Fourteen
Cooper
Laying on my bunk and staring at the ceiling wasn’t my first choice on how to spend a Saturday night.
But I was running out of options. I’d already overstayed my welcome in the Holmes’ cabin.
After the girls went to bed, I had some ice cream on the porch with Hollie and we talked for a little while.
Then she cracked open a book and I did the same, but the words blurred in my head.
My mind wasn’t on my book or the porch. It wasn’t even at Meadowbrook.
It was back at the bar with the guys.
Hollie must’ve known I was struggling. She didn’t typically invite me to hang out when Jesse was out of pocket, but she lured me with my favorite dessert. She knew me pretty well by now, I guessed. Tag checked in on me, too. As did Bea.
I understood why they hovered. The temptation to toss my hard work out the window persisted like a night time cough.
In January, I arrived back at Meadowbrook with delusions of grandeur.
I puffed my chest, thinking I had sobriety in the bag.
But I didn’t have a thing. Staying sober was a lot easier said than done, and I’d had more slip ups than I cared to admit.
My feet bounced with restlessness and I checked the clock a hundred times.
Like a ghost from the past, the scent of liquor haunted the room. Funnily enough, I didn’t even like the smell. The scent cargoed memories straight to my unwilling brain. Memories of my dad, mostly. His sour breath in my face, his fingers digging into my flesh.
And words that still burned like fire.
Hearing his voice in my head, I shot upright on the bed, rushing to distract myself. I hated being alone. I clamoured for my book, taking a quick sniff of the old pages. But the phantom pain in my arm intensified until I winced, my hand finding the soft flesh on the back of my bicep and rubbing it.
“Shut up. Just shut the fuck up—you worthless son of a bitch.”
And just like that, my back hit cold drywall as if I wasn’t sitting up in a bunkhouse with plasterboard walls. I choked on cigarette smoke, his forearm against my neck. I fought a breath into my lungs, squirming to look away as he breathed in my face.
“I don’t want you here. You’re too stupid—too stupid to see it though, aren’t ya?”
Sitting crisscross on my bunk, I dropped my head in my hands, rubbing the top of my head. Every time I struggled to do the right thing, I went through this cycle. Trapped in my memories like a carousel from hell that I couldn’t escape.
Half a dozen shots of whiskey usually helped.
Desperate to change the scenery in my head, I hopped off the bed, the entire bunkhouse quaking as I landed on the floor with a low thud.
With shaky breaths, I rifled through my top drawer and found my camera and adapter, plugging it into my phone so I could edit some pictures.
But, that only held my attention for a few minutes.
I wondered what my father would say if he learned I was good at taking pictures.
My stomach twisted as my imagination gave me a generous sample of his voice.
As I pieced together his imaginary response. As I saw the mockery in his eyes.
He’d be ashamed. Just like he always was.
He’d prefer Tag, who wasn’t even his kid. Just like he always had.
“I told your mom to deal with you. You know that, right?”
Without even realizing I’d made a decision, I discarded my camera on the bed, and strode back to my dresser, pulling out a pair of jeans and a clean t-shirt this time.
Like someone on the outside had pushed the override button on my nervous system, I numbly stripped off my gym shorts and yanked my clothes and boots on.
By the time I got around to asking myself why, I stood at the door of the bunkhouse, fisting the Ranger keys with my wallet and phone settled in my back pocket.
I hesitated.
I can’t do this.
My hand hesitated over the door knob.
You’ll have fun, my brain promised. The line was a lie I got good at identifying.
I knew the truth. Intoxication was relief masquerading as fun.
But the lie still looked appetizing. When you’re miserable constantly, forgetting for a few hours is the closest thing you can get to a good time.
And my soul was greedy to forget. Always greedy.
“I told your mom to deal with you.”
Half the time, I wished she would’ve.
Would’ve saved us all a lot of heartache.
Shaking myself out of my indecisive stupor, I faced the facts: I was nothing, and if I wrapped the truck around a tree on the way back, Hollie and Tag would be the only ones who cried. And, as much as I loved them, they weren’t a reason to stay.
Heading into the dark night, I shoved my keys into the ignition, lit a cigarette, and spun gravel on my way out.
I had to call, track them down. What started as a beer or two at the burger place turned into half a dozen all around town.
