7
Rum & Cherry Coke
“So, what have you been up to?” Jones asks, sliding on the stool next to me and turning me so we’re facing each other.
It doesn’t go unnoticed that he’s also turned me away from the hallway.
“Working in Denver,” I reply, not sure how much I feel like telling him. Even if that wasn’t Wyatt’s shadow leaving the bar, I’m sure he still talks to him.
“That’s it?” he pushes. He’s searching for information, for something specific. “Is there anyone special in your life?”
Red light! Warning alarms go off in my head.
I cannot have this conversation with him. I’m not going to lie to Jones; he deserves the truth from me. We’ve known each other far too long to start lying to each other now, no matter the circumstances. Not to mention, he was always the best at calling me on my crap.
“Nope, not really. What about you?”
“You know me, always searching for the unattainable.”
Isn’t that the truth. I tried multiple times to set Jones up on dates. Blind dates. Double dates. It didn’t matter. The girls were never good enough.
Too rich.
Too smart.
Too pretty. I didn’t even realize that was a thing.
Then there were the girls Wyatt tried to set him up with.
Too stupid.
Butt-ugly.
Too slutty.
We both gave up after a while. With Jones, he seemed happiest when he was single. He enjoyed “browsing” as he liked to put it. He was always looking but never making any moves. I thought maybe he wasn’t into girls for a minute. Wyatt went and told him what I said and the next day he came strolling in the bar with a girl on his arm.
Not just any girl, though.
Ginger. The slutty redhead who Josh decided was a better “fit” for him than I was.
“Chloe, this is Veronica.”
My face must say it all because I can feel my jaw drop the moment I look up and make eye contact with the fiery redhead.
“I know you,” she says, a devious smile flashing across her face. “You used to date Josh.”
Looking to Wyatt and then to Jones, I turn back in my chair and choose not to respond. The only things I can think to say are rather nasty, fairly rude, and if my mother heard me, or Wyatt’s mother who is watching us curiously right now, my mouth would have a bar of soap in it within seconds.
“To what do we owe this pleasure?” Wyatt asks Veronica.
“Adam invited me. What do you care? Is she your girlfriend?” the inflection in her voice causes me to grind my teeth together. I want to go off on this girl, to slap her across her face, but I know better. She’s not worth it.
“That’s none of your business. Jones,” Wyatt says, standing and pulling him away.
They’re out of earshot so I do the best I can to read Wyatt’s lips. He’s not happy, I can tell that much. Jones throws his hands in the air after a few minutes and walks back to the table, grabs Veronica’s hand and drags her out of the bar without a word.
“What was that about?” I ask before Wyatt even sits back down.
“He doesn’t want you to think he’s gay.”
“Seriously? He thinks I care if he’s gay or not?”
“No, it’s not about that. He’s not gay, Chloe, and he doesn’t want anyone, even you, thinking he is. He’s just… picky. His last girlfriend ruined him. She was it for him and since her, he hasn’t dated anyone.”
“If she was that important to him, why aren’t they together anymore? Why doesn’t he get her back?”
“It’s not that simple. And it’s not my story to tell. If you really want to know, you’ll have to ask him. Give him about an hour, though. I’m sure he’ll be down at the pond and cooled off by then.”
Smirking at Wyatt, I nudge him with my foot and pick up my pencil. Writing my idea down, Wyatt nods. We begin packing up our things just as Becky comes over with our burgers and fries.
“Where are you two headed?”
“Down to the pond to find Jones. I need to apologize,” I reply, closing my notebook before she can see what I wrote.
“Want these to go, then?” she asks, her question directed at Wyatt.
“I can box them up, Mom. Thanks.”
Taking the baskets from her, Wyatt heads in back to package up our food and grab a few other provisions. Knowing I need to keep Becky occupied for a few minutes, I place my hand on her arm to get her attention.
“I’m sorry if I caused you to worry,” I say. “Something I said to Jones led him to bring that girl here. It was an accident, but I saw the look on your face. You don’t need to worry about him. We’re going to find him and make things right. I promise.”
“Thanks, Chloe. I know you would never hurt him, but I worry about that boy like I do my own kids.”
Nodding, Wyatt appears in the hall to the bathrooms and motions for me to wrap it up. Pulling my bag high on my shoulder, I hug Becky goodbye.
“Did you get it?” I ask as soon as the back door closes behind us.
“Of course I did,” he replies. “We need to stop for soda, though.”
Thirty minutes later, we’re down by the pond and Wyatt is building a fire. Just as the sun is starting to set over the water, Jones walks up and plops down next to me.
“I’m sorry,” I say, handing him a red plastic cup filled with his favorite liquid.
“Me, too. I knew Veronica was a tramp, but I had no idea she was the one Josh left you for.”
“I don’t care about that,” I say taking a sip, before coughing at the potency of the mixture. “I do care about you, though, and I know you deserve better than that piece of trash.”
“Tell her, man,” Wyatt says, taking a seat on the other side of me. “She deserves to know.”
