Chapter One
Emmet
Present day
Thirty-two years old…
I stand outside the bar, taking in the faded paint and chipped bricks. I can’t tell if it has charm or if it looks like a crack den. The photos of it made it look better, but the owner assured me it was profitable. Guess, like with most businesses, it’s what you make of it.
From talking with the previous owner, I’ve learned a lot about The Butterfly.
Yes, it’s a bar that’s open to the public, but it has loyal customers who have made a family here—a second home—and I can’t take that away from them.
I know what it feels like to have your safety net ripped out from beneath you.
It’s happened to me more times than I’d like to count.
I won’t do that to other people, not intentionally.
I hope they know that. I hope they understand that I want to make this place better but also keep it the same.
I’m not an enemy; I want to be a friend.
I need this family too, because I have hardly any left of my own.
My parents moved across the country to Florida so my mother could live out her last days in peace.
We didn’t know how little time we had left together until it started slipping away.
She’s always been the strongest person I know, but watching her fade—slowly, cruelly—broke something in me.
And yet, she told me not to come. Told me to live instead.
So I said goodbye like it was any other day, and now every moment I breathe without her feels like borrowed time.
I’m not sure I’ve truly accepted that the next phone call might be the last. She asked me not to watch her die, but how do you live knowing you might never see your mother again?
My father is with her, and the only brother I have left has a life of his own. There are no aunts, uncles, cousins. No friends. No co-workers. It’s just me now. Me, and me alone. Well, me and this bar, I guess.
With a sigh, I pull open the door but don’t walk in. I’m surprised at what I see. Four cement steps lead me downward onto a matching floor, and a long hallway lit up by dim lights. There’s a haunting, secretive feel to it. Like a dungeon.
I think I can work with this.
I step inside and move down the hall. The ceiling is low, the walls undecorated other than the lights—which I now realize are shaped like dicks.
My laugh echoes off the stone walls. I love the humor.
These are the kind of people I need in my life.
The happy kind that make me laugh and forget how miserable everything really is.
When I reach the door, I yank on the large pull handle, but it doesn’t open.
I try again, and it doesn’t budge, so I knock.
It doesn’t take long for someone to open it.
Pete, the bartender, if I have to guess.
I spent a lot of time on the phone with Big Joe, the guy who sold me this place, and I’ve heard a lot about Pete—the one and only bartender.
Part of me felt bad taking this bar from Big Joe because it was part of his life too.
Said he bought it nearly forty years ago and had a million great memories of the place.
But then he told me he wouldn’t be around much longer, and I felt like I was doing him a favor.
The same way someone once did my family a favor. Almost the exact same favor, actually.
Everything with my mother happened so fast, and I’m not sure I’ve processed it yet.
The past three months have been absolute hell, and maybe running away and turning my life around isn’t the right way to handle it, but it feels like what I need to do.
I’ve lost so much, so what do I have left to lose now?
Begging for Adam back won’t even be the lowest I’ve ever been. I lost all my shame a long time ago, so coming here with a plan to win Adam over was easy.
“You must be Emmet,” the guy says.
He’s a stocky guy. Hairy, with a raspy voice and a tank top that fits like a second skin. Plus, he’s about half a foot shorter than my six feet.
I smile through my exhaustion. “Pete?”
“That’s me,” he says, stepping aside to let me in.
Adam would kill me for buying a place without seeing it in person first, but I haven’t been thinking clearly lately.
He also may kill me for moving here just for him—but he doesn’t need to know that yet. I came here because something in me still believes we aren’t done. I can’t stop thinking about the look on his face when he walked away. Cold. Final.
But I refuse to believe that was all we were. I keep replaying it, wondering what I could’ve said or done differently.
Before I face him with my feelings, I need to prove I’m not the same broken man who stood there begging for him to stay. I need to show him that I’ve changed—not just for him, but for me too.
I still love him. God, I still love him. And maybe love doesn’t fix everything, but it’s all I have left to give. Maybe now it’ll be enough for him.
Pete locks the door after me, then goes behind the bar.
There are no windows down here, so I imagine they must have a top-of-the-line ventilation system. It isn’t musty—or like someone sprayed a can of air freshener to cover up bad smells—which is a good sign.
It’s your typical dive bar. Everything is dated, but not in a classical way.
Nothing matches, it’s all pieced together, like someone spent their weekends yard-saling and shoved everything they found for a few bucks in here.
It’s quaint and comfortable. I can see why people spend so much time here.
But it also needs a lot of work. Maybe not the decor, but if I want to make a living off this place, I need new customers.
There has to be some changes, and I need to remember that as much as I want to keep these people happy, this is my financial burden until the foreseeable future.
It’s how I will survive. It may be all I have left, and hopefully it doesn’t come back to bite me in the ass.
This bar may very well be my downfall if I’m not careful.
I have plenty of experience not only running a business, but a bar specifically.
My father bought one when I was six, and when I was old enough, I took over the day-to-day stuff, and the bartending on most nights.
I liked what I did. It was a family thing, mostly me and my dad, and maybe I’m holding on to that.
It’s also all I know. I didn’t go to college, and I’ve never worked anywhere but behind a bar.
Like my father, it’s in my blood to serve drinks and listen to people’s problems.
