by R. S. Lively
"That's only a part of it. He breaks ground on a new job site tomorrow. We should go and put sugar in the machinery," I huff, crossing my arms over my chest.
Dylan turns into one of our favorite bars called Meow’s. Apparently, the lady that owns it loves cats, but whatever. It’s a damn good bar.
He parks and shuts off the car. Turning in his seat, he grabs my hands. "I'm not as close with Tops as you are. You know the man better than me, but he is a staple. I know you're upset, but don't go taking the bull by the horns yet. You always do that. You charge into a situation unprepared, and you always get in trouble. You always look for a way to stop a threat when one hasn't happened yet. I love and hate that about you. It's your curse and your blessing. This Logan guy does a lot of good, too, from what I hear. Don't go painting him with a bad brush because you’re sad about what's going on with Tops, okay?"
“But—”
Dylan puts a finger to my lips, shaking his head. “No, buts. Now, let’s go have a drink and think about a plan to help Tops save the bar without him having to sell to Voldemort.”
I gasp, putting my hand to my chest. “How dare you say his name!”
Both of us laugh before getting out of the car and walking inside Meow’s. The atmosphere is dark, and the music is a low thrum of a guitar. We pass a board on the left that has a bunch of pictures of everyone’s cats. A little inside joke the bar does.
This is what I need. A drink, a friend, and some good laughs. My pessimistic voice peeps in the back of my head, telling me all the laughter in the world won't change Tops’ cancer or Logan Stone. To counter that, my confident voice chirps back: if it's the last thing I do, I'm going find a way to stop Logan from buying the diner and breaking new ground for some resort we don't need.
Logan
"Jefferson Tompkins, it's good to see you, my friend."
I reach out and shake the older man's hand. If it’s possible, his dark skin seems a bit lighter, and he looks like he’s dropped a few pounds since I last saw him. I can't say I'm surprised. He sought me out because of his illness. But I didn't know that it was this severe.
"You're looking good, Tops."
He waves my compliment away before coughing into his hand. “Lying to me ain’t gonna get you my diner, son.”
“Who said I was lying? You’re looking like a million bucks, considering.”
"Considering… Yes, I suppose so." I never saw a sadder look in my entire life. His dark eyes droop as I walk over the threshold of the diner doors. The bolt slides back into place, and he locks it. Tops pulls the string to the curtains, closing them to keep the world out. He waves me over to a booth that has worn red leather seats. Seats I have sat in a million times growing up.
In the middle of the table, a silver tray sits with different flavors of creamer, sugar, and a pitcher of coffee. The aroma of the coffee invades my nose, making my eyes roll to the back of my head. For a diner, Tops’ has fantastic coffee. I don't hesitate to pick the silver tin up and pour myself a cup. "Want some?"
“No, no. I have to watch my caffeine intake now. I have a pot of decaf brewing in my office. It ain’t the same, but it’ll have to do.”
The snaps of my briefcase echo through the empty diner, and for a moment, I feel like I’m making a dirty deal as my hand grips the folder I’ve put together. “I know you didn’t call me over here before the diner opened to have a cup of coffee with me, Tops. As much as I love your company, even I know you aren’t a morning person. So, I assume you want to create the contract? Have you officially decided to sell?”
His large white teeth flash as he smiles as he shakes his pointer finger at me. “You’ve always been about business. That’s what I like about you, Logan. You don’t beat around the bush or get caught up in emotions. I don’t want to deal with more emotion than I have to.”
“I can understand that, but you can’t blame people for caring, Tops. You’ve become a tradition for people my age. They come here every Friday after a football game, or every Sunday after church. You’ve become a part of their lives.”
Tops’ shoulders slump, and he picks up a pack of pure cane sugar, tearing the edges. "I know that, Logan. It's why this is so hard. Every person has become a trademark in my life, just like this diner is for them, but I have to look at reality. And the reality is, I can't work for much longer."
