Chapter 22
CHAPTER 22
WYATT
Friday, May 5
Romy
Hey. I haven’t heard back from you, and that’s totally cool. I understand. But I miss you and I have to keep trying. So I’m putting your name on the VIP list for the concert. Saturday May 12. I go on at 6. Go to security gate C and give them your name. You can bring someone. I just really miss you, and it would mean the world to me if you came
None of this feels right without you
The only thing keeping me from coming completely undone is the knowledge that later I get a repeat performance of my night with Owen McBride.
Well, that and the fact that Carson and Grace are sitting across from me at the bar. As soon as I got the text from Romy, I called in reinforcements.
“I hate that we have to do this here,” Grace grumbles as she stirs her Arnold Palmer. “As soon as the playoffs are over, my schedule is going to blow wide open.”
It’s been hard to get together with my friends lately. Grace has been jetting off to every playoff game she can to watch Decker try to win another Stanley Cup before he retires. She flies to Winnipeg tomorrow for Games 3 and 4 of the second round.
“It’s not all your fault. I’ve been going through the end-of-year death march of Field Day and parties and art shows. Kindergarten graduation is next Friday, and then I’m finally free!” Carson says, raising her arms over her head like she’s approaching the finish line of an ultramarathon. Then she points at me. “And this one here is so busy sneaking around with your brother it’s a wonder we see her at all.”
Grace squeals. “Yes! First order of business, how goes the…pineapple?”
I keep my eyes on the limes I’m quartering for later, when the rush hits. The muscles in my jaw practically cramp as I try to suppress a grin.
“It’s good.” From the way they lean across the bar, wide, nose-crinkling grins on their faces, I have a feeling I didn’t do a very good job keeping my voice even.
“Tell us everything,” Carson says. “Tell me all the dirty details. I want to hear about every orgasm.”
“Ew!” Grace grimaces as she leans back on her barstool.
“What? He’s not my brother, and I’m so hard up a stiff breeze could make me come,” Carson says. “Do you know how miserable it is on the apps? I must have been a war criminal in a past life to be subjected to so many hoisted fish and dick pics!”
Grace shoots me a warning look. “Just, could you save the details for tomorrow, when there’s no chance I might overhear a single life-altering, brain-scarring detail about my brother’s sex life?”
“We have the spring carnival tomorrow,” Carson whines. “I have to bake four cakes for the raffle and bully three other teachers into volunteering for the dunk tank. Otherwise it’s going to be me , and I’d rather walk into traffic.”
Grace sighs. “Okay, how about this? I’ll go to the bathroom and set my timer for five minutes. You can spill as much as you want in that time, and then we can turn to purer topics, like how I’m already planning your wedding! I’m thinking backyard boho?”
Now it’s my turn to look miserable. “Come on, Grace. We talked about this,” I warn.
“I know, I know. I’m teasing,” Grace says, hands held up in surrender. “But I do want to hear about how things are going with you guys. You’ve both seemed so happy since the dance marathon. Owen came to family dinner this week and didn’t check his phone once . You can deny it all you want, but you two mean something to each other.”
I can’t suppress my smile.
“I am happy,” I say, savoring the idea that I make him happy like it’s a good piece of chocolate.
“Oh, blast ,” Carson says, staring at the glowing screen of her phone.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
She sighs. “Yes, I was just desperately hoping my parents’ flight would be delayed, but it looks like they’re taking off now, which means I need to head up to Indianapolis to pick them up. They’ve been visiting my aunt and uncle in Boca for the last two weeks, and having the house to myself has been a dream .”
“Still no luck with the apartment hunt?” Grace asks.
“I saw a listing last week that looked promising, but it turned out to be an unfinished basement with a mini fridge and a hot plate.” Carson drags her purse off the bar and hops down from her stool. “I want those details, though. Next week? Thursday is the last day of school, so I’m free Friday.”
