Chapter 19 Once Upon A Barstool
It’s been a long time since I’ve driven a stick shift, and I have to use the driveway as a quick and dirty refresher course.
Though embarrassing for me, it seems to lighten the mood because by the time we pass back through the iron gate, Noah is doing his best to stifle a chuckle.
He grips the door and braces as I pull out onto the main road.
“I might be worked up, but surely that is still a safer alternative.”
“Shush,” I chide. “I have to concentrate.”
After a light or two, the transitions are smoother, and I can breathe again. Noah too, relaxes into a quiet slouch, his jaw flexing over and over as he stares out the window. Realizing we might need access to the Barker’s driver, I put Pala into the gps and follow cues to the freeway.
Miraculously, traffic is minimal and after about forty minutes, punctuated only by the occasional turn by turn direction, we’ve made it back to the outskirts of the farming town run by Tom and Cheryl Barker.
I pull off the freeway and slow the car to stop at the offramp light before turning to Noah.
“You want to talk about it?”
He shakes his head and then leans forward, covering his face with his hands.
“God, I am so sorry,” he groans.
“Sorry? You have nothing to apologize for.”
“I should have insisted we leave as soon as I realized what my mother did. You shouldn’t have had to witness that.”
“To be honest, I’m not entirely sure what I witnessed. It’s fine, I’m fine. I’m more concerned about you.”
The honesty slips out before I realize what I’ve admitted and he responds before I can backtrack.
“This entire weekend has been nothing but mess after mess, and you’ve handled each with more grace and tact than I could summon in a lifetime.”
I shrug, playfully. “Make sure you put that on my employee of the month plaque.”
He laughs. “God, I am the worst boss.”
“My last boss smelled like old bowling shoes and barfed on me once. You’re scoring miles above him.”
“At least there’s that,” he says before falling silent again.
I maneuver along strange streets, keeping my eyes peeled for anything resembling a bar. My silent hopes are rewarded by a dancing cowboy blinking above a run down building. I swerve out of traffic, and pull a parallel parking job that can only be described as haphazard.
Noah takes in the dilapidated facade. “You can’t be serious. Did you even look at the reviews for this place?”
“Your last recommendation had us traipsing down the highway and nearly forced to eat waxy day-old pizza. We’re playing today Lottie Style.”
His eyebrows shoot up and I can’t help but remember the first time he witnessed Lottie Style. Ryan was it?
“Don’t worry, Graves,” I say, pushing out into the afternoon. “I’ll be gentle.”
Even for a western bar, Chico’s delivers more than I expect. With country tunes and two rows of billiard tables, the room welcomes us with the smell of stale french fries and beer. As the sign at the door suggests, we saddle up at the bar and wave down the only employee in sight.
“Two shots of Maker’s, and two of whatever light beer you have on tap. Please,” I add, sliding my card across the polished bartop.
The woman, a middle aged blonde sporting french braids and daisy dukes, nods and then gets to work pouring our drinks. When she slides them towards us, I push one set to Noah and take my own shot in my fingertips.
“To family,” I say, before throwing it back.
A shiver runs down my spine and raises goosebumps on my arms. Noah shakes his head and whispers a monotone “cheers,” before downing his. He hisses through clenched teeth and slams his shot glass back down on the counter.
“I don’t know if I’m cut out for Lottie Style.”
“Oh, you’re definitely not. But don’t worry, I’ll make sure you make it back in one piece.”
He shakes his head and raises his beer, tapping the edge of it against mine. We sit in silence for a few minutes, drinking beer and drumming our fingers to the tune of some top forty country song. Noah’s the first to break the lull.
“My father and I don’t really get along.”
“You don’t say.”
He makes a face and swallows a large gulp “I’m not sure why. On paper we have so many of the same interests. But there’s always been this . . . tension.”
“Noah, you don’t have to—”
“I want to. You’ve been through hell this week. The least I can do is explain today’s fiasco.”
I let my silence answer, and he continues.
“It started when I was young. He expected the best. Always. Failure was not an option, and anything but a win was a loss.”
