Chapter 37
On that second Friday in July, the busiest week of the summer season was well underway.
The tourists arrived in droves. The fairgrounds were swamped with young couples and children with annoyed parents, and retirees with nothing but time on their hands.
The parking lot was full of RVs and travel trailers.
Aberlour had learned long ago that Fridays were survivable only if he choked down lots and lots of painkillers.
He’d popped two before his first shift and kept them coming every four hours.
It was the only way to keep the heat and the noise from getting to him.
As it was, the South Carolina legendary levels of heat and humidity were at an all-time high.
He was baking even as he stood in the shade of the booth, further contributing to his increasingly disgusting condition that no amount of antiperspirant could fix.
The locals called it “sweating your ass off.”
“Balloon!” a kid nearby shrieked with delight.
Aberlour had zoned out in the intense heat, and he hadn’t noticed the little girl who was now standing next to his booth. He had to lean forward over the counter to see her.
She had a cute little button nose. Her curly blond hair was caught up in pigtails, and her big blue eyes stared up at the balloons of Aberlour’s booth like she’d found a pot of gold.
She reached up with her hands, making grabbing motions.
Aberlour could tell her fingers were sticky, covered with the residue of what he was sure must be blue cotton candy.
Not that it was of particular concern to her, which Aberlour had learned was typical of most kids.
There was no way he was going to let her touch the darts or any of the toys.
“Balloon, balloon,” she said, gesturing to the yellow ones. She was wearing blue denim overalls over a pink shirt, a classic outfit for a little girl from Anytown, USA.
“You want one?” Aberlour asked, wondering if she understood him.
To his surprise, the little girl nodded.
Aberlour shrugged, looking around trying to see if he could spot the adult who might be responsible for this little bug, but he saw no one.
“Wait here, I’ll get you a balloon, okay?”
The toddler gave another nod, her pleased smile revealing a charmingly incomplete, toothy grin.
Aberlour chuckled as he reached for a new bag of balloons. He usually pre-inflated a few every day to make the process of replacements easier throughout the day, but all of them looked pathetic. He decided the little bug deserved to get a new fat one.
He stretched the new one a few times and the positioned the open end to begin inflating it.
He took a deep breath and started to blow it up.
Up, up, up. Her blue eyes grew wide, and she began bouncing on her toes as he stopped to take another deep breath and then kept going.
The yellow balloon began to fill his vision.
If he made it any bigger, it would explode. So, carefully pinching the open end, Aberlour began to tie it off. Suddenly, he heard a man’s panicked voice rise above the usual pandemonium of the fairgrounds.
“Mia!”
Typical sound of a parent working himself into a frenzy at having misplaced one of his brood. Aberlour chuckled as he finished securing the knot and looked up to see that the little girl was now in the arms of her father.
“She ran for the balloons,” Aberlour said, neglecting to pay any attention to the man holding the girl.
“She loves them,” the father said with a sad smile.
Aberlour’s world came to a screeching halt.
“Oliver.”
The name slipped out before Aberlour consciously realized who was right there in front of him.
Oliver motherfucking Darling. Standing before Aberlour with a toddler in his arms. As he lived and breathed, Aberlour couldn’t quite believe it. He forced himself to breathe normally and not lose his shit.
“Guess you’ve met Mia,” Oliver said, glancing down at Mia and then looking back up at Aberlour.
Aberlour looked at the little girl again, and just like that, he saw it. The big blue eyes. The very same as her father’s. The toothy grin, not quite heartbreaking just yet, but it would be. One day, it would be, no doubt about it.
“Your daughter,” Aberlour said emotionlessly. It wasn’t quite a question. Wasn’t quite a statement. It was something in between.
“My youngest, yeah,” he agreed. She made another grabbing motion, making Aberlour realize he was still holding the balloon. He extended it towards her before she became upset. She grabbed it and giggled, her sticky hands making funny sounds as they stuck to the rubber.
“Wow, look at you, sunshine. The biggest balloon at the fair! You’re a lucky girl,” Oliver said, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he crooned softly at her, his love for her obvious in his words and body language.
