Chapter 13 Brighton
“The new binder is slick.” Boone drops it on the table next to my head as I kneel with my sleeves rolled up, trying to reconnect the karaoke machine to the projector.
There are about fifty too many people all yelling at me at once, and the bar is already packed with rowdy, drunk first responders coming off shift.
Boone’s been up my ass all week about getting the karaoke binder finalized, and because he has the musical knowledge of a nine-year-old, I had to put a new one together while juggling everything else.
What I didn’t tell Boone was that Rhea helped.
Well, she took it over, if I’m being honest. I left the binder on the island one morning, and she begged and begged for an hour until I gave in.
All week I’ve been cursing him for even asking, because it meant fighting with her over songs, but the look on his face makes it worth it, and suddenly I’m not so pissed off.
“Move this,” I grunt and tap the speaker with my shoulder.
Boone listens, shifting the weight to the left, and gives me more space to get my shoulder between it and the wall. I pop the wires together, and the projector flickers back to life.
“Fuck, I hate this thing, and I hate karaoke night,” I say, pushing off the ground to clean my hands free of the dirt.
Boone claps his hand over my shoulder, “For a man that loves his bar, you sure hate running it.”
“Screw you.” I shake free and make my way over to the bar as some of the waitresses working the outer ring of the bar hand out the sign-up sheet for the turn order.
The unfortunate part of tonight is that it never fails to bring in a massive crowd of people wanting to spend a shit ton on drinks and singing all of my favorite songs terribly.
Tonight of all nights is a necessary Hollow event, and my least favorite of them all. I serve the people that Judd is running behind on and throw Sunday out of the bar to help with tables before she gets into the shots, but the entire time I'm working, my eyes are scanning the bar for Rhea.
It’s not like she’s hard to lose; everyone gives her a wide berth as she floats around, making sure people are behaving, stopping to chat with faces she knows before moving on. Her hair is loose around her face and hides all the tiny tattoos that I know exist on the back of her throat.
I swallow hard.
“Bri!” Sunday’s voice cuts through the noise, “grab me three pitchers, Pilsner.”
I get them ready for her, prepared to help her carry them, but am only left impressed as she balances all three in her small hands and disappears into the crowd. When the karaoke begins, I try to sink into my own head and far away from the sound of people singing out of tune.
Sometimes I think Boone is right; running a bar is quite possibly the stupidest decision I’ve ever made, but arriving home, fresh off that plane…
discharged with nothing to my name but Daisy.
For the first three weeks, all I did was walk up and down Main Street, Harbor, just trying to find a reason to be around.
I tried with Riona, but she couldn’t do it and I don’t blame her.
So I didn’t have an apartment, staying with Boone was killing me, and Sunday hovered like I would kill myself at any second.
And damn did I consider it—almost every single night for two months.
I sat with the option staring me in the face from the kitchen table, always picking nights when Boone and Sunday worked…
But like the miracle she was, Daisy knew somehow. The phone would vibrate on the table, and her sweet little face would appear to remind me that she was the purpose for all of this pain. That I’d survived the worst of it.
The walks grew longer and turned into runs that led me to new parts of the city.
Sunday introduced me to Cosy, and I started taking dogs out with me, giving me even more reason to keep moving.
After two years of circling and knocking on death’s door, I sold the gun.
That was the biggest step I took. My skin itches even thinking about it now. But it had to go.
One morning, a few years after being home and completely out of routine, I ran in the opposite direction, toward the sunrise, and found a building, barely standing, and it was like it vibrated.
I stood out on that sidewalk staring at the emptiness of it, every broken window, graffiti-covered wall, and tarnished floor.
Something had called to me, cut through the noise, and given purpose to the aimless wandering.
Boone didn’t question it.
He threw in half the money and spent every free hour he had helping me rip it apart and build it from the ground up.
Seven months later, about two hundred grand of money neither of us had, and a stupid idea that we could do it with no experience, the Hollow was born—a reason to keep working, a reason to keep breathing.
If I were moving and providing for Daisy, I would have purpose.
That had been enough when I was overseas; it had to be enough now.
It’s been seven years.
I can’t go back to the old Brighton.
My hand shakes around the bottle, and I set it down on the counter, trying to steady my breathing, when I catch her out of the corner of my eye.
“Don’t you just love tonight?” Rhea says from my left, scooping a water bottle from the corner of the bar.
“Drunk people butchering my favorite songs?” I groan, and she stares at me with a funny face. “What?” I mumble uncomfortably.
“You’re such a grump. Pretty sure you’re a fake music lover,” she says, looking genuinely perplexed by it.
I don’t say anything more to her because my name is called for drinks, and by the time I’m done, she’s gone from the bar and across the room, smiling at a table of firefighters.
I inhale slowly, trying not to let it get under my skin that she doesn’t smile at me like that when my eyes catch Boone.
He’s staring at me like I'm an idiot, and I shake my head before getting back to work, trying to ignore the implications in his glare. I manage to keep my head down for the majority of the night, focusing on the bar instead of the noise. That’s the hardest part of owning the Hollow, all the noise.
The first few weeks after opening had been exhausting; controlling my reaction to every little noise took a toll on my body.
Sunday and Boone learned quickly. She’s adamant they didn’t, but I'm convinced they both went to group therapy to deal with me, and whether or not that's true. I’m grateful every day that they haven’t given up on me.
Without Sunday, I wouldn’t have Daisy. During deployment, after she was born, Sunday was the driving force for Daisy being around our side of the family.
