Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
ROB
“Thank you, Rob,” Sophie says for the fiftieth time. Or maybe sixtieth.
I picked her and Dottie up from the ginger beer brewery after she sent me an SOS text.
Or at least that had been the plan. Dottie had talked me into getting one of the nonalcoholic ginger beers and sitting with them “for a spell.” To be honest, it hadn’t been that hard for her to talk me around. “Come join me. Me and Sophie ,” she’d said, and I’d caved.
The part of my cheek that had been kissed by Sophie had kept me up half the night. It had felt like I could still feel her lips pressing against my skin. Still smell her sweet perfume…
The other half of the night, I’d spent raging about my brother, who’d also apparently been thinking about Sophie.
I hadn’t gotten more than a couple of steps into my apartment last night before my phone started buzzing with pissed-off texts from Jonah.
Stay away from Sophie.
Stop lying to her.
I know you still have your panties in a twist about what happened, but it was years ago, and it was an accident.
Grow the fuck up, and be a man.
Oh, the irony.
The real wonder was that I didn’t get any icy calls from Patricia or my father. Jonah was thirty, sure, but it had never stopped him from tattling to Mommy and Daddy before. Maybe it was because he’d done something shitty and he knew it, and he was afraid even his mother would catch on eventually.
I could have taken the high road and left his unhinged texts unanswered. Instead, I told him to go fuck himself with a smiley face, and informed him that Sophie had a subzero interest in receiving a grand gesture from him.
He didn’t respond, which doesn’t mean he’s not going to show up at Buchanan Brewery with a seven-string orchestra.
So I’d tried to go to sleep, mostly failed, and spent the morning keeping busy so I’d stop thinking about Sophie and the Jonah problem. I met Emil at the park with one of my extra guitars, as was our habit, then met up with the guys for band practice. It had almost been working when I’d received her text:
If it’s not too much trouble, could you possibly give Dottie and me a ride back to my place from The Ginger Station?
A Pollyanna message, but not a Pollyanna mission.
Why she’d wanted to go back to that brewery so soon after the little scene we’d fled from was a mystery—until Sophie and Dottie, who were both slightly tipsy off of one drink, didn’t hesitate to tell me everything.
I wasn’t sorry Sophie had asked for my help. It had felt good, like confirmation she didn’t think I was the same as my brother. I liked that she trusted me. That she didn’t care if I saw the parts of her that weren’t always idealistic and upbeat—like the Sophie who went to a brewery in the middle of the day with her elderly neighbor, playing private investigator.
She was charming like this, even though she looked like she hadn’t done much sleeping or paid any attention to the shirt she’d pulled on, from a fun run called The Fun Onions! More proof that she didn’t care what I thought of her. Part of her charm, honestly, even though it was a reminder that I was background noise for her.
After we had sat for a while and talked, sipping our drinks, we’d left the brewery. Sophie had started in with the endless thanks before the car even left the lot, thanking me both for paying for her drinks last night and coming to pick them up. They didn’t stop even when I pulled into her driveaway.
I’d had to leave band practice to pick them up, but I wasn’t going to tell her that. She’d probably just end up thanking me again.
“I already said you didn’t have to thank me.” I put the car in park and turn toward her. Dottie had insisted on giving her the front seat. Nothing else would do. “The first forty-nine times were more than adequate.”
“Give him one of your cookies, dear,” Dottie says. “Go on.”
“Oh, no,” Sophie says, with a look of genuine horror. “I left them in my car at The Ginger Station. Do you think they’ll be okay?”
“I don’t think they’re going to get up and walk away, if that’s what you’re concerned about,” I tease.
“We’ll get Bear to drop us off later so we can reclaim the car,” Dottie insists. “Those cookies can withstand a hot car. They’re filled with love. Love can withstand anything.”
“Even being eaten?” I ask, and Sophie gives a delighted laugh. Even tired and hungover, she’s hard to look away from.
Sophie holds my gaze and says, “Seriously, thank you, Rob.”
“I’m going to start charging you for every tipsy thank-you.”
“Money?” She cocks her head, her honey-brown hair spilling over the sleeve of her T-shirt.
“Stale car cookies.”
“Oh, you,” Dottie says sweetly. “Well, children, I’d better get home to give my love his cookies. But first, I wanted to give you this, my dear Sophie.”
She hands her a rock, although it’s not the same one that’s sitting in my pocket. It looks like pink quartz.
“I can’t take this,” Sophie insists, looking pained by the thought of accepting a gift.
