs I’ve scared just because I presumed to draw in my next breath.
Blaming the horrible fluorescent lighting for most of it, I wash my hands with a healthy dollop of the cheap pink soap from the sticky dispenser on the wall, noticing the way the sink wobbles when I lean on it. I should talk to Banjo about fixing it. The last thing we need is some tipsy patron breaking it, or even worse, their face. Somebody probably just needs to fiddle with the support bracket. I bet I could repair it with the right set of tools after watching a YouTube video outlining the steps.
I’ve always been that way—figuring things out on my own because I had no one to lean on. My life has been a war zone, filled with obstacles of various shapes and sizes, strewn with so many lies and betrayals I can’t tell which ones are actually landmines.
I turn my head this way and that, trying my best to look natural and relaxed. But no matter what I do, I look mean. Shit, I even scare myself, but it’s not intentional. At least, I don’t think so. I just don’t want people to notice me. I keep my head down, and I do my job. It’s the kind of strategy that kept me and Mom safe for all those years, both back in Duluth and now for me since I moved about six months ago. If people wanted to talk about me, they’d have to do it behind my back. This is a new town, though. A new job. Frostvale isn’t Duluth—not by a longshot. And I don’t know if I want to be like that anymore. It would be nice to be able to smile at somebody and see them smile back. I try one out in the mirror, patting my hair down with my damp hands. The shape of my mouth and the look in my eyes is jagged and wrong, like a dog in pain or a bad junior high school picture. When I struggle to see my own teeth, I realize I must be out of practice.
Shaking my head, I open the bathroom door and make my way through the tiny greasy kitchen, all the way back to the end of the bar where Banjo leans against the bar top, waiting for me.
“Thought you might’ve fell in,” he teases, running his bony fingers through the mountain of shaggy gray hair that’s piled on top of his head. Those same fingers are how he got his name. Banjo is one of the best pickers in the Midwest. I love to hear him play, but I couldn’t ever decide if he sounded like he was blessed by an angel or like he sold his soul to Beelzebub himself to play like that. Selling your soul? Now that’s something I know a lot about.
When I don’t respond, he says, “Don’t know how I’d explain to your momma that I lost you to the latrine the first night on the job. How is the old girl anyway? How’s she handling you moving?”
“She understands,” I shrug. It’s not too far from the truth. She gets why I had to do it. Even if she doesn’t agree with it. I spent years in that city after I graduated doing construction until my back ached and my muscles bulged before I couldn’t stand it one more minute. “She knows I lasted in Duluth as long as possible. I couldn’t do it anymore, but I’m less than thirty minutes away if she needs me.”
Banjo chews on his cheek, as if he wants to say something but decides against it. “And she still needs you a lot, huh?”
“I mean… yes.” It’s a loaded question, and I’m not prepared to dive into the matter just yet. I don’t like the way she’s leaned on me since Joel died—but she’s my mom. She’s blood. She’s all I have left, and she’s not really capable of looking after herself. People deserve grace. If I expect it, I have to give it first. I don’t want to judge her either. “Can we just focus on getting me trained up?”
“All you have to do is walk around, keep your eyes open, and let me know if you see something I should look into.” He gestures at the bar with the flat of his palm. The sun only just set, so the sparse crowd mills around. A few long-term regulars sit perched on their usual stools. Three women are clustered in a back booth, looking like teachers on their first night out in months, munching on an order of cheese fries and showing each other things on their phones. Their giggles ring out every few minutes. One of them is even drinking a Shirley Temple while the others are slamming back shots. Jeez, the things chicks do confuse me more often than not. “Be on the lookout for weapons and drugs. We don’t tolerate either in here. And don’t let thirsty women get the better of you. If you give them an inch, they’ll take a mile. At least they did when I was younger.”
I can’t imagine any of these normal, happy-looking people doing much worse than sneaking a cigarette while their spouses aren’t looking. Frostvale isn’t exactly known for its criminal element. “Sounds simple enough.”
“It is. It’s also hard.” Banjo quirks his head at a waifish girl in the back by the jukebox. Two large men are talking to her, and she seems to be scowling. “We’re responsible for keeping everyone safe here. No assaults of any kind. Women are the lifeblood of any bar because they bring the men in. They need to be able to come here without being worried about being roofied or groped. And I don’t like it when we have to get the cops involved. So start to anticipate shit before it even happens, and we’ll be good.”
“That’s why the job appeals to me. I’m good at keeping people safe.”At the expense of myself.But I don’t say that. We watch the exchange across the bar, trying to look without being seen. The girl flips through the catalog aimlessly, finally settling on a song. As it starts to play, the two guys roll their eyes and groan before laughing. I don’t quite relax until she starts laughing too.
“So the tight shirt is just a perk, huh?” he asks, tugging at the ring of black cotton around my bicep. Banjo’s known me long enough to remember when I was no more than a scrawny little kid. Back then, he used to joke that if I turned sideways and stuck out my tongue I’d look like a zipper. He and my dad would go fishing some weekends in Wilderwood State Park, and if I was really lucky and my grades were high enough, once in a blue moon I’d get to go with them. Banjo taught me how to tie a lure and how to cast without getting stuck on something behind me or tossing the whole damn rod into the creek. I didn’t ever catch much, but I loved it all just the same.
Fishing felt so normal.
I scan the room again, trying to think about something other than my dad. It’s those happy memories that hurt the most, always tinged with loss and a sense that we all got cheated out of the life we deserved. Almost like I got cheated out of becoming the man I was meant to be.
A man with a future, not just one with a past.
I let my gaze drift over to the service well, searching for something to shake the wistfulness away from my thoughts. A girl precariously stacks up a tray full of shots of whiskey and frosty mugs of beer, half-smiling at a joke the bartender makes. My body tightens and aches. Even though I saw her for all of a split second before she turned scarlet, I already know her identity. The shade of her hair and her slight frame matches the girl in the window this morning. The one who screamed and hid like a frightened rabbit when I made eye contact. I had the same damn strange reaction earlier—probably because I know a thing or two about being ruled by fear. I try to look away before she sees me, but my reflexes are too slow. She flashes me a smile, warmer and more genuine than I usually get. I can’t figure out what it means. I don’t even come close to understanding people leading with kindness. That’s as foreign to me as an alien invasion.
Does she want something? Need something? She seems safe enough for now. I consider smiling back, but I remember that pained, thin-lipped sneer in the bathroom and think better of it. I settle for giving her a curt nod before turning away.
But that doesn’t stop my body from responding before my brain can pump the brakes. It doesn’t stop my gaze from lingering too long on her curves as my crotch tightens. My emotions cloud, swirling with thoughts I can’t allow to bust loose.
Banjo whistles long and low. “Hot chicks always notice you, boy. It’s that tall, brooding loner thing you got going for yourself, ain’t it?”
Shaking my head, I snort. “Not this time. She’s my neighbor, so she’s just being friendly.”
I have a few rules I always abide by, to keep my love life simple and keep myself out of trouble. Number one is that coworkers are always off-limits. Number two is to never touch a neighbor with a ten-foot pole. Don’t want to get myself in a situation I can’t just up and walk away from.
My dick can belong to a woman for a night or two but never my heart.
Just like unicorns and leprechauns and everlasting love, I don’t believe it exists.