I can tell how much losing this place affects him. He built this place with my father way back when. He’d started this business with his own bare hands. It would be like me losing my father’s company. Men like us put time, effort, and skill into what we do. It would make me feel worthless. On top of dealing with his cancer, I can’t imagine how he must feel.
“You know, Tops. You could beat this. You might not have to sell.” I sip my coffee. The bitter taste of Columbian roast mixed with hazelnut creamer hits my tongue. I swear, I feel my soul leave my body for a moment and then come back refreshed and ready to take on the day.
He rubs his hand over his short hair. "I have to sell to pay for my treatment. My insurance doesn't cover all of it. It's what I have to do."
“What if we go in fifty-fifty?"
He stops shredding the pack of sugar for a moment and pinches his brows together when he stares at me. “What do you mean?”
I pull out the paperwork for a partnership and lay it on the table. “What I mean is, you don’t have to give the entire diner up, Tops. I understand vision. I understand dreams. This is yours, just like my father’s company was his.”
“Your father was a good man.”
The emotions I try so hard not to give in to tickle my heart. I clear my throat, readjusting my ass against the seat. "He was, and so are you. I know you and my father are—excuse me—were old friends. He would want this for you. Let me buy half of it. We can become partners. You go to your treatment, chemo, radiation, surgeries. Do what you have to do, and know that it will be waiting for you when you are better."
“Ah, son. The chances of me getting better—”
“Are crap with that fucking attitude, Tops.”
He pushes against the grey plastic backing of the booth, glancing away and stares into space. “Fifty percent? Half of it will still be mine?”
“It will be yours and when you’re better, you can have it all back.”
“Lord, I'm getting too damn old for that. I don't want to come back full-time.”
“You know age is just a number.”
“Yeah, tell that to my bones, young buck.”
I throw my head back and laugh. My shoulders shake, and I lose the grip on my pen. The thousand-dollar fountain pen rolls a few times before stopping on the paperwork.
“I have conditions.”
I spread my palms out before laying them on the table. “Of course.” I take the pen back in my hand and flip to the page I made just for notes. “I’m ready when you are.”
“The staff stays.”
Well, that’s off to a rough start already. “Really? All of them?”
“All of them.”
“Tops, we need to talk about that. That waitress of yours—”
“—is the best damn waitress this place has seen in fifteen years.”
My fist clench when I remember how rude she was when she waited on my friend and I a few days ago. “Funny that you know which one I’m talking about.”
“Well, if it’s the same waitress who stormed into my office, crying and yelling about how I can’t sell the diner, yes, you’d be right.”
“Long, cherry-red hair?” I didn’t see her face, but I saw her from my peripheral vision.”
He dips his head in acknowledgment. “That would be Whitley. That girl is like family to me. She stays, no questions asked.”
“You’re sure? She seems like a liability. She got an attitude with me when I asked her questions about this place.”
“That girl is passionate and headstrong. She was scared. She came in all upset from talking to you because she didn’t know. She also didn’t kno
w I was sick. I had to drop two bombs on her that day. She is a good girl with a heart of gold.”
I don't even want to think about the headache her mouth will give me when I have to work with her. I sigh, writing down that she and everyone else has to stay. "What else?"
“If I die…”
“Tops.”
“If I die, my half of the diner goes to Whitley.”
I blink, shocked by his words.
“Logan?”
“You can’t be serious, Tops. What the hell is a girl her age going to do with a diner?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. She can sell it, but I doubt she will. If I know her, like I think I do, she’ll want to keep my memory alive.”
I think I get it now. “That’s why you want her to have it because she cares as much as you do about the place.”
“No offense, if I gave it all to you, you’d probably tear it down and build a condo. That’s another condition. It stays a diner. It was made a diner, and whoever has it after me, keeps it a diner.”