Rudy said they were at a place called The Hops Station.
By the time I cut off the truck, I was on my third cigarette, but my hands still shook like mad.
My muscles bounced with tension, like I was a school kid, scared to get caught.
So I rolled my shoulders back and lifted my head.
But nothing could’ve prepared me for what I found inside the bar.
As soon as I opened the front door, the scent made my knees go weak as my last defense crumbled. The place was dark but huge. Loud music filtered out of speakers on the ceiling and it was late enough now that basically every person in the room was some degree of intoxicated.
The cowboys and Peter stood around a high-top table, clutching mugs.
Their raucous laughter filled the air as Harlan lifted a hand, waving at a group of ladies across the room.
My gaze darted that direction, and, boy, did I get an eyeful.
Skimpy dresses, high heels, and impossibly long legs.
I’d had three vices my entire life and women were one of them.
I forced my eyes away, homing in on the bar situated against the back wall.
The guys were so absorbed with the women that they didn’t realize I’d come in.
I made my way to the bar, found the bartender, and ordered a few shots.
I watched as Harlan crossed the old hardwood floors and approached the girls.
He leaned in, having to get close for them to hear his voice over the loud, thumping music.
The girls squealed with laughter as Harlan handed them each a napkin and a pen.
He pointed back at the table where the Three Stooges stood waiting, like a bunch of idiots.
The girls laughed again and scribbled something on the napkins.
Harlan thanked them and made his way back to the cowboys, his steps swaying side to side.
With great fanfare, he laid the napkins down, one at a time, in front of Peter. All four of them exploded in laughter and everyone clapped Peter on the back like he’d done something impressive. I’d bet my last penny those were phone numbers.
And he was a married man.
Since the bartender was backed up and taking forever, curiosity got the best of me. I strode over to the high-top and put my hands on my hips. “What are y’all doing?”
Rudy clapped me on the back so hard that I stumbled. “Cooper!”
Harlan’s eyes were glassy. “You picked a fine time to show up, buddy. We need you to dethrone Peter.”
“Dethrone him? At what?”
Harlan hit his fist with his chest, burping.
Peter tossed a smug smile in my vague direction and held up a stack of napkins. Sure enough, they all had phone numbers scrawled across the top. He must’ve had over ten. I couldn’t believe it.
Cody grabbed Harlan’s shoulder and explained, “Since Harlan here is sober, he’s playing wingman. And can you believe it, Coop? The women ‘round here got the hots for a blind guy.”
They all exploded in laughter again. But I wasn’t laughing.
Harlan was not sober. “Please don’t tell me Harlan is driving.”
“Yup.” Rudy lifted his beer. “He’s only had one.”
Yeah, right.
“Harlan, you can’t drive home.”
He waved me off. “I’m fine.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but was cut off by a high pitched voice—a patronizing coo over the pulsing bass drums. Three women from the table had gathered around ours.
The one with the red dress and inky black hair approached, squeezing in next to Peter, her tits pressed against his shoulder.
I dragged a hand over my face, shaking my head.
This was not good. Whatever they were doing didn’t bode well.
For a moment, I scolded myself for coming.
I had imagined throwing my sobriety away tonight, but I hadn’t been with a woman since I rehabbed and I wasn’t ready to toss that part of my recovery just yet.
“Hey,” she said, her voice coy and her eyes trained on him.
He turned, a smile curling into his lips. “Hey.”
“I wanted to introduce myself. You’ve got a lot of numbers to sort through and I didn’t want mine to get lost in the mix.”
Peter blinked, momentarily stunned. “Oh. I’m—Peter.”
Oh no. It was the first time I’d heard him talk. And he was wasted. It wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest if he suddenly passed out or spewed all over the hardwood floor. One of his hands gripped the table top for support.
“Nice to meet you, Peter. I’m Georgia. Want a drink at the bar?”
“Yeah,” he said. Even his nod was sloppy and lazy. “That’d be great. You—might have’ta lead the—way.” He tapped himself on the temple, accidentally poking the corner of his eye. He blinked a few times. “I’m blind.”
She laughed as if that was crazy. “No, you’re not.”
“Really. I am.”
“So you can’t see me right now?”
“Nope.”
She pouted, her red bottom lip sticking out. “That’s sad because I look good tonight.”
