Chapter Nineteen
Everett
Sitting in my truck Monday night, I listen to Mila’s voice message again. Maybe I was wrong about the tone the first few times I heard it.
But it sounds just as off as it had earlier in the day. It doesn’t even sound like her. It’s polite and all, but distant. Like we’re not even friends. Like I imagined the good vibes between us yesterday.
It was good seeing you? Take care?
I frown at my phone. That is definitely her building up a wall. And since I don’t want to be an asshole, there isn’t much I can do but give her some time on her side of it.
I grab my axe case off the passenger seat, get out, and shut the door.
Shoving my phone into my back pocket, I head for the pub.
I can’t afford any distractions tonight.
This is the first week of my axe-throwing league, and I need to come out strong.
Pushing open the door to the pub, I evict Mila Ferguson from my head.
At least, I try.
“What’s with you tonight?” Hunter takes a swallow from his beer and assesses me with dark, wary eyes. “It’s not like you to let Doc get ahead of you on the scoreboard.”
“My shoulder is bothering me a little,” I say, going so far as to rub it.
Hunter laughs. “Maybe you need a massage. Where’s your girlfriend tonight?”
I roll my eyes and grab my beer off our table. “She’s not my girlfriend.”
“So she dumped you already?”
“Fuck off.”
“Listen.” Ripley throws an arm around my shoulders. “If you need some advice, just ask. I’m an expert at romance.”
I snort. “I don’t think so.”
“Bro, I go on way more dates than you.”
“Everyone goes on more dates than him,” Hunter points out. “Even Doc, and he’s an old man with a dad bod.”
“Fuck you, Gannon. I do not have a dad bod.”
“You gotta show her that you’re sensitive,” Ripley goes on. “When I take my godson out in the stroller, the ladies swoon. You want to borrow him?”
“No. I’m not using your godson as a prop.”
Ripley strokes his beard and thinks some more. “How about you invite her to the farm and let her see you playing with those baby goats?”
“Yeah.” Hunter nods. “Baby goats would be good. And when she talks, really make it seem like you’re listening.”
“I am listening when she talks.”
“What does she do?” Ben asks.
“She’s an artist.”
“Like a painter?”
“A botanical illustrator.”
Ripley squints at me like it’s smoky in here. “What the fuck is that?”
“She draws flowers, but they’re scientifically accurate and really detailed. Fruits and vegetables too.”
“Oh. Okay, great. So if she was talking to me about sketching plants and whatnot, I’d look at her like this, with some smolder—” Ripley gazes at me, eyelids half-lowered. “And be like, ‘Tell me more about your creative process. What do you wear when you draw?’”
I put up a hand. “Stop.”
“That’s pretty good.” Ben points the neck of his beer bottle at Ripley. “But maybe use some bigger words. Women like a good vocabulary.”
“Yeah.” Ripley nods enthusiastically. “But make it a little sexy, too. Like tell her you can totally feel the emotional resonance of her melons.” He mimes hefting two melons in his cupped palms.
Ben rolls his eyes. “Jesus Christ. Do not do that.”
“Say you appreciate the textural dimension of her tulips,” says Hunter, cracking up. “Get it? Two lips?”
“Hey. Hey.” Ripley pokes my shoulder a few times. “Ask her what’s the biggest eggplant she’s ever doodled.”
“And does she want to get her hands on your banana?” Hunter proceeds to give his beer bottle a hand job.
The three of them bust up laughing.
“You guys are assholes.” I pick up my axe. “And even if I needed romance advice—which I don’t—I wouldn’t ask any of you.” I manage to throw better after that, but I still end up second on the leaderboard for the week.
I’m not happy about it.
After the league matches are done, Ripley goes behind the bar, and Ben and Hunter take off, since they both have to work early. I don’t feel like going home yet, so I find a seat at the bar and take out my phone, hoping to see a new text from Mila.
Nope.
Ripley comes over and brandishes a tall glass. “One more?”
“Yeah, I’ll do one more.”
He fills the glass with my favorite IPA and sets it in front of me. “Everything okay? You seem a little off tonight.”
“Just a lot going on right now.”
“Farm stuff? Town stuff? Personal stuff?”
“There’s always farm stuff,” I grumble. “And yeah, I’m dealing with a tricky situation as mayor that I’m not sure how to handle.”
“What’s it involve?”
“The Hart family.”
“Ah. The founding fathers. That always complicates things.” Then he catches sight of someone over my shoulder, and his face breaks into a grin. “Veep! To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know!”
I turn on the stool and see Yasmine Khoury standing there, hands on her hips, mad as hell.
“You sent me a singing beer-gram,” she accuses.