Nodding his head, Jones takes a large gulp of his drink, finishing it off in only a few swallows, and tossing the plastic cup in the fire.
“Want another?” I ask when he doesn’t say anything.
“Like I would turn down rum and Cherry Coke. Especially if we’re going to have this conversation.”
“You don’t have to, you know. It’s not like it’s life or death if I know or not.” Reaching over for another can of Cherry Coke, Jones’s words stop me as I’m about to pull the tab.
“But it is. It’s death. She died.”
His words float on the breeze, the heaviness of them washing over me. It’s my turn to take a gulp of my drink, the cherry flavor of the coke not strong enough to mask the strength of the rum.
“So what are you drinking?” Jones asks when I don’t reply, the memories of that night overwhelming me. I can still feel my heart ache for him, for his loss.
“How about a rum and Cherry Coke,” I say, a sly grin crossing my face when I see the realization in his eyes.
“Anything for you, Chloe.”
Mesmerized, I watch as Jones slides back behind the bar, fixing me a drink and serving his other customers in the process. He moves with grace as he mixes drinks and pours beers. The bar isn’t busy, but there are a handful of people hanging out tonight.
It’s only Thursday, but I’m sure this place will be jam-packed in a few hours, people wanting to start their holiday weekend with an adult beverage. Or two.
After dropping my drink in front of me, Jones excuses himself and slips into the kitchen for a few minutes. Snagging the menu, it only takes me a second to decide what I want to eat.
Fried pickles.
It’s been a long time since I’ve had them, ordering them at a few places in Denver before giving up. None of them compared, not even remotely, to the ones they serve here. With all the changes to this place, I hope that’s not one of the things they’ve “improved” upon over the years.
As I place the menu back, I notice a flyer sitting just out of reach. Standing on the rungs of the stool, I get it between my fingertips just as the rung breaks beneath my feet.
Shit!
I still stand by the fact that they were old. They were fragile. I barely weighed a buck twenty back then. There was no way it was my fault those broke.
This stool, the one that I’m sitting on that still has a new leather smell to it, is a different story.
With Jones still in the kitchen, I focus my attention on the flyer. It’s for the Independence Day celebration here in town tomorrow. Two bands, a huge picnic, fireworks, the whole shebang. The town really has grown since I left. I don’t remember them doing anything like this before.
“Are you coming down tomorrow night?” Jones asks, sliding a basket in front of me. As the smell assaults me, I want to jump across the bar and pull him into my arms.
Fried pickles.
“I’m guessing by the look on your face that you’re happy with my little surprise.”
“You have no idea,” I say, picking up a slice before smothering it in ranch dressing. I know better than to take a bite yet. The juice from the pickle will scorch the roof of my mouth, but I can’t help myself. Shoving the breaded pickle in my mouth, I take a giant bite and let out a moan.
When I realize the pickle doesn’t burn my mouth, I give Jones a questionable look. “I made sure to wait a few minutes before I brought them out. I knew you wouldn’t be able to show any self-control.”
Rolling my eyes, I take my next bite, shoving food in my mouth so I don’t have to answer his question. He’s standing in front of me, watching me eat, waiting for me to answer him. I’m not going to be able to avoid the conversation.
“So Saturday night? We can celebrate your return.”
“My parents are throwing a huge party for my mom’s fiftieth birthday. I don’t think I’ll be able to make it down.”
“Double trouble. Party at your place and then the festivities.” His suggestion causes me to shudder in fear.
Lola. She’s all I can think about.
He can’t meet her. He’ll be able to see through all my lies.
Not to mention, Jones has never been to my house. Wyatt’s only been there twice. It was too dangerous to have them over back then. My parents would have asked questions and expected answers. Carmen would have seen them, and I wouldn’t have been able to hide my relationship with Wyatt any longer.
“Maybe I can meet you down here Sunday for the picnic.”
Before he can reply, Jones is called away but another customer. I quickly finish my pickles, chug my drink, drop some cash on the bar and slip out the front door. I thought about leaving my phone number, I have questions that only he can answer, but decided against it.
Against my better judgment, I walk past my car and head down to the park. There are still people milling around, setting up for this weekend. The sun is setting, street lights blinking to life above. A chill runs up my spine as I turn back toward the bar, ready to head home and face my parents.
Once Lola is here, they’ll be on their best behavior. They always are in front of her. They dote on her, treat her like a princess. And she loves them for it. After all, they’re the only grandparents she’s ever known.
8
I’m Sorry
WYATT
It’s been a weird day. Things have felt… off. I’m not sure why, but it feels like something is different. Something has changed. There’s a buzz in the air that I can’t put my finger on.
Maybe it’s the festival this weekend. I’ve been dreading being put front and center for weeks now. Not that I have a choice in the matter. When the Mayor knocks on your door and says you’re receiving an award on behalf of the town council, you say thank you and accept it.
Honored is what my mother said. I’m being honored and I should feel good about that. So why don’t I? I don’t feel good about anything anymore. I work to pass the time. I volunteer to maintain a good image in the community. Never in a million years did I think I would be noticed for the little things I’ve done.