His explanation bleeds into an answer for so many of the questions I’ve had about him and his peculiarities. Nothing like family to fuck you up just enough.
“After an undergrad in accounting, I wasn’t sure what I wanted, so I just stayed in school.
When I graduated with my MBA, he offered me a spot at his company.
It was nearly perfect—all the benefits I wanted with a job, and only half the responsibility as I eased into the role.
But about a month into my position, I started hearing things around the office.
Things I didn’t like. Rumors about my father and his friends as well as a concerning one about money disappearing from one of the charity accounts.
Then, last summer when we were on vacation in the Maldives, my dad received a call from his attorney.
He was being sued by three of his shareholders.
” Noah takes a long pull of his drink and I wrap my hands around my glass.
“Of course, my father tried to explain it away. Claimed they were just bitter about his success. But I connected the dots and saw the truth. The money disappearing wasn’t so much of a rumor after all.
I didn’t want to turn on my own family, so I tried to reason with him.
If he came clean and fixed it, I would stay on with the company and make sure it didn’t tank before he was out of prison. ”
I frown. The articles I read didn’t mention anything about this. For as big as Asco Tech is, it seems like something that would have made the news. The headlines practically write themselves: BIG TECH STEALS THE SHOW. I shake out of my thoughts as Noah continues.
“As I’m sure you can imagine, my offer did not land. He lost it. I’ve never seen him that angry. Yelling about how his son didn’t appreciate him, and would be the first to push him under a moving bus.” Noah holds up his elbow and points to a faded pink scar. “He even threw a stapler at me.”
I make a face and signal to the bartender that we need another round. I have a feeling we’ll need a couple more by the end of the day. The curve of Noah’s sad smile pulls his cheek as I work to focus on the story.
“However, as you witnessed today, in the world of Carlisle Graves, anything can disappear with the right motivations. I don’t know how he did it, if he paid them to disappear, or threatened to have them ruined beyond recognition, but almost overnight, the charges were gone.
One of the shareholders even went as far as writing a formal apology for the miscommunication. ”
I wince, his father’s offer for me to help ruin Flourish packing more of a punch now.
“I told my dad I didn’t want anything to do with his sham of a company, and quit on the spot.
I didn’t know what I was going to do. I couldn’t very well go to work for a competitor—the contract I signed involved an erroneously long non-compete agreement.
But then Mark came along and offered me an opportunity with Flourish.
I laid out my conditions, including a relocation package so I could get away, and he met them.
I left everything behind when I moved to Portland, so hearing my father mock it after being the reason I’m in this position didn’t exactly sit well. ”
“God, I’m so sorry.”
Suddenly all of Noah’s dedication to this project including his being here to smooth things over with Tom, makes more sense. This is the only thing he’s ever had that’s just his, no one pulling the strings, or swooping in to save face for him.
He shrugs. “If you can believe it, I’m not even upset about him. I’m more upset at my mom for trying to force us back together. It was sneaky and unlike her.”
I don’t know enough about Vivian Graves to speak for her, but it doesn’t stop me from scrambling for some form of comfort for Noah.
“I’m sure she wasn’t trying to be sneaky. She probably just hates seeing her family torn apart. Moms seem to be that way.”
Noah huffs a chuckle. “She likes you.”
“What are you, psychic?”
“No, but when you went to the bathroom, before my dad came strutting in, she couldn’t stop raving about you.”
“I talked to her for like five minutes.”
“You make an impression.”
I snort. “I suppose that’s true.”
We fall back into a lull, sipping on cold beer and pondering the wounds only family can leave. Desperate to lift the cloud, I cup my glass and quirk my head to the side.
“I suppose there is one silver lining.”
“What’s that?”
“I can one hundred percent say you are the Graves I like best.”
Success blooms in my chest as Noah throws his arms up in celebration and grins. “Well, then I guess we can say it wasn’t a total loss.”
“I mean, the bar is still low,” I say, bringing my glass up. “But you surpassed it.”
“Tell me,” he says, his tone sobering a little. “Are you the Wilde I would like best?”
The familiar swirling pit opens in the bottom of my stomach, and I drop my gaze to the bar top.