“Good luck with that,” I tell her. “She’s as good at taking no for an answer as you are at stopping the thank-yous.”
Sophie’s lips part in surprise. “You have one too?”
“Indeed,” Dottie says, “and so do Briar and Hannah, although I had to hide Hannah’s in her jacket pocket the other day. I didn’t think she’d be happy to take it, the dear. But you all need them. I can see that very clearly. They’ll help you believe in love again.”
She’s not looking at Sophie, but I see the pained face Soph makes. Yeah, she’s not ready to believe in love again, but she’s exactly the sort to believe in crystals. I try not to laugh.
Dottie gets out of the car, but Sophie lingers. Glancing at me, she says, “I’d like to see your band perform sometime.”
I feel myself leaning toward her slightly. “Will you be in the front row dancing?”
“I might even throw confetti at you.”
“Only if it’s glitter confetti. I have standards to uphold. I think you’ll get your chance, you know; we’re playing at Buchanan on Friday night.”
She smiles at me—and this smile is genuine and a bit fierce. I can imagine her saying, You will be cheerful, Rob Price. “I remember you saying something about that! I’m working that night. I owe you another drink. Nonalcoholic. Whatever you want.”
“You’ll get me another soda, then?” I joke. Some of the breweries have other options, but not many of them.
Her frown plants a furrow between her brows. “There isn’t much, is there? I think we should do something about that. I owe you?—”
I capture her hand and then release it quickly. She’s my asshole brother’s ex, and I’ve got no business holding her hand like some kind of p-e-r-v-e-r-t. “You owe me nothing,” I insist. “You didn’t owe me the ginger ale either.”
“You have your ways, and I have mine. Are you going to get into trouble for what happened last night?”
“For paying your bar bill? Nah. I don’t think the cops will take me in for that.”
She gives me a level look. “You know what I mean.”
I do. There will be consequences. With Jonah and my father’s family, there always are. But I’ve decided I don’t care. They don’t have power over me anymore. When I was a kid, I had no choice but to live in my father’s house. No choice but to try to get along, especially since my father paid for my mother to go to rehab the first time, and technically the second.
But I don’t have to play their games anymore. Mom’s doing well now, living in Montana with her second husband, a retired rancher, and a potbellied pig. I don’t have to worry about her anymore, only about myself, and Jonah doesn’t have anything I want. My father either.
“That’s not for you to worry about,” I tell Sophie. “The problems Jonah and I have with each other have nothing to do with you. They go back years. My father always sides with him, pretty much, because he likes getting action from my stepmother, who hates me. But I stopped worrying what any of them think of me a long time ago. It’s easier that way.”
“Well, I appreciate your help,” she says, squeezing my forearm. “If there’s anything I can do for you, name it.”
“Same,” I say as she reaches for the door to leave. “I want to be there for you.”
She looks surprised by this, then her expression shifts to confused. I’m confused. I hadn’t intended to get pulled further into her business or Jonah’s.
Our connection probably should have ended two weeks ago, when I chauffeured her to Silver Star. It was likely a mistake to come when called today, but I know she’s not a woman who asks for favors. She’s usually the one who gives them without being asked. The fact that she asked me to come get her means something, and I couldn’t say no. Didn’t want to.
“I’m sorry, and thank you ,” she says with a wicked look, since she knows how I feel about apologies and has already thanked me endless times. Then she leaves the car, laughing, before I can tell her to take it back.
I watch her until she’s safely inside. Then I check the time on my phone, finding a text from Travis.
Are you Pollyanna’s chauffeur now?
Smiling, I type back:
Looks like. Are we still practicing?
No. Turns out the band sounds pretty bad with just a bass guitar and the drums. We’re thinking of going tubing on the French Broad if you want to come.
I’d wanted to play for longer, but it’s hard to be upset with the guys. I’m feeling positive. Upbeat.
I feel good about myself. I write back:
Nah, man. I’ve got something else I need to do.
And I go home and work on a song.
It’s a song she could dance to.
The other shoe drops half a week later.
I had my home visit from the team weighing my application to be a foster parent, and it went great. Travis helped me clean up first, and the whole apartment smelled like potpourri.
But I get a call from my caseworker Nelly on Thursday evening, saying they’d received an anonymous tip that I have an alcohol problem and a sex addiction.
The first used to be true. The second? Total bullshit. Sure, I haven’t had many long-term relationships, but that doesn’t mean I’m bringing three women a night back to my apartment. I haven’t even hooked up with anyone for over a month, not since I started the process of becoming a foster parent.