And I never wanted to be.
I like my low-key life. Always have. I’ve never felt like I needed to be part of the crowd. Doing my own thing, the way I wanted to, has always been important to me.
When I bought the Fairview Tavern, I hadn’t planned to renovate it, but the swing of the hammer felt good. Who knew it would kickstart an entire renovation campaign for the town? Bringing the Tavern back to life made others want to do the same for their businesses. People started to show interest in bringing new business to Fairview.
And, apparently, that’s all thanks to me.
What I want to tell them is that they should thank Chloe. It’s because of her I started swinging that hammer. It’s because of her that I needed that emotional outlet.
My broken heart is the one thing I’ve never been able to fix. Not because I haven’t tried, but because I’m pretty damn sure that it’s beyond repair.
She broke me. Destroyed me in a way that can’t be explained. And she didn’t even own up to it. All I got was a fucking note. Two words.
I’m sorry.
Not even an I love you. And she was gone. She hasn’t called. Hasn’t attempted to reach me. It’s not like I left Fairview. I stayed here so that if she ever came back, if she ever decided she wanted to find me, she could.
Here I am, five years later, still waiting on the love of my life to walk through those doors. Waiting for one glimpse of the woman who walked away from me with no explanation.
So when I went to bring Jones change for the till and saw him embracing her in a hug, her long, auburn hair settling down her back in soft curls, I almost lost it. Not because I thought Jones was making a move on her, but because she was here. In my bar. In my town.
The shock of seeing her after all this time wore off quickly. Anger and hatred took its place. The same hatred that has grown inside of me since the last time I saw her. When I went to find her. The day I thought I could win her back only to discover that she had moved on.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Jones asks as I toss my duffel in the back seat. My mom is going to be pissed when she finds out I’m taking the car. Not because I didn’t ask, but because she thinks Jones and I are going to a concert an hour away, not to Denver to find Chloe.
“Do you have a better idea?”
We’ve been over this. Multiple times. If I want answers, I’m going to have to ask Chloe myself. It’s been three months, and I can’t sit here and wait for her to call anymore.
Shaking his head, Jones climbs onto the passenger seat and slams his door. I know he doesn’t approve. He wants me to wait until I’m not angry anymore. Well, that’s not going to happen anytime soon. My anger is growing as each day passes without contact from her.
Things were great between us. We were making plans. Knowing she was leaving for college, I bought her a promise ring and had planned on giving it to her that morning. I waited, for an hour, for her to show up. Willy ripped me a new asshole for being late that morning.
In the end, she left me.
Why? That’s all I want to know. I need to know. She said she was happy, that she loved me. She wanted to spend the rest of her life with me. If all that was true, why did she leave? More importantly, why is she sorry?
The drive to Denver is silent. Jones is here for moral support, having been through a loss of his own. Even though nothing will bring Sawyer back to him, he’s moving forward.
I’m not.
I’m drowning in sorrow. I’ve put my life on hold for Chloe, hoping she would come back. Or at least call. Neither of which seem to be in my near future so here we are, on our way to find her. To get answers. It’s a bad idea and we both know it, but I’ll never admit it to him.
As soon as campus comes into view, memor
ies of our trip come rushing back to me. We had an amazing time that weekend. Chloe was full of life, excited to show me where she would be living and where her classes were. Today I’m thankful for that trip because, from what I can remember, most of her classes were in the same building.
That’s where I plan to find her. I’ll wait all day for her to emerge if I have to, but she will. Eventually. And then… then I’ll get answers.
It takes us almost an hour to find the building. Once we do, I feel awkward sitting on the bench outside the entrance waiting for her. The word stalker comes to mind, but I push it away as fast as it appears.
That’s not what I’m doing. A stalker watches and waits. I’m just waiting. And I plan to approach her, something a stalker won’t do.
“What time is it?” Jones asks, knowing that I memorized her schedule.
“We have about five minutes before her class ends.”
“And what if she doesn’t come out this way? What if she takes a different door? Are we going to do this again tomorrow? The next day?”
“I don’t know, damn it,” I growl at him. He’s been questioning everything since I told him about this last week.
“I just don’t want you to be disappointed again, that’s all. Look, I’m here for you, man, whatever you need. You know that. But this, this isn’t normal. I like Chloe, always have. What she did to you, how she left, that was shitty, but there has to be a good reason. What if she doesn’t want to be found?”
That thought crossed my mind once. I brushed it away with all other thoughts of Chloe that night when I drowned my sorrows in a bottle of whiskey I stole from the bar. Why should I care what she wants? She obviously didn’t care enough about me.
“It’s not her decision, Jones. She didn’t leave me with much of an option. If she knew me at all, she would know that I would show up eventually. Well, today is that day—”
“And there’s your girl,” he interrupts.
Whipping my head in the direction of his stare, I don’t question the surprised look on his face. I should have. It would have saved me so much heartache.
Imperfect Love Story Page 5