She worked hard to keep her niece around, for me…
for herself. My siblings were the real heroes of this story; I’m just the reason they needed to grow up faster.
The best thing I can do for everyone is just keep moving.
As the night goes on, the numbers in the bar start to dwindle, and it grows quiet with only the regulars floating around talking with one another. Sunday and Rhea sit at the edge of the bar, chins propped in their hands, fluttering their lashes at me.
“What?” I snap, setting down a tray of clean glasses.
“Now that it's dead in here, do you think that we could…” Sunday starts, and I shake my head.
“You’re working tonight, no singing,” I warn her, swiping a towel off the counter and drying my hands.
“Aw, come on, Bri—just one song!” She drops her voice in that tone she used to use when we were younger and widens her eyes at me, but my gaze flickers to Rhea, who’s sitting quietly with the softest of frowns on her face. Fuck.
“One song,” I clip, and Sunday turns to look where I’m staring, her brows furrowing as Rhea slides off the stool, excited.
“Bri.” Sunday doesn’t move. Her tone is soft and confused, and I realize I’m an idiot.
“Go. This won’t happen again…” I say, trying to ignore the concern on her face. She’s clearly not thinking about karaoke, and my heart stills in my chest at the look she’s giving me.
“Nothing’s going on, Day. Stop staring at me.” I sigh, but she doesn’t move.
“You’ve got a lot going on… tread lightly,” Sunday says, more possessively than I’ve ever heard her be, and I know she’s talking about my past, all the things I’ve done, the trouble I’ve caused, but…
I won’t be that version of myself again. Never.
And nothing is going on between Rhea and me. She’s just a pretty face.
“I gave her a room to rent, a job… Why am I the bad guy?” I scoff.
Rhea calls her name, but she doesn’t budge. “Don’t do anything stupid,” she says quickly, pushing off the bar, “Please.”
“Scouts honor.” I give her a half-hearted salute and watch her back away from the bar.
I can tell she’s still wary, but Rhea is shaking the new binder at her, and she puts her focus back on her best friend.
I flex my hands in the towel and try to ignore the unfamiliar guilty feeling that gnawed at my insides.
Boone slid behind the bar and threw a plate of fries between us before hauling himself up on the counter to sit. I turn to scold him, but he’s pointing to the fries, “Eat.” He mumbles with a mouth full of potatoes.
I grab a few, noticing that he’s brought out a cup of the hot mustard for me, and dip them inside. It’s not until they hit my tongue that I realize how hungry I am. “Thank you,” I grumble and continue eating.
Under Pressure by Queen starts over the speakers, and it’s like an instant balm to my frayed nerves.
I relax a little against the bar and watch as the girls figure out what parts they want to sing, but the second Rhea opens her mouth, everything else fades away.
It’s like she’s the only one up there, and when the music brightens, she does too; it’s the happiest I’ve seen her since the day I met her.
Seven years ago, Sunday came home and decided that she was joining the rugby team.
Both Boone and I said no, more than once.
Sunday had suffered from grand-mal seizures from the day she was born, terrifying and exhausting.
She managed it as well as anyone could, better than either of our parents did.
Boone and I had become her primary caregivers the minute we were legally allowed to.
It was the three of us against the world. Always.
Rugby was a rough sport. Neither of us played, but we knew that much.
But Kaia had joined the team, and Sunday wanted to follow.
We argued for weeks about it, and Sunday signed up anyway.
She was twenty-two, and we couldn’t stop her.
Instead, we joined her. Practices usually held in tandem with hers meant we could be on the parallel field, never too far away but just enough that she could feel the independence she craved.
It’s all we could do, we just had no clue that with it came a group of friends that Sunday had always needed outside of us. Kaia had been around for a long time, but Rhea, Cosy, and Adeline completed the circle. Raised by two idiots, Sunday needed girls.
She spins around with Rhea on stage, happier than ever, and I suddenly realize her concern. This is her life just as much as it is mine, and putting my nose where it doesn’t belong is bad for everyone.
I can be Rhea’s friend.
Her roommate.
She smiles at me, and the thought wavers just long enough for Boone to huff.
“What the fuck is that?” He laughs when I turn my head to him.
“It’s nothing,” I say with a shake and grab some more fries.
“If that’s nothing, I’d hate to see it be something,” he says. “She’s singing directly at you!”
“They’re just having fun, Boone. Fuck off,” I say to him, but he isn’t wrong. Rhea’s eyes are still glued to mine, and the smile on her face is bright as she sings the lyrics to one of my favorite Queen songs. Screwed. You are so very screwed.
“I should have seen this coming,” he hums.
“What?” I snap as he shovels more fries in his mouth.
He cleans his hands of salt, chews, and then points, “You would have a crush on the scariest Hillcat.”
She’s not scary.
“When did we start talking about Kaia?” I tease, and his face hardens.
“Sorry, the scariest Hillcat when Kai’s not in the room,” he corrects himself and forces a smile on his face.
It’s been getting worse; the itch to start shit with Kaia’s boyfriend is coming to the surface more often than not.
But Boone tries to be respectful of her choices, and only God knows why.
From what I know of Kaia’s boyfriend, he’s a douche, works in the business sector, has never gotten his hands dirty in his life, nose is constantly stuck in his phone or someone else’s asshole.
I don’t care who Kaia dates; I just wish it didn’t hurt Boone so much to watch it happen.
“Go back to the kitchen, you animal. You’re getting salt everywhere,” I say, shoving him off the counter in an effort to ignore how the idea of having a crush made me feel.
Friends. Rhea and I are friends.