“My half-brother must have been behind it,” I tell her, pacing up and down my apartment. “He’s got something against me.”
“So there’s family drama,” she says, her tone suggesting she’s writing something down. Shit, that’s probably not good.
“Not really, no. I don’t have much to do with him.” I lower onto the couch, feeling a headache coming on. “Emil would probably never even meet him. We’re not close.”
“Rob, it was a woman who called me.”
The headache worsens. Did Jonah get his mother to do his dirty work for him? I’m tempted to ask if she sounded like a fifty-year-old finishing school student with a stick permanently lodged up her ass, but I have a feeling it wouldn’t go down well.
“There’s no truth to the sex addiction thing,” I say firmly, embarrassed to have this conversation with Nelly, who’s a sweet middle-aged woman who knits sweaters for preemie wards. “I don’t…you know…any more than any other guy.”
“And the other?” she asks, her tone gentle.
“I haven’t had a drink in seven years, but yes, I was in AA. Is that a problem?”
“Not necessarily,” she says. “Seven years is a long time. I’m assuming you can put me in touch with your sponsor?”
I cradle my forehead. “He’s not sober anymore, and he moved years ago. But I have friends who can vouch for me. The guys in the band. They can tell you I don’t drink. My buddy Travis is basically my sponsor at this point.”
She hesitates. “Look, it’s great that you have a two-bedroom apartment. Not many single people can afford that in this city. Especially in such a great part of town. But I have to be honest with you. It would look better if you were married or in a serious relationship. Especially given this other accusation.”
I glance up at the brick wall in front of me, empty except for the mounted TV and a framed photograph of my mother and me. She’d given it to me, and I’d hung it up because I missed her. Because she’d always made me feel wanted, even when she was stuck in one of her downward spirals.
I want to provide Emil with that same security.
“Is it a no, then?” I ask thickly.
“I don’t have an answer for you yet, sweetheart. But I know you’re trying to do a good thing. Bless you for that. I’ll make a case for you.”
“Thanks, Nelly,” I say, and hang up.
I have to be honest with myself. For the first time in years, I really want a drink. Because the last thing I can imagine doing is telling that kid it’s a bust, and he’ll only be able to play in stolen moments, when I’m able to meet him on his walks.
The thought fills me with shame, and enough rage that I’d like to pound my fist into the wall a few times. I’d like to call Jonah and curse him out, or show up at his doorstep and punch him in the face, again, the moment he answers the door. But then he really would have me arrested, and I’d have no one to blame but myself.
It’s late, but I go to the gym and work out hard, until I’m tired, panting, and sweaty. When I sit in my car afterward, feeling alone, wrung out, and full of darkness, I find myself slipping a hand in my pocket to touch the stone Dottie gave me.
Then I slip it out and put it in the glove box. Because wishes and dreams don’t do anything, whatever Sophie and Dottie have to say about it.
Travis calls me later, to ask if I have any updates on the Emil front. I feel a prickle of self-consciousness as I lie fluently to him, the way any alcoholic can, telling him the home visit went well and I’m feeling good about my chances.
“You ready for tomorrow night?” he asks.
“Tomorrow night?” Anything beyond today feels impossible or at the very least abstract. This whole evening has been about survival, one minute floating into the next.
He groans. “Don’t tell me you forgot. We’re playing at Buchanan. You can throw Pollyanna your shirt.”
“Very funny.”
“It would piss off your brother.”
The thought hits a little too close to home, although I’ll be honest. I’d fucking like to. I’d like to infuriate him so much he reveals the truth of who he is to everyone.
I shake the thought off and focus on the fact that Sophie will be there tomorrow. We’ve texted casually a couple of times since Sunday. For the most part, we’ve stuck to The Ginger Station situation, but there’ve been no real developments. I don’t feel like I have the right to ask about anything else. Maybe I’m also trying to prepare myself for the inevitable. Maybe I’m also trying to prepare myself for the inevitable. I’m a reminder of the worst mistake of her life, and she’s already told me flat out that she’d wish her mistakes away if she could, like dandelion fluff in the wind. It’s pure hubris to think I wouldn’t be cut loose alongside Jonah.
Still, after I get off the phone with Travis, I watch that video of her reaming out Jonah. Something I’ve been doing nearly every night.
I tell myself it’s because I like watching Jonah getting schooled, which is true, but it’s also because Sophie’s transformation inspires me. It makes me want to write music.