The old man balls his fist and slams it on the table, making the coffee in my mug slosh over the rim. Brown liquid starts to travel to the edge of the counter, threatening to drip onto my Armani suit. Without hesitation, I snag a few brown napkins and clean it up. There’s one thing I’d change—the napkins.
“I never would change this place, Tops. If not because of my memories with my dad, but because of my dad. He would roll over in his grave if he knew I touched a single booth in this place.”
“Well, now. Hold on a minute. I never said you couldn’t upgrade.”
Consider my interest piqued. “Really?”
“Hold on a second, okay? I have ideas in my office. I didn’t think we would talk about this. Plus, my coffee is in there. I’ll be back.”
"I'll be here."
I watch as he makes his way through the double doors that lead into the kitchen. I know his office sits right across from it, and I wonder if that was a change I could make. Instead of having his office near all those smells, if he would like one in the back, away from all the noise and scents.
I stand, picking up my Tops’ mug and taking a gander around. Photos are hanging on the wall that I haven't gotten a chance to look at. I hold the warm cup in my hands, bending over to take a closer look at the memories that line the walls. There are hundreds. Some are in black and white, and some are in color. My heart constricts when I see a picture of Tops and my dad sitting on the back of an old Ford pickup. It's the same truck that sits in the garage today with a tarp over it. Both of the men are smiling, and on their arms are two beautiful women. I have to take a double take, but sitting on my dad's lap, with his arm wrapped around her shoulder, is my mom.
This picture was taken way before my time, and I reach out, touching the glass with my fingertips. They look so happy. My mom's smile takes up her whole face. She seems to be laughing at something my dad said, and he was laughing, too, but also staring at her with so much love and amazement. My mom hasn't smiled in so long. It’s hard to believe that was the same woman.
“Ah, the summer of ’73. That was a good year. He had just gotten that truck and insisted he take all of us for a ride. He crashed into a damn tree the same night, too. Got four stitches in his head."
“Is that what that scar was from?” I always wondered, but Dad always said he couldn’t remember because it happened so long ago.
“Sure was. Your mom stitched him up. That’s probably why it scarred.”
My eyes widen with horror. “No way. There’s no way my mom did that. You must be thinking of a different woman.”
Tops grabs my arms, telling me silently to spin around. When I do, his dark brown eyes meet mine. “Your mother wasn’t always like she is now, you know that, right?”
I twist my head to glance at the picture again to see the woman wearing a smiling face, high-waisted shorts, and a red crop top. Her hair was tied back, showing the young beauty of her face. “That’s not the same woman, Tops.”
“I know it ain’t, son, but inside she is. They had always been in love. I couldn’t remember a time they weren’t together. She lost the other half of her soul.”
“I did too, Tops.” I did too.
“Ah, let’s sit down and get this contract in order. I ain’t getting any younger.” He huffs, strolling back to our booth.
I follow behind him and sit down, gathering the pen and paper in my hands. “Alright, so, what kind of remodeling were you thinking?”
After an hour or so of talking, Tops agrees to let me renovate everything, from the kitchen to the dining area. He says he’s tired of it looking old, like him. After he signs the paperwork, I shake his hand and leave back to my mom’s house.
Frankford sees me coming and opens the door to the Land Rover. "Is everything okay, sir?"
For the first time in hours, I sit in a seat that doesn’t make my ass numb. “Fine, Frankford. Tops took me on a trip down memory lane, is all." A time where my mother had been happy, not a complete drunk who walks around naked.
“I see, sir. Are you still on for your one o’clock appointment with Anderson Construction?”
My head hits the headrest as I groan. “I forgot about that. What would I do without you, Frankford?”
“Probably lose your head, sir. No offense, sir.”
Frankford always cracks me up with that ‘sir' shit. I’ve been asking him to call me Logan since he has changed my damn diapers.
I glance at my father’s gold Rolex I wear every day. I have around two hours before I have to meet with the crew. I can have Frankford drop me off at the trailer I have on the property we plan to break ground on tomorrow. "Drop me at the site, please. I have some work to catch up on."