Oliver fucking Darling. The last time that Aberlour had seen him, he’d stormed away from him in the parking lot at his engagement party.
He hadn’t spoken to him since. Team Specter was long gone, and Oliver had chosen another life.
Aberlour had moved on, unwilling to try to hang onto something that wasn’t meant to be in this lifetime.
He’d deserved better. He’d deserved—hell if he knew exactly what that was.
But it sure as shit wasn’t anything to do with Oliver fucking Darling.
Shaking off those depressing thoughts, Aberlour took a good look at Oliver.
He’d changed, and not for the better. He was lean.
A little too lean, in Aberlour’s opinion.
His hair had thinned out, and it was considerably shorter than it had ever been since those early days at Parris Island.
The bags under his eyes were dark and stood out in sharp relief against his fair skin.
He looked as if he hadn’t seen the sun in quite some time.
So pale, and—frail? Was it possible? He was leaning on a cane, even as he held Mia against one shoulder, and had shifted his weight a few times.
Aberlour had missed what he’d said, but suddenly, he let her down and she took off like a shot. He stared after her, and although Aberlour leaned forward to watch her leave, he couldn’t tell where she was headed.
“Her mother is standing in line with her older sister, waiting for a ride in the teacups,” Oliver explained as he watched Mia get back in line with her mother. Then he turned back to face Aberlour
“How is Abby?” Aberlour asked.
“Do you care?”
“No.”
Oliver chuckled roughly, as if he had a summer cold.
“Abby’s good. Working with her father. She’s planning on running for a Senate seat herself in a couple of years,” Oliver said, although when he said it, it seemed— well, something about Oliver was off, but Aberlour couldn’t identify the strange undercurrent.
But whatever it was, there was something about the way Oliver was talking, walking, and even how he was standing.
Aberlour just knew he was missing some important detail.
“I’ll be sure to head to the polls.” Aberlour’s smile was really more of a grimace.
Another chuckle, a little more silence. There was so much that hung there between them.
Rotten truths and blackened dreams. It had all festered for so long that Aberlour wasn’t sure where to start.
So, with a defeated sigh, he reminded himself that it was best for both of them if he just lived in the moment and asked the obvious question.
“What’s with the cane?” Aberlour glanced at the black walking stick his friend was leaning on.
“Health’s not what it used to be,” Oliver said, simply, as if making a general comment about growing old.
Aberlour didn’t buy into that for two seconds. Not with the how Oliver looked and sounded. Before he could delve into it, Oliver started speaking again.
“You have time for a beer? This week? Sometime? I just—it’s going on five years now, you know. We could—” he paused to clear his throat. “We could have a beer, pay our respects.”
Aberlour looked Oliver up and down contemplatively.
It would have been so damned easy to tell him to fuck the hell off.
He’d been paying his respects to Team Specter all by himself for four long goddamned years.
So, he wasn’t sure why he should do it now with Oliver, but something tugged at him.
A string he’d thought broken and tangled up deep inside him was suddenly tightening around his heart.
“Sure,” he agreed, because when it came to Oliver, Aberlour was still a fucking idiot.
After Aberlour had acquiesced, he’d thought they’d go to a local bar. But in a surprise move, Oliver had asked if they could just meet at Aberlour’s house. He hadn’t had any reason to object, so he’d agreed. Old habits die hard, as the old saying goes.
Oliver had shown up later that evening at his doorstep.
He didn’t bother with false flattery about how nice Aberlour’s house was.
Because it sure as hell was not. He’d simply smiled up at Aberlour, holding a six pack of his favorite imported beer in one hand, and leaning on the cane with the other.
He greeted Aberlour as if it hadn’t been years since they had a drink together.
He hadn’t bothered giving Oliver a tour. There was nothing to see. He lived like a monk, with the bare minimum of furniture and zero attempts to decorate.
It was awkward at first. The first beer, then the second, as they sat stiffly, working on catching up.
For the most part, Aberlour was content to let Oliver do all the talking.
Story after story about his children, a family trip to the Caymans, his mother’s political aspirations, and how much he hated his job.
Abe listened, letting the words lull him into a more comfortable place as the beer soothed his frayed nerves. It had been—okay.