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With another bark, the dog bounds forward and pounces on it. When he’s done, he immediately plops his ass down and looks up at me with big, hopeful eyes, large tail sweeping back and forth on the ground.
I snort. “Well, hell, you aren’t gonna let me eat this in peace, are ya?”
I toss him the rest of the sandwich. He catches it in mid-air, wolfing it down in one bite. He does a little crazy tail-chase thing for a second, then settles down and plops his ass on the ground again, looking at me expectantly.
“Sorry, dude,” I say, holding out my hands. “That’s all there is.”
He cocks his head and lets out a whine. I shrug. He woofs again, loudly, and starts to run around in circles. He makes a dash toward the back yard, and I have a sudden vision of him flying through all the sand I just leveled.
“Hey!” I yell, breaking into a run. “Get away from there!”
When the dog sees me sprinting after him, he breaks right and takes off again into the trees.
Crisis averted. I feel a little bad that I scared him off, though.
The late lunch gives me a second wind, and I keep working until the sun starts to lower in the sky. Going inside, I peel off my sweaty clothes and dump them in a pile on top of the washer, then head naked into the bathroom. I take a long, hot shower to wash the dirt and crud off me.
Standing under the water, I let it ease the tightness and fatigue in my muscles. Shit, this feels almost as good as sex. There’s nothing in the world that would make me take a desk job over working outside with my hands for a living.
After the shower, I kick back on the couch with a cold beer in my bare-bones living room, thinking about the furniture I still need to buy and the kitchen furnishings I need to install. After years of renting other people’s houses, this one is all gonna be exactly the way I want it. No one to make the decisions but me. No old ladies to bicker with about it, either. I huff out a laugh, thinking about Tori and Dante’s ongoing conversations about fixing up their spare bedroom to be their kid’s room. Tori changes her mind about paint colors — what she calls the “theme” — practically every other day. Dante just takes it all in stride. I guess he’s probably so damn excited to be a dad he’ll do just about anything she wants.
That ain’t for me, though. I’m not cut out for that family life shit. There’s not a woman alive who could get me to believe in that fairy tale happily-ever-after shit. I ain’t sayin’ that Tori and Dante aren’t happy. I know they are. Just like Yoda and Bethany, and Rourke and Laney, and Axel and Eden, and Bailey and Gage.
But once you make the colossal fucking mistake of giving up your heart to the wrong person, it’s a lesson you never forget.
Ask me how I know.
Something heavy settles in my chest. It’s an ache from thirteen years ago, but every once in a while it comes back. I’ve gotten damn good at pushing it away. Which is what I do now.
“Fuck it,” I mutter to myself. Tipping the bottle back, I finish my beer and decide it’s time to head over to the Viking.
I don’t bother to lock the house up behind me. The dusk to dawn porch light illuminates as I climb onto my motorcycle and fire her up. Dirt and gravel crunch under my tires as I pull away from the house and ride toward Ironwood.
2
RORY
“How long you planning on being in town, Aurora?”
Jessie squints at me as she asks the question. Her curly-wavy salt-and-pepper shag bounces around her shoulders as she slides my drink across the counter.
I pick the glass up and tilt it to my mouth. Savoring the dark, creamy frothiness of the Guinness as it slides down my throat, I swallow, then let out a small sigh of contentment that partially calms my nerves.
“I go by Rory now,” I correct Jessie absently. “And I’m not sure.”
“You seen your dad yet?” Her voice is casual. Probably too casual.
“Not yet,” I reply, using the same tone. The two of us skirting around a proverbial elephant in the room.
I’ve known Jessie, the long-time bartender at the Viking Bar, since I was a kid. She was friends with my mom when they were young, way back back before Mom was married to Dad. My mom would talk about the childhood adventures they used to go on when they were kids — riding their bikes to places they weren’t supposed to go, spending their summers at the public pool. And then later, as teens, trying makeup and hair-styling techniques on each other, staying overnight at each other’s houses.
By the time I came along, Jessie and Mom had become more like acquaintances. They would run into each other occasionally at the post office or someplace else in town, and spend a few hurried minutes catching up. But neither of them ever suggested meeting for lunch, or invited the other over to her house, or anything like that. I asked Mom about it once. She just waved a vague hand and said, “Oh, people get busy, and grow apart. You know how it is.”
Over the years, I started to put together a clearer picture of what might have happened between them. I guess either Dad didn’t approve of Jessie, or Jessie didn’t approve of Dad. Either way, from what I can gather, Mom and Jessie’s friendship didn’t really last after her marriage.
A sad story, but not too surprising. Dad’s approval drove practically everything in our household when I was growing up. It was almost like Mom and I were not supposed to have our own thoughts or opinions at all. I can’t imagine Dad approving of Jessie. Looking at her now, with her vintage Rolling Stones tee and faded Levi’s, it’s basically impossible to imagine her making small talk with Dad in our living room. Dad — with his expensive bespoke suits and shoes shined to a high polish — would never have approved of my mom having a friend so unpolished while they were married.
Even now, my father is all about appearances. For him, it’s essential to look the part of the role you choose to play in the world. A view that my mom was expected to embrace as his wife, as well. And that meant no clothes that were more appropriate in a dive bar than at a country club. And probably, no friends who dressed that way, either.
