Chapter 13
Vivian
It’s been almost two weeks since I last spoke to Miles, I thought I saw him walk past the bar but I was mistaken.
No texts. No run-ins. Not even a glimpse of him driving his red truck down Main.
I’ve noticed every day for some reason.
The space he took up, just for one night, feels weirdly empty now.
And I don’t know what that says about me.
Greg gave me two extra nights off this week, said it looked like I needed it. I didn’t argue. Used them to soak in time with Riley. We did a movie day—her choice, obviously—which meant we went through at least four of her favorite Barbie films.
And, okay, they’re still my favorites too. Even though I’m twenty-seven. And I know all the lines and all the songs.
Dad came by again Thursday. Brought pizza and a new puzzle for Riley. She pulled him straight to the table, bossed him around like a little stubborn girl she is while he tried to help her find edge pieces. She lit up like she always does around him.
Then Friday night, Mindy showed up with lasagna and wine and that knowing look in her eye that made me nervous.
We spoke about Greg and if they were seeing each other again, but she said it’s complicated, they sleep with each other but don’t text much.
She didn’t pry too much. Just asked how I was doing. Whether I’d seen Miles lately.
I laughed. Shrugged. Said I’d been busy.
Which wasn’t a lie.
I haven’t seen him since the night he opened up to me about his childhood.
That night when I saw another side of him, one I don’t think he shows often. Vulnerability. Honesty. Raw edges of a life he’s had to fight through.
I wasn’t expecting it. I knew he’d been in foster care, and sure, people don’t end up there without a reason.
But hearing the truth from his own mouth, that he was a little boy living in fear, watching his mom get hurt, that he was getting hurt too, then watching her unravel until she tried to take her own life… it gutted me.
He tried to save her. At eight years old, he had the strength to pick up the phone and call for help while the world he knew crumbled around him.
And now, days later, I keep thinking about it.
I look at Riley.
She’s in her blanket fort on the couch right now, messy hair, chocolate milk moustache, completely wrapped up in another Barbie adventure. Her giggles echo through the room, and I feel it in my chest, that heavy ache of gratitude.
She may have lost her dad, but she has me. She has us. She’s surrounded by love and I’ll never let her feel alone.
It brings me back to when I was her age, sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, watching the same movies with my mom.
I can still remember the way she’d brush my hair behind my ears, always singing along to the songs and then my dad would come in, carrying two mugs of hot chocolate, mine piled with marshmallows, hers with cinnamon.
I smile at the nostalgic feeling.
God, I’d give anything to have them again.
Maybe that’s why I’ve held so tightly to those memories…
And maybe that’s why what Miles told me hit me the way it did.
He didn’t get those moments. He didn’t get that softness, that safety before Greg’s family.
And I think—no, I know—he deserved better.
I’m pulled out of my thoughts when my phone buzzes on the coffee table. Dad.
I swipe to answer. “Hey, Dad. You good?” I ask, already picking up on the rasp in his voice.
He starts coughing, deep, chesty. “Not really. I’ve gotten sick and feel like shit, love,” he croaks out.
My stomach dips. “Ah, sorry to hear. You do sound rough. Have you seen the doctor yet?” I ask, sinking onto the edge of the couch, already bracing for the rest.
“Yeah, went in this morning. They said it’s the flu. Which means…” He sighs, like he hates even saying it. “I can’t watch Riley today, hon. I’m sorry, I know you’ve got work.”
Shit.
I glance at the clock, barely forty minutes before I need to be out the door. Mindy’s working. No backup. My brain scrambles, a dozen ideas and none of them realistic.
I press a hand to my forehead. “It’s okay, Dad. I’ll figure something out. Just rest, drink something warm, and call me if anything changes, okay?”
He lets out a weak chuckle. “I’ll be fine, Viv. Love you.”
“Love you too.” I hang up and set the phone down beside me.
Riley looks up from where she’s perched on the rug by the coffee table, her glass of chocolate milk clutched in her small hands, a little milk moustache still clinging to her upper lip. “Is Grandpa coming today?” she asks, licking at it with a sleepy grin.
I shake my head, brushing some of her curls away from her cheek. “No, baby. He’s sick so he has to stay in bed.”
She frowns, taking another sip. “Poor Grandpa. Can I go to Auntie Minnie’s then?”
I sigh. “Mindy’s working, sweetheart.”
“Oh.” She tilts her head. “So who’s gonna look after me?”
