Chapter 5
Chapter
Five
“I’ll always come when you need me.”
The earnest statement rang in Iggy’s head long after Malcolm left the saloon, long after he began cleaning down the bar, long after he and Laurel closed for the night.
Laurel parked in the rear, she told him, because Howie insisted.
He liked to walk her to her car most nights, and even when he left the bar early, he left his porchlight on for her.
Iggy made a mental note to start leaving the porchlight on at night.
He adored Laurel from their first phone conversation, way back when Howie hired her as a waitress, who quickly moved up to bartender and General Sassy Bitch, as she liked to call herself.
Mid-forties with a smoker’s voice she swore was from too much screaming in mosh pits as a twenty-year-old college dropout (and maybe a little too much weed), her tops were too tight to contain both her boobs and her personality.
She reminded Iggy of a drag queen he knew from Providence, in all the best ways.
“I can’t remember the last time I had so much fun here,” Laurel said as she locked the back door, “that didn’t involve watching some young’un with bigger balls than brains try to ride old Thor.”
Thor was her name for Iggy’s nemesis, that damned mechanical bull.
“I’m glad I wasn’t in the way,” Iggy replied. “I know sometimes bartenders can be territorial about their space.”
She blew a raspberry at the sky. “Honey, it’s Howie’s space, he just lets me play there six nights a week. I don’t mind sharin’ the sandbox with someone who’s got your tricks.”
“Well, I’m grateful to share. I’m used to being busy at night and staying up late, so I really don’t mind helping.
We can stay open without the expense of hiring a temp.
God knows what sort of insurance Uncle Howie has, and what his out-of-pocket for all this is going to be.
” Even one day in-patient could cost thousands, and Howie was on day two, with at least a few more to go.
“Even if you won’t take hourly, I’m keeping track of your tip share.” Laurel strolled over to a newer model VW Bug covered in layers of stickers. “I’ll force Howie to hide it in your suitcase at some point. You’re earning it.”
“Without a formal work agreement with Howie, I don’t want to take any money from you or the till.
It can wait.” Iggy’s finances weren’t unlimited, but he had a small nest egg for when he was between gigs, and considering he’d left his last job in the lurch with zero notice, it wouldn’t be waiting for him.
“Okay. But at least eat a burger or two on the house. Howie would comp that to anyone who spent more than an hour with him when he’s sick. Trust me, when he busted his ankle, he was worse than a spring grizzly by a honey tree.”
“I believe it. So, around the same time tomorrow? Or do you need help earlier?”
“We’ve got it covered until five. G’night, Iggy.”
“Night.”
After Laurel drove off, Iggy walked slowly toward the dark trailer.
At the bottom of the ramp, he tilted his head to the sky.
Even with the bit of illumination from the front parking lot’s lights, an ocean of twinkling stars still blanketed the inky darkness above.
Stars he’d spent hours on a blanket staring at with Monte, creating their own constellations, wishing on them night after night.
He missed the stars when he lived in the city, but in the city, he didn’t need the stars. He was surrounded by other lights, bright and dim, stationary and twinkling. Out here, in the dark…well, he hated stormy, cloudy nights the most.
He’d ignored his phone for a while and wasn’t surprised to find a text from Abigail:
How did it all go today? Up until 3. Call me.
Abigail Osborne owned her own photography business, which had gained a lot of traction recently after shooting engagement photos for a pair of social media influencers who then refused to pay her.
The subsequent lawsuit—Iggy hadn’t paid close attention, because he knew she was in the right, and social media personalities bored him—sent her business soaring.
She was also the younger sister of Iggy’s late, long-term boyfriend, Darren, and they’d stuck by each other through a lot these last six years.
He parked his butt on one of the deck’s lawn chairs and called her.
“Oh good, my back is killing me, I need a break from staring at my editing software,” Abigail drawled, dragging the words through a long yawn.
“Hey, Body, how’s your uncle?” She was the only person who, once learning his given name was Ichabod, decided to create her own nickname for him, and she’d landed on Body. Her explanation was he had a nice ass.
“Hey, Abs, he’s doing okay. Improving.” He gave her a quick run-down of his day since Malcolm picked him up—skipping the kissing part—and up through closing down the saloon.
“I knew going back to Chance was exactly what you needed.”
“Since when?” While Abigail hadn’t warned him against coming back, since she only knew very vague things about his years here, she’d also never pushed him toward reconnecting with his past.
