Chapter 3
Three
Poppy
Those gray eyes.
Ugh.
I hate that I feel a pulse of remorse at the sight of them dimming, at the thrum of pain radiating off him, at the way Storm’s shoulders hunch ever so slightly.
But I just ignore the guilt and go back to doing my job—selling booze.
I do that expecting him to leave, to toss some money on the bar top and walk out (or maybe to just leaving without paying, without looking back—disappearing without a backward glance is his M.O., after all).
But he stays.
Stays as I pour drinks and take orders for the limited items we make in our tiny kitchen. Stays as I cash out tourists, as I add to the tabs of regulars, as I draw beers and mix cocktails and pour the very occasional glass of wine.
Stays as the crowd thins, as Clem and Daisy and Clover and Blossom slant me knowing looks with their eyebrows raised high on their way out the door.
Stays as Roger and Tommy finally call it a night.
Stays as I cash out the register and wipe down the bar.
It’s only when I turn my focus to the tables, cleaning their tops and putting the chairs up that he finally moves from his stool.
I tense as he comes close, as he pauses near my side.
But he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t touch me—instead, he just lifts the chair after I finish wiping it down and sets it atop the table. And then he repeats the movement again and again as I make my way around the floor of Sully’s, not pausing until I’m done, until all the chairs are put up.
Still, he doesn’t speak.
And I can’t make myself break the taut silence that’s fallen between us.
Instead, I snag the broom, watching him out of the corner of my eye as I sweep the floor.
And something inside me softens when he moves down the hall and comes back with the mop bucket, as though he remembers doing this with me before, back when Sully was alive, back when things were so damned different.
“I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye,” he says quietly.
I freeze.
Then watch as he starts dragging the mop back and forth, remembering the time that’s passed, the years I’ve spent trying to survive, the…reality of what happened between us. “I get it,” I reply just as quietly. “You didn’t have anything to stay for.”
His gaze locks on mine. “No, I didn’t.”
And with those brutal words, he wrings the mop out, continues swabbing the floor.
And why do they wound me so deeply?
It was seven years ago.
An eternity ago.
A lifetime ago.
Why should I care?
“Does your husband mind you working this late?”
I frown at the non sequitur. “What makes you think I have a husband?”
The mop stills, our eyes clashing again. Then he looks away and resumes mopping, asking, “Boyfriend then?”
I scowl. “I’m not exactly interested in dating right now.” I finish sweeping and put the broom back, ignoring the weight of his gaze on me as I head to the bar to finish up my tasks there.
“How about your uncle?” he asks as I start refilling napkin holders. “I thought he didn’t like it when you worked the closing shift.”
“He didn’t.” I grit my teeth together. “But considering he’s dead, there isn’t much he can do about it.”
That mop freezes again, taut silence descending once more. Then, “How long ago?”
“Three years,” I whisper, the pain so acute I can barely breathe. “Left me this place.” I close the register. “So now I work closing.” And opening. And ordering and advertising and balancing the books and paying taxes and…
All of it is on me.
Though, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
The thought of losing Sully’s too…
Impossible.
“Poppy,” Storm murmurs.
I go stiff at the softness in his tone, in those familiar gray eyes, and snap my shields back in place. “So, you made it, huh?” I plunk the napkin holders back in their proper places, check that the dishwasher is running, that the fridges are loaded and closed. “That’s big.”
His eyebrows draw together, so I answer the unspoken question.
“You playing in the big leagues,” I say. “You made it.”
Understanding dawns on his face…and is trailed by an emotion I can’t read. “Yeah, I did,” he mutters. “Yeah, I am.”
Then he goes back to mopping.
And I find myself in the odd predicament of not having anything to do.
Except watch him work.
And wonder why he’s still here.
“Is it all you hoped for?” I ask and despite what happened between us, I really hope it is.
Really hope him running away, him leaving everything—and me—behind without a word, him staying away all these years since has brought him everything he wanted, everything he needed.
Everything he dreamed of.
Because if it didn’t—
“For a while it was.”
I hold my breath. Wait for him to explain.
But he just keeps mopping.
And I keep watching him.
“So, your kid…” he begins, and every cell in my body fills with ice, from toes to fingertips and all the parts in between.
Including my throat.
Which means I can’t say anything.
Can’t explain. Can’t ask. Can’t tell him all the things I need to.
Things I tried to tell him seven years ago.
“Mom?”
My body locks, but only for a second. Then I hear the fear in Holly’s voice, recognize that it’s also full of tears, and I’m rushing across the bar, meeting her just as she pushes through the door that leads to our apartment above.
“M-mom?” she asks again, her voice shaky, her eyes red, tears streaking down her cheeks. “Mom!”
“I’m right here, baby.” I scoop her up into my arms, holding her tight as sobs hiccup through her chest. “I’m right here.” I smooth my hand up and down her back until her breathing slows. “You have the same nightmare, sweetheart?”
She buries her face against my chest and nods. “Y-yeah.”
“Let me lock up,” I say. “And I’ll come lay with you.”
Another nod.
I hitch her up and turn—
To see Storm standing just a few feet behind us.
The mop bucket is gone and he tilts his head in the direction of the back door. “The alarm still the same?”
My heart rolls over in my chest, a dangerous thread of emotion weaving through my insides.
But I just nod, whisper, “Yeah.”
He jerks his chin to the stairs. “You take care of her,” he murmurs. “I’ll get the lights and lock up.”
“I can do—”
Holly sniffs, cutting off my protests.
“Right,” I whisper. “Thanks.”
He doesn’t reply, just moves to the light switch, flicking the first bank off. I stand frozen for a heartbeat, then Holly sniffs again and I slip through the door leading up to our apartment, locking it behind me before carrying her upstairs.
“Who was that, Mommy?” she asks sleepily as I bring her into her bedroom, tucking her and her stuffed goose, Gerald, under the covers and lying down beside her.
Her eyes are half-mast—and she has no idea how loaded that drowsy question is.
But I don’t allow my thoughts to drift down that dangerous road.
Instead, I cuddle her closer and give her the truth.
Or a version of it, anyway.
“An old friend, baby.”