Chapter Twenty-Six #3
“What if…” The words catch in my throat.
My heart thuds with the kind of rhythm I usually only experience just before the puck drops.
Voicing this next part aloud is equal parts terrifying and thrilling, because I’m not a man who’s ever not known what the future was supposed to look like.
“What if I don’t know what that voice is trying to say? ”
“The hell you don’t. Let’s not forget the better option that’s been sitting here all along,” Cleo states plainly. “You can buy my bar. Turn it into a place people want to visit again.”
As ever, her candor knows no bounds. “All due respect, my gut is not screaming buy the bar, Cleo.”
She hits me with a crooked smile. “You keep coming back here, don’t you? Brought your lil’ lady here, subconsciously seeking her approval.”
My insides warm instantly at the mention of Sadie, even in this weird context.
Dad looks between the two of us. “Wait, this place is for sale?”
“Yeah,” Cleo says. “Why, you interested?”
Dad strokes his chin and glances around as if scoping it out. “How much?”
Why is he even pretending to entertain this? There’s no reason for him to buy it.
He has the funds…
I lift a hand. “Now hold on a second—”
She points at me. “Ha! See? That’s your gut speaking up.”
My sigh sounds more like a growl. I hate when people outmaneuver me. “I’ve told you I don’t know the first thing about running a place like this.”
“Neither did I. But you’re capable of learning new things.” She tops off Dad’s drink with a pour of gin. “Something tells me you can learn to change a tap and swipe a credit card. The hardest thing is dealing with belligerent drunks, and you do that for me even as a patron.”
“Nothing makes me happier than helping boot douchebags from your bar,” I concede. “But that’s very different from running the show.”
“You don’t have to decide today. Take…three days.”
“How kind of you to give me ample time to make such an important decision.”
Of all the options I’ve considered so far while lying in bed—from going back to school for something random, or going to the Fire Academy, or flipping houses—making sure people are fed while they watch hockey doesn’t sound half bad.
I don’t know why I’m fighting it. I know myself. I like what I like, and when I get attached to something, I have a damn hard time letting it go.
It’s happened twice. Hockey, and Sadie Rivers.
Something about this place that smells like hops and cloves gives me that feeling again.
I drum my fingers on the bar top. “If I did this—and that is a big if—you wouldn’t be off scot-free. I’d want you here in whatever capacity you’ll give me. Employee, advisor, professional heckler, your choice.”
“What about my retirement?” she whines. “I’ve got a bucket list filled with one-syllable male names I’d like to pursue.”
“So go to Cabo for a few weeks, or Alaska, or Sandals Jamaica—wherever, I don’t care. As often as you want. Just make sure you always come back—and never tell me what you get up to while you’re gone.”
“Wow. You’re kind of bossy. This career will suit you.”
“You know what?” My dad looks me up and down, an unmistakable pride glinting in his eyes. “I see it, too. And eventually, when it’s so successful you’re flush with cash, you’ll franchise the place. Cleo and Leo’s, nationwide.”
His confidence in me is certainly a pro.
And frankly, I’m not sure there are any cons. Other than whatever is happening with the fryer. And the roof.
I point back at her again. “It’s not a done deal. I said if I buy the place.”
She merely shrugs. “Sounds like a when to me. There’s so much potential in broken, run-down places.”
From the moment she says those words, something in my mind clicks on. A circuit board lights up in a section of my brain I didn’t even know existed.
All I can think about is exactly how I’d change it. Rebuild it.
Make it my own.
I tell my dad I’ll meet him back at the house. He’s nice enough not to press the issue and wants to keep drinking with Cleo a while longer anyway, to catch up on old times.
I put Sadie’s address in the rideshare. She’s the only person I want to talk about this new plan with, and I’m completely done with this distance between us.
Yes, I put it there. But I still fucking loathe it, and I owe her an apology.
I’m buzzing out of my skin so much that I almost don’t notice the pain in my shoulder. I should go home and relax, but I don’t want to wait another day to see her.
The porch light is on, cutting through the gloomy weather and my mood in equal measure. I feel her presence like a whispered breath on my neck as I knock on the front door.
No one answers.
I rack my brain. She’s not at an away game, unless I’ve blacked out and forgotten the travel schedule for the month.
Are you with Sadie?
Vivian’s answer is immediate.
When are you going to stop using me as your mediator and respond to her yourself?
With a laugh, I take a seat on one of their porch chairs to compose my answer.
I wanted to surprise her in person.
Dots appear to indicate that she’s typing, then they disappear, then they come back again.
Go home, McLaren.
My stomach turns to stone.
That’s not the answer I wanted, though I guess it’s the one I deserve. Am I too late? Did I fuck this up with my silence?
Panic fills me like a noxious gas.
I’ll be back tomorrow.
And every day until she lets me plead my case.