Chapter 8 Landon
LANDON
“You, Landon Cole, are volunteering?”
Josh absentmindedly wiped a clean glass, his eyes flickering to the clock above the shelf of liquor bottles. Almost nine, and a few regulars were scattered across the tables, half-watching the muted sports games on the TVs.
The bar was unusually quiet for a Saturday evening. Soft, low music played through the speakers, scratchy tunes that had patrons humming.
“Always the tone of surprise.” I flipped through the latest news stories on my phone. “I like volunteering.”
Josh scoffed. “The only time I’ve seen you volunteer was the mandatory volunteer day in high school.”
“I like helping people,” I said defensively.
He smirked and set the glass down. “You mean you like helping Kira.”
I shoved my phone into my back pocket. “Am I not helping you by picking up shifts at your bar?”
“I pay you to do that.”
True. It was a win-win situation. Josh got a capable bartender, and I got a steady paycheck, which I would need at least until the diner opened.
“Semantics.” I waved him off. “Like I said, I enjoy helping people. Free booze is a perk, too.” I poured a glass of whiskey.
“Leave some for the customers,” Josh joked as he glanced to make sure no one was signaling for a refill.
“But you’re partially right.” I took a sip, embracing the burn. “I’m trying to help Kira out with a few things.”
Josh’s head snapped back in my direction. “What does that mean?”
“She needed another volunteer to keep the art class going.” Aiming for casual, I started stacking menus on top of each other. “She quit art, and I want to help get her passion back.”
After three menus, my stack fell apart like Jenga pieces. A few patrons cheered for a goal by the winning team, and it made me realize how quiet Josh was. Studying me carefully. The pity in his cerulean eyes made me cringe.
The last thing I wanted from anyone was pity.
“Kira’s moved on,” Josh explained slowly. He ran a hand over his scruffy beard. “I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
Xavier—Mr. Patagonia Vest as I referred to him—had been waiting outside her apartment on Sunday like a damn golden retriever who got lost on his way to a startup meeting.
Kira hadn’t looked thrilled to see him. Her body language was stiff, her smile a flash of politeness that disappeared almost instantly.
And then there was the look she gave me before she went inside. Like she felt uncertain about the whole situation.
“I won’t.”
The door swung open, and a blast of cold night air rushed in. A guy stumbled in, lurching toward the bar with the sort of unsteady swagger that was immediately recognizable. He was mid-thirties maybe, dressed in a wrinkled button-down that had seen better days.
“Heyyy,” the guy slurred, voice loud and off-key. “Where’s my drink?”
Josh and I exchanged a quick glance.
“Just what we needed,” Josh whispered to me with a roll of his eyes.
I forced a polite smile and stepped forward. “Evening, man. What can I get you?”
He dropped himself down at the bar, teetering unsteadily, drooping eyes bloodshot. “Whiskey,” he said, dragging the word out. “Big one.”
“Sure thing.” I kept my tone even. “How about a glass of water first?”
The guy’s expression soured. “Did I ask for water? No. Whiskey.” He pounded his fist on the bar, the sound echoing. A few of the regulars glanced over but quickly turned back to their drinks, not wanting to get involved.
Josh edged closer to me. “Look, buddy,” he said with a warning edge, “we’re happy to serve you after you get some water and food in you. If you pound on my bar again, we’re gonna have a problem.”
In a drunk state, the guy broke into a lopsided grin. “Tough guy, huh?” He slapped the bar again. “You don’t look like a bouncer.”
“I don’t need to be a bouncer to kick you out of my bar.”
Just then, my ass vibrated with a text message.
As the guy swayed in place, trying to decide how difficult he wanted to be tonight, I pulled my phone from my back pocket.
A quick glance, born more out of habit than hope, but still, I was half-hoping for Kira’s name.
I was like a teenage girl waiting for a good night text from her crush, and I hated how much I cared.
But the name on the screen wasn’t hers.
Mom: Liam asked about you. You should call him.
My stomach twisted. I hadn’t talked to my little brother in…God, how long had it been? A year? Maybe more. There wasn’t one clear reason for the silence. We hadn’t fought, hadn’t had some big blow-up, but somewhere along the way, we stopped calling.
When I left town, Liam took it the hardest. I think he saw it as me bailing on him and the family. He didn’t yell or try to talk me out of it. That was what made it worse. He just shut down. Let the distance stretch until it snapped into silence. And I’d let it happen, too.
Truthfully, Liam was always better at helping out at the diner.