“How do you know it was me?” Ripley picks up a towel and starts drying a glass. The motion might look casual to someone who doesn’t know him as well as I do, but as usual, he’s putting on a show for Yasmine.
“Because only you would do that on Mindfulness Monday.”
“Look, I wanted a Saturday, but Mondays were cheaper.”
“So it was you.”
Ripley guffaws. “Yeah, it was me.”
“You are despicable. He showed up right in the middle of Meditation and Merlot!”
That only makes Ripley laugh harder. Yasmine spins on her heel and charges for the front door. She swings it open, turns around long just enough to give Ripley the finger, and sails through it.
“God, I love messing with her,” he says. “And it’s criminal how easy she makes it.”
“Why do you have it in for her so badly?”
“Goes a long way back.” He chuckles as he wipes down the bar.
“Did you guys date in high school or something?”
“Nah,” he says with a glance at the door. “I wasn’t her type. And she wasn’t mine.”
Something about his expression leads me to believe that isn’t exactly true, but he turns the tables on me before I can press him.
“So what’s going on with you and Mila Ferguson? I heard you had dinner with her Saturday night.”
I pick up my beer again. “From who?”
“My cousin is the hostess at Wardwell House. She texted my sister last night. My sister called me today. Also, I saw it on The Landing Pad.”
I raise a brow. “Say what you will about the older women in this town, you’re the worst gossip of the bunch. Nothing’s going on, if you must know. She’s in town helping her mom.”
“And yet she’s spent at least two evenings with you.”
After a long swallow, I shake my head. “Not gonna happen.”
“You’re telling me there’s a woman in this town who wouldn’t drop her panties if you asked her to?”
“No, I’m saying it’s complicated,” I clarify, unwilling to concede that particular point. “She’s just coming off a divorce, and I’m respecting her boundaries.”
“What a nice guy.” He trades out the polished glass for another one and resumes his busy work. “Did you see the Landing Pad post from that true crime group about doing a deep dive into the Tart and Soul fire?”
“No.” Confused, I adjust my hat on my head. “Why would they do that?”
“Apparently, there’s new evidence.”
“Evidence of what? It was an accident.”
“I’m not sure.” Ripley glances toward the door again and grins at someone coming in. “Hey! I heard you were a big hit.”
Over my shoulder, I see a pot-bellied guy with a balding head and a ginger beard approach the bar. His royal-blue T-shirt says Salty’s Sing-a-Grams. “I’m not sure about that. The owner didn’t seem too happy.”
“That’s just her face.”
“I don’t know. When I launched into ‘99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall’ and all her customers joined in, she left in kind of a huff.”
Ripley laughs. “My fault, not yours. Can I get you a beer on the house?”
“Sure,” he says. “Thanks.”
Ripley pours the singer a beer and sets it down in front of him. “Thanks for your service today.”
“No problem. I also yodel, if you’d like to send another one sometime.”
“That’s a fucking great idea. I’ll be in touch.” Picking up his towel, he begins drying glasses again.
“You sure there’s no history between you and Yasmine?” I ask.
His grin grows wider. “I didn’t say that.”
Around nine on Wednesday night, I’m lying on my couch watching baseball, Merlin dozing on the floor next to me, when I get a text from Mila.
Mila: Hi.
That’s it. Just a hello.
Everett: Hey.
Her move.
Mila: I’m sorry.
Everett: About what?
Mila: The voicemail I left. I didn’t mean what I said. Can I call you?
Everett: Sure.
When my phone vibrates in my hand a moment later, I sit up to answer it. Try to sound casual, maybe a little bored. “Hello?”
“Hey. Sorry to call you so late. I just left the hospital.”
The inclination to play games melts away at the sound of her voice. “That’s okay. How’s your mom?”
“Recovering. She can come home tomorrow. And I’m one hundred percent sure the entire unit will be elated to see her go.”
I laugh, making Merlin pick up his head. “Yeah?”
“She has not been an easy patient. In her opinion, the doctors are all unreasonable, the nurses are either complete fools or sadists, and as for me, I will never understand how hard this has been for her.”
None of that surprises me, but all I say is, “Sorry it’s been rough.”
“Anyway, I didn’t call to talk about my mom. I called to apologize for the weird voice message I left you on Monday. I’ve been spiraling about it for two days.”
I lean back. Get more comfortable. “Okay.”
“I didn’t mean what I said. Well, I meant the part about ‘thank you for the sandwiches,’ but not the part about ‘it was good to see you and take care.’”
I can’t resist teasing her a little. “It wasn’t good to see me?”
“No, it was! But it came out so wrong—I didn’t want you to think…” She pauses and exhales. “I was trying not to be overzealous.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice grows smaller. “My mother said this thing that got in my head—she’s so good at that—and it made me freak out that I was being too forward with you.”
“What did she say?”