Prologue 2-Sloane
People hear Newark and they get this look on their faces.
Like they already know me.
Like they know where I came from means they know who I am.
They picture crime.
Noise.
Concrete.
They don't picture little girls who share bedrooms with their brothers because there's only one bedroom to share.
They don't picture parents working two jobs a piece just to keep the lights on.
They don't picture kids learning the difference between needs and wants before they're old enough to ride a bike.
I do.
Because that's where I come from.
We weren't poor enough to be on the streets.
But we were one missed paycheck away from it more times than I care to remember.
Mom always managed to stretch a dollar farther than seemed humanly possible.
Dad could fix just about anything with duct tape, baling wire, and stubbornness.
They never let Patrick or me go hungry.
They just quietly went without sometimes.
I noticed.
Kids notice more than adults think.
Especially when your mother keeps insisting she already ate.
Or your father claims he isn't hungry while watching you take the last meatball.
By the time I was sixteen, I had my first job.
By eighteen, I had two.
Community college during the day.
Waiting tables at night.
Homework sometime around midnight if I was lucky.
Sleep became optional.
Working wasn't something I did.
It was who I was.
Because that's what my family did.
You worked.
You showed up.
You helped.
No questions asked.
Patrick always looked out for me.
Or at least...
I thought he did.
He’s older. Bigger.
The kind of brother who'd throw a punch before he'd let anyone mess with his little sister.
When Mom got sick...
Then Dad...
Everything changed.
Hospital bills stacked up faster than we could pay them.
I was away finishing school, and every time I called home, Patrick told me not to worry.
“I got it, Sloane.”
Those three words became a lifeline.
I got it.
He handled the bills.
The mortgage.
The things I couldn't because I was trying to build something better for both of us.
At least...
That's what I believed.
So when our parents were gone and Patrick suggested we leave Newark behind...
I didn't hesitate.
First it was Florida. Then North Carolina. Now we’re back in the Garden State. Dry Creek, New Jersey.
Population tiny.
Traffic almost nonexistent.
More pickup trucks than people, it seems.
It’s the kind of place where strangers wave from passing cars.
I'd never seen so much open sky in my life.
Patrick had this dream.
A neighborhood bar.
Cold beer.
Good food.
Local crowd.
He said we could finally stop struggling.
Stop surviving.
Start living.
It sounded wonderful.
I poured everything I had into this dream.
Every dollar I'd saved.
Every hour I'd worked.
Every ounce of faith I had left.
The Watering Hole is now my entire life.
Long days.
Longer nights.
Bartending.
Cooking.
Cleaning.
Ordering inventory.
Balancing books.
Smiling when I don’t mean it until my cheeks hurt.
Then getting up the next morning to do it all over again.
I told myself it would be worth it.
One day.
When the loans were paid.
When the business finally took off.
When Patrick isn't carrying the burden of our parents debts alone anymore.
Because I still owed him.
Didn't I?
He'd sacrificed so much for me.
The funny thing about working all the time is you don't leave much room for anything else.
Friends.
Dating.
Dreaming.
You look up one day and realize you're thirty-three years old and the closest thing you've had to a vacation is eating lunch outside instead of in the stockroom.
Still...
I never stopped hoping.
Maybe that's my fatal flaw.
Hope.
Hope that tomorrow would be easier.
Hope that next month we'd finally get ahead.
Hope that all the sacrifices meant something.
Hope that someday I'd find a place where I belonged.
Not because somebody needed me.
Not because I was useful.
Just...
Because they wanted me there.
I don't know if Dry Creek is that place.
I don't know if The Watering Hole will ever really become the dream I imagined.
I don't know what the future holds.
But every now and then...
Usually around seven o'clock on a Friday night...
The front door opens.
A quiet cowboy with impossible blue eyes walks inside.
He orders one beer.
One burger.
Leaves the biggest tip of the night.
And when he thinks I’m not looking, I swear he watches me like I'm the only person in the room.
Maybe I’m imagining it. I really wonder about that sometimes.
I mean, he hardly speaks. Certainly not to me.
Honestly, I don't think he likes people much.
Which makes it all the stranger that I keep hoping he'll come back tomorrow.
Maybe...
Dry Creek isn't where I'll finally find myself.
Maybe...
It's where someone else will finally find me.