“Sorry,” he says, the apology rushing out in a breath. “I shouldn’t pry. I know you mentioned your parents aren’t here anymore. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
The idea of him wanting to know anything about me or my past leaves me teetering on an edge I’ve avoided for most of my adult life.
It’s not that I’m embarrassed of where, or rather who, I came from.
But talking about it always leads to other insecurities, the kinds that tend to send people running.
“No, it’s fine.”
I pause, the awkwardness stretching out with the silence. Shoving the embarrassment of vulnerability down, I take a deep breath and keep my eyes trained to the bartop.
“My parents . . . struggled. My mom got knocked up fresh out of high school and my dad stayed, or rather lurked, around out of some backwards sense of obligation. But it was bad—for all of us. They were these two toxic people who fed off each other and ignited the worst parts of the other. My mom, I think, tried at first, for me. But then life became too much and she fell back into her bad habits. I was fifteen when they died, but they’d left me long before that.
Nan was the one who made sure I had everything I needed and the only person I consider family.
Well, her and now Kara. And I suppose Henrietta too. ”
I take another drink before realizing I didn’t actually answer his question. “So, unfortunately for you, whether you like me best or not, it’s just me.”
Noah is watching me, but for the first time I can remember, it is not with the expected look of pity or unease at such a shitshow story. His sea gray eyes track along my face, my skin flushing in their wake, and his lips are still curved in a warm smile.
“I don’t find that unfortunate in the slightest.”
“Who even are you?”
“I can tell you if you want.”
I meant it as a tease, but his response is so lighthearted and pure, I can’t help but be curious. His eagerness to share is an unfamiliar thing, something I don’t normally seek out, but after everything else we’ve covered, what’s the harm?
“Sure.”
“What would you like to know?”
“What’s your favorite food?”
“Slinging me the easy ones, huh?”
I twist my glass between my hands and frown at him. “Just answer the question.”
“Pot roast. Like the kind you eat on Sunday afternoons after a lazy nap.”
“You take naps?” I ask, unsure why it surprises me.
“Yes, whenever I can. Can I ask you one now?”
I nod, chewing on the inside of my lip, and shift my gaze to the glass shelves lining the back wall.
“What’s your favorite thing about Portland?”
My chest loosens. That’s an easy one. Encouraged, I prop my chin up on my palm, my elbow pressing into the smooth wood of the bartop. “It’s the perfect city.”
“Oh?”
“It’s true. There’s the foodie scene, a bangin’ arts district, a literal underground history and we are no more than an hour from mountains or the beach. Plus, since the climate is moderate, we get as close to all four seasons as you can without piles of snow.”
“I don’t know that weeks of endless rain could be considered moderate, but I suppose I’ll let it slide.”
I make a face, before bounding to another question. “What made you want to be an accountant?”
“I like that there’s always an answer, that even through the mess of it, there is a solution for the problem.”
The answer is so perfectly him—logical and based in the theory he carries so deep in his essence. He doesn’t let me dwell on it long.
“What drew you to Flourish?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Honestly?”
He nods.
“The bonus structure.”
“Seriously? Not the mission statement, or the products?”
“The snack bar is a close second.”
“I’ll be sure to let the board know,” he says, his laughter melting into comfortable silence.
There it is, a little piece of reality sneaking in. Refusing to let it drag us down, I move our line of questioning.
“Why did Paul call you Go-go?”
He smiles. “Noah Go-go Graves. I’ve been obsessed with cars since I was a little kid. Every birthday from four to twelve was NASCAR themed.”
My chest aches. This detail, along with the others, threatens to transform him from this forbidden enigma into a real person—someone I consider more than an acquaintance, someone with the power to cause ripples in my life. But I can’t stop. I have to know more.
He thinks for a moment before speaking again.
“Late nights or early mornings?”
“Late nights.”
Another beat of silence.
“What do you miss most about L.A.?”
“You mean aside from the sunshine ninety percent of the year?”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, yeah. We get it, you like your vitamin d.”
“I miss my mom. And a few of my friends. Not most of them, but some.”
“Megan?”