“If the Grinders don’t sweep Winnipeg, I’ll be in Chicago for Game Five,” Grace says. “So send prayers to the hockey gods.”
“I’ll be here, so whoever’s free and wants to hear about my orga—” I stop myself before the word— plural —escapes, but Grace squeals nonetheless. Then she mimes zipping her lips.
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that because you’re my best friend,” Grace swears, and because she’s my best friend, I know better than to believe her.
Carson heads out to pick up her parents, and I brace for an interrogation from Grace. But then an unholy crash comes from the back, followed by a loud, low groan.
“Ernie?” I cry, dropping the knife and racing through the door to the back. I find him on his ass on the floor next to a keg, clutching his bad arm. “What happened?”
“I was just grabbing another keg of Blue Moon and the damn thing shifted,” he says, and that’s when I notice that his arm is hanging at a weird angle, the sharp point of his shoulder visible through his T-shirt.
“Oh my god, it looks dislocated!” I say, rushing to his side.
“Yep,” he says through gritted teeth.
“Ernie, I told you. I heave the kegs,” I say.
“You can chastise me later. Right now you can help me off the fucking floor.”
I squat beside him and throw his good arm over my shoulders, gingerly dragging him to his feet. It takes every ounce of my strength, and he cries out when he stumbles, jostling his arm.
“Everything okay back here?” Grace peeks her head through the door.
“This ding-dong fucked around and is now deep in the finding out stage,” I say as Ernie shoves me aside to grip his bad arm.
“Either of you know how to pop a shoulder back in?” Ernie asks, but Grace and I both shake our heads. “Your boyfriend here?”
It takes me way too long to realize he’s talking to me. “He’s not my boyfriend!” I cry.
“Ask me if I give a shit about your relationship status right now,” Ernie grumbles. “I just need a doctor.”
“He’s at the practice until six,” Grace says.
“You cannot sit around this bar and wait two and a half hours for a pediatrician to show up and pop your shoulder back in,” I say.
“Well, my truck is a stick, so I don’t have any other choice,” he fires back, then winces—even talking is enough to hurt his shoulder.
“I can take you in my truck,” I tell him.
“Someone’s gotta watch the bar,” he replies.
“I can drive you,” Grace says. She comes over and tries to get Ernie’s good arm over her shoulders, but he shakes her off.
“I can walk just fine,” he says, and when I shoot him a warning glare, he adds, “Sorry. And thank you. For the ride.”
“It’s not a problem. The urgent care by the highway opens at four, so we’ll go there,” Grace says, then shoots me a smile. “Let’s just pray for a sweet of Winnipeg so I can finally catch up with my friends.”
“Thank you,” I tell her, and follow them out into the bar.
It’s not until Ernie is gone and I’m back to prep that I remember that with Ernie gone, I’m going to have to stay until closing.
Which means I can’t meet Owen.
I tip my head back and stare at the dim neon lights on the ceiling. “Fuuuuuuuuck,” I groan, because that’s what I won’t be doing tonight. Or at least not until very late. I was hoping for sex and a good night’s sleep.
I pull out my phone and fire off a text to Owen.
Wyatt
Ernie’s out tonight with a dislocated shoulder, which means I have to close the bar at midnight and then clean up. You down for a booty call in the wee hours?
He replies in seconds.
Owen
I volunteered to be medical support at the soccer fields tomorrow. Archer bullied me into it. I have to be there at 6:30 in the morning.
I let out another groan that sounds dangerously close to a growl. I know I should be mysterious and flirty, but it’s been six days since I was in Owen’s bed, and that is five days too long. I’ve never done hard drugs, but I imagine Owen’s lips on my bare skin produce the same kind of high. I’m addicted and want more.
Wyatt
Goddammit. I need you.
The three dots dance and disappear, dance and disappear, before a message finally arrives.
Owen
You get a break at any point tonight?
I’m suddenly very very aware of the ache between my thighs, the heat and the slip of my skin. I press my legs together, but that only makes the throbbing worse.