I hesitate, then glance at the time again. Wednesday. Dead shift. Greg probably won’t mind.
“You’re coming to work with me today,” I tell her, ruffling her hair.
Her eyes go wide. “Really? Can I bring my coloring book?”
“Yes, you can,” I tell her with a smile. “But first, let’s get you changed.”
Her face lights up like the sun just walked through the front door. “Can I wear a pretty dress today?” she asks, eyes wide and hopeful, her chocolate milk forgotten on the coffee table.
She’s such a girly girl, and honestly, I love that about her. Always picking out sparkles, bows, and anything remotely princessy.
“Of course,” I say, brushing a curl from her forehead. “How about the pink one with the bows? The one Auntie Mindy got you?”
Her mouth drops open in pure excitement. “That’s the one I wanted!”
She takes off like a shot, little feet thundering up the stairs, the sound echoing through the house.
I laugh under my breath, shaking my head as I grab her empty glass and start tidying up.
* * *
We walk through the front doors of the bar, the familiar scent of citrus cleaner and aged wood wrapping around us like it always does.
Riley’s little hand clutches mine tightly, her sparkly pink backpack bouncing against her back with every step.
She slows down, wide eyes scanning the room with quiet curiosity, like she’s taking it all in through a new lens now that she’s a little older.
Her gaze lingers on the booths, the framed photos, the jukebox in the corner.
Greg glances up from behind the bar, wiping his hands on a towel, and his lips twitch into a lopsided smile when he sees us. Not overly excited, but there’s a softness in his eyes I don’t miss. Familiar. Fond.
“Hey, little missy,” he says, tapping a knuckle against the bar and holding it out.
Riley climbs the stool then leans a little bit forward with the tiniest smile and bumps her fist against his. “Hi, Greggy.”
She pulls out one of her books from her backpack, already flipping to her favorite coloring page like it’s completely normal, as if she’s done it a hundred times before. She holds it up proudly for him to see.
Greg leans over the counter, mock studying the picture. “Not fair that I have to work while you get to color all day,” he grumbles with a fake pout.
Riley giggles and sticks her tongue out at him, then climbs onto one of the barstools, legs swinging, little pink sneakers knocking against the wood as she settles in like she owns the place.
I walk up beside her, shrugging off my coat and setting my bag on the floor. “Sorry, I had to bring her. My dad’s sick, flu or something, and Mindy’s got a packed shift.”
Greg waves me off, grabbing two clean glasses and setting them upside down on the bar. “Don’t worry about it. You know I don’t mind.”
Back when I first started working here, Greg used to help me more than he probably should’ve, rides to shifts when I didn’t have a car, showing up with groceries when he knew money was tight. He’s always been the kind of guy who looks out for people without making a big deal of it.
Riley flips open her book and pulls out a handful of crayons, already laser-focused, like she’s in her own little world.
I grab an apron from the hook behind the bar and start tying it around my waist, but something in my chest won’t let me move on just yet.
Greg’s wiping down the counter beside me, casual and quiet, like he’s waiting for me to say whatever’s sitting heavy in my lungs.
I glance toward Riley—she’s humming to herself, her tongue poking out slightly in concentration as she colors in a cartoon puppy wearing a tutu. Completely at peace.
I lower my voice. “He told me about his mom.”
Greg stills. Not in a dramatic way, just a subtle pause, like a ripple moving through otherwise calm water. He doesn’t look at me, just folds the cloth in his hand and sets it aside.
“Miles?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer.
I nod. “He told me the other night. About the abuse. The overdose. Being put in foster care.”
Greg exhales slowly and leans both hands on the counter, head dropping slightly.
“He said you were close when you were kids. But he didn’t give many details,” I say gently. “Just mentioned your family took him in later.”
Greg lifts his gaze to the shelf of liquor bottles across from us, like he’s remembering a different version of this place. A different time.
“We were friends. Grew up two houses down from each other,” he says finally.
“Back then, I didn’t understand what I was seeing.
I was just a kid. I’d notice bruises sometimes, scratches, even burns he couldn’t explain.
He’d show up to school looking like he hadn’t slept, or he’d flinch when someone raised their voice.
” Greg swallows hard. “I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t know how.”
My throat tightens. “But your parents knew something was wrong?”
He nods slowly. “They did. I’d hear them whispering about it when they thought I wasn’t listening. Talking about how worried they were. My mom cried once after Miles left our house. He’d come over to play video games and barely touched his snack. She kept saying something wasn’t right.”