Where I fumbled through orders like I was translating a foreign language, he moved with the ease of someone who’d been born holding a coffeepot.
He could balance three plates on one arm without breaking a sweat, while I managed to spill soup into a customer’s purse… twice.
Sometimes I wondered if he wasn’t busy in college, Mom would have called him for help instead. I was plan B.
The drunk at the bar grunted. “So what’s it gonna be, bartender?”
My patience was already fraying. I narrowed my eyes. “Take the water or get out.” My voice came out sharper than I meant it to.
He threw his hands up like I was being unreasonable. “Fine, fine, a glass of water. With lemon.”
I grabbed an empty glass and filled it with water. Lemon, my ass.
As I slammed it down in front of him, Josh pointed out, “Landon, your phone’s ringing.”
Mom was persistent tonight. I had the sinking feeling she wasn’t going to let up until she got a response from me. I knew it pained her that her two sons weren’t close.
“Ignore it,” I said.
“Who’s Mary Singh?”
Wait, what? Why was the CCC administrator calling me so late on a Saturday?
My pulse skipped a beat. Fear flashed through me, cold and sudden. What if she was calling to tell me art class was officially cancelled and I didn’t need to show up tomorrow? What if she had already called Kira and she was locked in her bedroom, grieve-eating a pint of ice cream?
I picked up the phone.
“Hello?”
“Landon? Hi, this is Mary from the CCC. Sorry to call you so late on a weekend.”
“That’s okay,” I said, ignoring Josh’s curious glances. “Is everything all right?”
Mary sighed. “Unfortunately, no. We have a bit of a problem down at the CCC, and I’m calling our volunteers to see if they have a free hour or two to help with some cleanup.”
“Cleanup?”
“It might be easier to explain in person. Any chance you’re available tonight to stop by?”
Technically, I wasn’t, yet I caught myself saying, “Yeah, I can be there in a few minutes.”
“Thank you, Landon. We’ll see you soon.”
The line clicked off, and I removed the phone from my ear.
I turned to Josh, who had one brow raised. “You know how the bar is quiet tonight…any chance you don’t mind me sneaking off to the CCC for a bit?”
Josh sighed. “If you can get this guy to finish his water and scarf down a burger, then sure.”
Broken glass glittered on the pavement like shards of ice, catching the dim glow of the streetlights. The windows of the Community Connections Center were shattered and gaping, jagged edges still clinging to the frames. Cold air slipped through the gaps, carrying with it a hollow whistle.
I stepped carefully over tiny glass pieces, thankful I was wearing thick shoes. The wind bit through my jacket as I stood in front of the main entrance, quietly surveying the scene.
Police must have recently shown up. One officer was rolling out caution tape around the broken windows. Before entering, I flashed my volunteer badge to the officer posted by the door and told him I was going to help with the cleanup inside.
The front door hung slightly ajar, its lock twisted and broken, leaving it to swing limply on its hinges. Honestly, the damage inside wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be, considering the broken windows. It still wasn’t great, though.
Down the main hall, chairs were overturned and brightly colored posters had been ripped down from the bulletin boards, lying crumpled on the floor. The air smelled of aerosol, sharp and bitter, mingling with the scent of spilled paint and dust.
Outside the art room, a large trash can had been tipped over, its contents spilled out, trailing garbage across the entrance. A nearby potted plant lay on its side, its dark soil spilled across the floor in a heap.
I wasn’t alone inside.
Kira’s slender frame leaned against a wall, blue light from her phone lighting up her face.
She was capturing photos of the torn-apart classroom.
My heart tightened when I saw her, but it quickly slowed when I took in the damage in the classroom, which was significantly worse than the rest of the CCC.
“Kira,” I said softly, not wanting to startle her.
She turned, brown eyes wide, and I saw the shock still etched across her face. “Mary called you, too?”
I nodded. “Where is she?”
Kira turned off her phone and tucked it inside her hoodie.
She was dressed in lounge clothes, leaving me with the impression she had spent the night inside, curled up with a romance book.
“She’s calling staff members and getting the word out about what happened.
The CCC is going to have to be closed for a bit while they make repairs. ”
The moonlight streamed in from the window—which was fortunately not broken—and I walked to where it illuminated the desks. Bright red spray paint stained the walls. Materials from the supply closet were strewn everywhere, canvases ripped down the middle, brushes snapped in half.
My stomach twisted when I saw the destruction to the paintings the kids made last week. They hung on the wall, but now, spray paint had ruined every last one.