“Since right now. I know you, and I heard the joy when you talked about working in that saloon. And seeing your uncle again. The only time you really got sour was mentioning the ex-boyfriend. That stir up some stuff?”
“Stirred up a damned cattle stampede. Malcolm is as tied up in my memories of Chance as my uncle’s place, and I’m still kind of mad at Howie for never telling me Malcolm settled here for good after his brother-in-law died. Hearing from Malcolm felt like an ambush, even though I know it wasn’t.”
Not an intentional one, anyway.
“So, are you going to see Malcolm again?”
“Yes.”
“Wait, what? Really?” On her end, something clanked then gurgled. “Sorry, pouring myself some wine.”
“With ice cubes?”
“You drink your way, I’ll drink mine.” She let out a satisfied groan, which was probably Abigail settling into her circular Papasan chair with the freshly-poured wine-on-ice. “Tell me more. Give me something to think about that has nothing to do with Photoshop.”
“Well, he came to the saloon tonight. We talked a little.” He’s still so fucking sexy, wears tight jeans, a big belt buckle, and my God, I want to kiss him again. A lot. “It was a good talk.” Until the end.
“So, you’re going to see him again, because you’re filling in at the saloon, and he’s a regular?”
“That and…I’m tired of being mad at him, Abs. I have burned so much anger in my life, and I’m choking on the fumes. If I could forgive Darren, I can forgive Malcolm.”
Abigail sighed. Ice clinked, probably from a healthy swig of wine. “Yeah. Yeah, you can. And I say that not knowing what exactly this Malcolm character did to you, but I do know what Darren did. Forgiveness isn’t easy, especially when that person is gone.”
“But Malcolm’s not. I did not answer my phone last night expecting to hear his voice, and I did not fly to Colorado expecting to do more than be cordial with him. I think…you know how I feel about God, but maybe this is where I’m supposed to be. Here, with these people in particular.”
“I think that’s a healthy perspective. Jesus Christ Almighty, Ginger, shut up!”
Iggy chuckled. “What’s your cat doing now?”
“Yowling at the window to be let inside. An hour ago, he was yowling to be let out. He can’t make up his mind.”
“You’re the genius who adopted an alley cat.”
“Yeah, well…whatever. You don’t understand pet ownership.”
“Very true, and I probably never will.” Iggy was allergic to dogs, Malcolm was allergic to cats, and Iggy wasn’t much for small “pets” they already sold traps and poisons for, like rodents—and why was he even considering Malcolm’s allergy?
They weren’t together, they didn’t share a residence, or even a cohabitating future.
Nope.
He could (maybe) offer Malcolm forgiveness and friendship, but nothing more. Nothing long term. Because Chance was a for-now spot, not a forever one.
“What were we talking about before my dumb cat—oh yeah. Forgiving Malcolm. Moving on. And not to put on my Nosy Gossip Queen crown with you, but are you ever going to tell me exactly what went down between you two in high school? Advice about this isn’t easy with so much missing context.”
“Eventually, yeah. I will, Abs, I promise. But it’s something I think I need to hash out with Malcolm first. Sometimes…we don’t remember the past exactly how things happened, and now that so much time has passed…”
“You’re wondering if it was as awful as you remember it?”
“Yeah.” The emotions were real. The individual moments were real.
But how they were stitched together by reality and the actions he hadn’t witnessed?
He’d never gotten Malcolm’s full side of things.
As a betrayed teenager, Iggy’s emotions had burned hotter than the sun, and now that the temperature had cooled to moderate levels, time had started showing the cracks. The missing bits.
He had all the makings of a good cocktail but no real idea how to assemble them into something that made sense.
Abigail laughed. “Bet you never thought you’d thank a can of expired chili for helping you gain emotional clarity about the past.”
Iggy released a long, snorting breath. “True story. But you, sis, excel at talking me through my nonsense.”
“Hey, you loved my brother when he gave you every valid excuse to walk out the door and nail it shut. But you stayed. You tried.”
“I couldn’t save him.” He closed his eyes against a wash of hot, bitter tears. Darren Osborne grinned at him from across a crowded dance floor, his wide eyes alive with color and joy and the glory of intoxication. But intoxication was a bitter mistress, and she didn’t like sharing.
“Darren had to save himself from his demons.”
“Yeah.”
“Besides, this is about Malcolm and the shared past you won’t tell me about. So, get your ass in gear, talk to him, and figure your shit out, so you can finally tell me.”
“Because my emotional epiphany is all about you?”
“Damned straight.”
They both laughed.