Chapter 9 Reason Two
Mom texted me at noon, asking me to pick up her prescription at Dudley’s Drug I have a moral obligation to make sure he’s worthy.”
“We both know that’s not true.” She took a deep breath, and her smile faded. I knew where the conversation was heading, and I wanted no part in it. “Have you seen him yet?”
“No,” I said, my eyes pleading for her to drop the subject.
“He was really torn up after you left.” Kate reached out, putting her hand on top of mine. “Moped around for a long time like a sad little puppy.”
“I try not to think about him.” Realizing how weak my voice sounded, I put a bit of heft behind my words and corrected myself. “I don’t think about him.” I looked up at her. She wasn’t buying it, but she didn’t press the issue.
“Tell you what. Tomorrow night. Me, you, Jeff. We can go to Shooters out on Highway 80.”
“That sounds great.”
“Shooters,” she said, handing me the bill. I looked down at it, shocked to see the place still had a running tab system. It was like walking into a time capsule. “Tomorrow. Eight o’clock.”
I sat in my mother’s Pontiac Grand Am in the parking lot of Shooters Saloon (AND SUSHI, as the handwritten sheet of yellow construction paper duct-taped to the window would tell you), wanting nothing more than to turn around and go home.
I pushed past the worries of running into faces I’d spent decades trying to forget and focused on simply blending into the crowd.
That was the plan, at least. A plan I must have forgotten about when getting dressed.
For reasons I couldn’t explain, I’d worn a pair of tight gray slacks with a white button-down shirt and a gray sports coat.
A pair of overpriced black leather shoes with pink slashes against the sides completed the look.