“Yes, sir.”
I close my eyes as the tires lull me to sleep. I try to fight it, but the urge to catch a few minutes of shut-eye wins. I haven't been sleeping well, and if I can get an extra fifteen minutes, my day will be a lot better. I ignore every ping and vibration from my phone.
“Sir?”
I sigh but don't open my eyes. They are sealed shut for the remainder of the drive. "Frankford."
“Sorry to interrupt, sir, but the sheriff’s department is on the phone for you. Apparently, your sister is in jail.”
I wave a hand at his words, fanning them away. “Let her sit there for a while, Frankford. I can’t deal with her… recklessness, right now.”
“Sir, if I may, if you don’t do anything now, the newspapers will be riddled with gossip tomorrow.”
I almost don't care. Everyone knows my mother is a drunk and my sister is a drug addict. It isn't news, but people like to make it the center of fucking everything because of our last name. If it weren't for my work ethic, this family would have sunk years ago. “Frankford, I'm done covering up her messes. Let the world see what she really is, and maybe she’ll change."
I meet his gaze in the rearview mirror, speaking a silent conversation until he breaks. “Of course, sir. Anything you say.”
I reach for my phone and see four missed calls, fifteen text messages, and thirty emails—all within five minutes. I don't know how my assistant does it, but I can't wait for her to get back from vacation. Handling all of this myself takes time that I don't have.
Blue sky filters through the windows of the car, warming the skin on my face as I close my eyes again. I refuse to feel bad for the decision to keep her in jail. Why should I feel bad for the choices she makes? I can't coddle her forever, or she won't learn from her mistakes. I told her if she made another mistake this would happen, and I can't go back on my word. I'll let her sit there for a few days, hoping that the time behind bars will help her realize how much she needs to change.
I want this to be a family business, but I can't count on anybody's help except Frankford's. The guy is just a butler. He shouldn't be helping me make business decisions.
“We are here, sir.”
So much for my nap.
The car breaks with ease, comin
g to a smooth stop. I tilt my head to the left, seeing the machinery and work trailer for the project. This resort is going to be worth it. It’s going to bring in a lot of revenue and create so many jobs that this city needs.
“Thanks, Frankford.”
I open my door before he can get it for me. “Frankford, I told you. I can do it myself.”
“It’s my job, sir.”
I roll my eyes at his insistence. Turning my back, I walk towards the trailer and shout, for the millionth time: “And call me Logan!”.
“Yes, sir.”
Whitley
“Whitley!”
I slap the hand that tries to wake me.
“Whitley!”
Persistent little voice. I slap their hand again.
“Damn it, woman! Wake up!”
I yelp when the thunderous voice makes me roll out of bed and onto the floor. When I crane my neck, I see Dylan standing over me with his hands on his hips.
“What is it with everyone making me fall on the floor in the morning? It isn’t okay,” I mutter, holding my hand to my head. That carpet is a lot harder than it looks.
“We drank too much last night. I think the bartender liked me too much.”
I hold my arm up from the floor, asking for help to get up. I groan when he pulls my arm so hard it feels like it will rip out of the socket. “Everyone likes you too much.”
I stretch my entire body until I stand on my tiptoes, stretching the morning away. Nothing feels better than a good morning stretch.
“It’s not my fault I’m so hot the ladies can’t stay off me.” Dylan rubs his torso with his hands.
I giggle, slapping his chest as I make my way toward the bathroom. Dylan and I have been friends for so long that when we go out together, we crash at my place or his. He sleeps on the couch in my room, and I stay in my bed.
I had someone ask me one time why Dylan and I aren’t dating, and I crinkled my nose. I don’t find Dylan attractive like that. He is good-looking, but not my type. I like my men more on the serious side. Not that Dylan can’t be serious, but most of the time everything is a joke to him. I want my life to be more than a joke, and right now, that’s all Dylan can offer anyone.