I glance down the bar, where our new hire, a raggedy hipster called Jacob or Jonah or Jimothy—he’s only been here a day, so I haven’t bothered to learn his name—is staring at the cash register like it’s one of those puzzle boxes in an escape room. He’ll be very little help tonight, since he knows how to make barely any drinks that don’t come directly from a tap. Still, we usually have a slight lull around eight before the late-night crowd shows up.
Wyatt
I can get off for a few around 8
Owen
Yeah ya will
Wyatt
Doc!
I expect time to crawl by until Owen’s arrival, but it’s Friday night and we’re down a man. I spend the hours pulling drinks and closing tabs, hauling kegs and wiping up spills. Jonah proves just useful enough that I learn his name.
And when I have a spare moment to catch my breath, it’s Romy’s text that invades my brain, not Owen’s.
I was already in a bad place when I walked in on her and Griffin all those years ago. I’d just gotten the call about Libby’s arrest, and my mind was whirring with plans. I’d have to quit my job, probably find a subletter for the apartment I’d moved into with Griffin. And my bank account was empty enough that I couldn’t survive long without a job. I’d visited Cardinal Springs a few times for holidays so I could see Hazel, but I had no idea what the job landscape there was like. Or how to care for a thirteen-year-old by myself. Or if the state of Indiana would even let me.
And there he was, pressing Romy into the couch, her guitar on the floor, his slung around his back like a cowboy.
I took in the scene just long enough for him to look up and see me.
He smirked.
I remember Romy yelling my name. I remember that Griffin didn’t.
I walked out.
I spent that night sleeping in my truck at a campground outside of Nashville. I ignored all her texts.
He sent only one:
C’mon, Wyatt. Things haven’t been good between us for a while
No apology. Barely an explanation. More like an excuse.
I waited until I knew he was at the studio where he was trying to crank out his debut EP before going back to the apartment, throwing things in suitcases and trash bags like I was on a fucked-up episode of Supermarket Sweep . I was so wracked with rage and heartbreak and fear about what awaited me in Indiana that I could barely think about the scene I’d walked in on.
But now, eight years later, I try to call up the image.
I can see it. Surprisingly clearly. Romy’s hands were on his chest, and her guitar was on the floor.
In all the years I’d known her, Romy had never once put her guitar on the floor. It was a Martin acoustic that had been passed down from her grandfather. It was her most prized possession, not only because she hoped it would make all her dreams come true, but because it was the only thing she had left of her granddad. He had died only six months prior but had been lost to her for much longer thanks to Alzheimer’s. When she put that guitar down, it was always on a stand. She kept one in her room and one in the living room. She had a fold-up one she brought to gigs.
That guitar was never on the floor.
And her hands were on his chest.
Like she was trying to push him away.
The first year I was in Cardinal Springs, I could barely hold myself and my sister together. Hazel fell to pieces when Libby went to prison, and she had nothing— nothing —but me and my half-assed attempts to provide a stable home. By the time I got my feet under me, it felt too late to reach out to Romy. I was living a different life by then. There was no way I was getting down to Nashville, and I figured her life had moved on too.
But now I have another chance. My friend, my homegirl, my ride or die—I can have her back in my life.
All I have to do is go to a Griffin Stone concert.
I’m cashing out a group of construction workers when Owen shows up, dragging my mind away from the churn of memories and regrets.
I see his blue scrubs first, hanging loosely over his muscular shoulders in the most delicious way. I notice his blue eyes next when they lock on mine. His brow furrows with the kind of determination that screams 4.0 GPA.
He stomps through the crowd and stops right in front of me, pressing his hands into the bar like he personally has to secure it to the floor.
Without taking his eyes off me, he barks at Jonah, “You’re covering.”
Jonah looks up with what might be alarm, but I hardly spare him a glance. I’m too busy taking Owen’s hand, letting him lead me around the bar.