“I bet so.” His throat bobbed on a thick swallow as if he was nauseous. “I—wish I could see you.”
Alright. I didn’t know Sarah very well, but she seemed like a good wife.
And I felt complicit just standing here watching Peter make a fool of himself.
I knew how shit like this ended. I’d been in Peter’s shoes about eight hundred times, and when you’re so wasted you can hardly talk, one thing follows the next until somehow you wake up in a house you don’t remember entering.
Or the bed of a truck. Or the back of a car.
With no pants, powder residue on your nose, and vomit chunks all over your t-shirt.
He wasn’t thinking right. That much was clear.
From the interactions I’d had with Peter, I’d pegged him pure as the driven snow. All the Thompsons were. None of them dallied in stuff like this. None of them partied and got crazy. What happened? Why was Peter here?
She giggled behind her hands. “Do you look at things by touching them? I think I saw a movie one time where a blind person did that.”
Peter laughed. “I don’t really—but I can.”
She pressed closer as her voice fell. “You’re welcome to look your way.”
Peter laughed, the sound bubbly and interrupted by a hiccup. “My wife—might not like that.”
Her brows shot sky high with a disbelieving laugh. “Your wife? Are you married?”
Peter lifted his left hand and touched his wedding ring as if to confirm his relationship status. “Yeah—I think so.”
“She’s not here, is she?”
“Nope.”
“Well, good.” She smiled, undeterred. “We can still have some fun then.”
It occurred to me that my shots were probably waiting on the bar, but I couldn’t pull my eyes away from the train wreck unfolding in slow motion before me.
I’d be lying if I called myself some sort of upstanding citizen.
Moral uprightness didn’t come natural to me.
I’d done a thousand and one terrible things I regretted, and I’d most likely do more.
But I knew basic right and wrong. And Peter flirting with a woman in the middle of a bar definitely fell into the wrong category.
He had a woman to flirt with and her name was Sarah.
Fueled by an unexpected burst of anger, I grabbed the back of Peter’s collar and yanked him backward, stealing his chance to respond to her offer. “Oh, no you don’t. You’re going home.”
Red Dress frowned.
Peter stumbled back, losing his balance so thoroughly that I had to catch him. Holding him steady by the shoulders, I hissed, “What are you doing, Peter?”
“Huh? What?”
I rolled my eyes. Peter wouldn’t recognize his own name at this point. He needed to go back to the ranch now. My gaze flitted over the cowboys, debating if anyone was able to get behind a wheel. I only had one extra seat in the Ranger.
But every one of them were glassy-eyed, draining a mug, and dangerously close to crossing lines with women who needed to go home, too.
At that thought, I almost laughed. How in the hell did I end up on this side?
Not too long ago, I was the one getting kicked out of bars past closing time, crashing at strangers’ houses until I slept the hangover off.
Then I’d wake up, do a line, and run the cycle all over again.
I glanced over my shoulder at the bar, and sure enough, my shots glistened in the warm light. A tinge of longing twisted in my chest as I gazed at the wall of liquor bottles.
Maybe I could take my shots, then go…
But Peter groaned, a sound I knew all too well.
Still fisting the back of his collar, I pushed him forward. “Go.”
He took a wobbly step, and I barked, “Harlan!”
Harlan turned, lifting his mug. “Yeah?”
“I’m driving all of you home. Come on.”
Harlan shook his head. “I’ve got my truck—”
“You can’t even walk, man. I’ve got the Ranger. Let’s go. Rudy, Cody, you too.”
It took some convincing, but I finally got them to put down their drinks and say goodbye to their girlfriends then herded them to the parking lot, cursing each one of them for ruining my chance to take a taste.
Cody stumbled over the curb and cawed, “Coop, how’re we—supposed to fit?”
“Peter’s sitting in the front and the rest of you idiots can lay in the back.”
Rudy whined, “It’s kinda cold out here.”
It was in the fifties. “Snuggle.”
After a lot of bellyaching, they lumbered into the back of the truck, shifting around a plethora of tools and ranch equipment as they did.
Peter stood outside the truck door, clueless about what to do next.
I hesitated to put him in the truck because he would definitely puke, but I didn’t want to wait until he did because who knew how long it might take for him to let it all go.
Finally, I decided to just get home as quickly as possible.
I opened the passenger’s door and shoved him in.