Had my mother allowed me to go to Florida with them, that’s where I’d be. We said our goodbyes, and that’s that. I’m sure that internally this isn’t easy for her, but she’s so strong that she sure made it seem easy when I left.
Once she passes, she’ll be cremated. Dad will spread her ashes in the ocean. We will plan a celebration of life back in California to give all the kids she helped some closure. And that’s it. She made me promise not to be sad all the time, not to wallow, and not to let her death bring me down.
“You’re young, Em. And death is normal. We’ve had our time together.
Go live your life.”I have no idea how she can be so indifferent about the whole thing.
Death is terrifying. But my mother always was the strongest person I ever knew, and if I was as strong as her, I could do what she’s asked of me, but I don’t think I am.
I’ll try my hardest though, because she deserves that.
She’s helped hundreds of kids through the years, both my parents have, by fostering them and showing them what love is.
They deserve nothing but good things in life… and after too.
“What time do you typically open?” I ask.
“Two during the week. Twelve on weekends. We have special events sometimes, and we’ll open earlier. Like Thanksgiving.”
I nod, following him through the door behind the bar that leads to the back room.
“First thing we’ll need is a swinging door,” I say, gesturing to the doorway that doesn’t have a door at all.
“Think that’ll be nice,” he says.
“Have you told anyone yet?” I ask.
“Not yet,” he says. “Planned on doing it this week.”
I nod, looking around the small kitchen.
There isn’t much here, just the basic stuff: big sink, grill, large fridge and freezer, and a fry-o-later that’s seen better days.
From what I was told, they don’t do much in the way of food here, so I’m sure this stuff hasn’t been used in years, which means it’s probably caked in grease and will be a bitch to clean.
Maybe I’ll save myself the trouble and get some newer equipment, too.
“I’ll be here every day this week, likely. Checking inventory, figuring out upgrades, stuff like that.”
“You’re going to redo this kitchen, I hear?”
“That’s the plan,” I say as I look around again, wondering if my ambitions are too high. For years this has been just a bar, but if anything goes well with drunk people, it’s food. “You think it’ll go over well?”
Pete shrugs, scratching the back of his head. “The guys like to eat. I think as long as it isn’t overpriced fancy shit, it’ll be fine. No caviar and shrimp cocktail.”
I laugh. “Good, because I was thinking pizza, wings, burgers. Stuff like that.”
“They’ll like that.” He clears his throat. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. The office is through there.” He points to a door on the right, then turns to leave, but stops and looks over his shoulder. “I’m sorry to hear about your mother. Losing a parent is never easy.”
My chest gets tight, and I nod.
“Thanks,” I choke out, but I don’t think he notices.
I could correct him and let him know she hasn’t died yet, but explaining what’s going on is too much work.
There will be too many questions and too many bad looks.
I’ll get the “If that was my mother, I’d go anyway,” and I don’t want to deal with that.
I’m a nice guy, and I don’t like when I have to be mean.
Purposefully going against a loved one’s wishes, especially when their life is almost over, for your own selfish gratification is something I am highly against.
My mother doesn’t want me there, so I won’t be there.
I know her well enough to know that if she did want me around, she’d tell me.
So when people get things mixed up and assume she’s died already, I let it be.
It’s too much to think about, too much to handle.
Not now, not today, when all this is still fresh and new.
I spend hours taking inventory, drawing up plans to remodel the kitchen, and pricing new equipment.
I hide in the back for hours, listening to the patrons up front.
They’re happy, and having a good time, which is comforting.
I hope taking this place over doesn’t ruin anything for them.
I hope they can accept me and support my decisions.
My phone dings with a text, and I pull my gaze from my laptop to grab my phone from the desk. My eyes are dry and burning.
Dad
Are you coming here for Thanksgiving?
That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?
It’s in a couple of weeks, and I’ve thought about it too much.
Mom said she didn’t want to see me, and I have a feeling she doesn’t know he’s asking.
But maybe he’s asking because he doesn’t expect her to be alive then.
Or maybe he needs me there. None of this has been about him, or me, it’s been about my mother—rightfully so.
I don’t know how to answer him. I don’t know what to say or what the right answer is.Do I go or not?
My thumbs hover over the keyboard, trying to figure out how to respond.
“You good?”
I glance up to find Pete standing in the doorway.
“Yeah,” I say, pocketing my phone. “Just getting ready to leave, actually.” He nods. “I’ll go out the back door.” I get to my feet. “Oh, and there will be new office furniture delivered on Thursday. They gave a window of three to seven. If I’m not here, could you sign for it?”
“Yeah, of course,” he says.
Something in his tone makes me think he’s worried about something. I walk up to him. “I want to be welcome here, and I won’t do anything to ruin what you’ve all made. In the short time I’ve been here, I can tell this is a special place.”
His face softens slightly. “I appreciate that, and I know the guys will too.”
I nod, then move past him to go out the back door. Today is not the day to meet those guys. They’re rowdy and don’t hold back. I can’t handle a roasting tonight.
“Hey, Emmet?” I stop and turn, raising a brow. “I’ll tell them tonight. This way, you can leave through the front door. That alley is kind of creepy.”
I chuckle. “Thanks, Pete. Have a good night.”
“You too,” he says, and then I leave to head to a house that is as empty as I am.