My Favorite Mistake

by Beth Kendrick

  After a few deep, carcinogen-filled breaths from the front step of the bar, I went in to face the country western music.

  The first thing I saw from the shadows in the neon-tinged alcove was Flynn, pouring drinks behind the bar. He hadn’t noticed my entrance, so I took the opportunity to really soak him in, without words or defenses or uncalled-for sarcasm getting in the way.

  Flynn had been quite the dish even in our teenage days, but he’d improved during the past decade. He was broader now, more solid. The thick brown hair was shorter, the jawline and cheekbones now more chiseled than gaunt. His eyes were the same deep, autumn brown, but now they crinkled around the corners when he smiled.

  I watched him pick up a tray piled with empty glasses. His hands looked exactly the same. He could have played the piano with those hands, or reshingled a roof. “Renaissance hands” I used to call them, when I was young and poetic and wanted to harass him.

  He was currently clad in jeans and a plain white T-shirt. Par for the course. Throughout high school, he had insisted on wearing some combination of the following: white T-shirts, gray T-shirts, khakis and jeans. Any deviation from this ensemble was met with great suspicion: “Real men don’t wear shorts,” he’d tell me. “Bright colors are for hunting season only.”

  At the moment, he was talking to someone I recognized with a sinking heart as Sally Hutchins, who had graduated high school with us, the Class of 1994’s answer to Lady Macbeth. Her father was the mayor and owned Lindbrook’s sole real estate agency. My mother had cleaned his office every Thursday morning, and Sally never let me forget it.

  Currently, she was poking at the ice cubes in her drink with a perfectly manicured index finger. She had dyed her once-brunette hair a jarring shade of crimson probably described by Clairol as “Titian Temptress.”

  There was something obviously amiss with a woman who voluntarily spent time and money to acquire hair like mine.

  Flynn was nodding and smiling, listening to Sally. There was no sign of the embittered, mulish Wayne Gretzky disciple I’d faced down earlier that evening. I added to my growing list of problems the fact that my bar’s co-owner appeared to be suffering from a split personality.

  I watched the dark eclipse of his profile as he turned toward the bar. The white cotton T-shirt stretched across his shoulderblades, and I remembered how they had felt under my hands. The sound of his heartbeat and his laughter, as deep and thick as warm molasses, had been as familiar to me as my own.

  A droplet of sweat curled down my neck.

  I stepped out of the alcove. He didn’t turn, but I saw him jerk his head up to glance into the cloudy mirror behind the rows of Jack Daniel’s and Smirnoff. He wrapped his hand around the scarred wood of the bar. My shoulders slumped as his tensed into a Type-A template.

  “Um. Hi.” Why oh why hadn’t I come up with something suave and disarming to say?

  He turned back to the sink, away from the customers. All I could see was the back of his head. “How may I help you?” His voice remained steady and flat. He might have showed more affect reporting a Timberwolves score.

  I lowered my voice to avoid being overheard by the many eavesdroppers straining to catch every syllable. “I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to talk.”

  “About…?”

  “About…you know. This afternoon and everything.”

  “What about this afternoon?”

  I sighed. Evidently, we were going to be doing this the hard way. “If you don’t want to talk about today, then can we at least talk about what happened before today?” I counted to ten, then plunged ahead. “About the break-up?”

  Dead silence. And then he said, in that same Timberwolves-scorecard voice, “I have nothing to say.”

  “Well, I have a few things to say. To start with, I should probably explain why I said no when you asked me to—”

  “I mean it. I’m not going to talk about it.”

  I couldn’t see his face, but I recognized that tone. He wasn’t going to talk about it. Case closed. I tried to decide how best to proceed. “Flynn. I am working my ass off trying to be nice here. Are you going to talk about anything? Ever?”

  He considered this for a moment. “I should probably talk about my plans for the bar.”

  I reminded myself that now was not the time to get territorial and petty, and kept my mouth shut.

  “And I guess you can help out tonight if you want. I haven’t seen Skye since eight-thirty.”

  I thought about Lars and feared the worst. “Okay. I’d be happy to help.”

  “Fine.” His voice was still the vocal equivalent of a brick wall, but he had released his death grip on the countertop, which had to be a good sign.

  Sally Hutchins swiveled around on her bar stool and curled her upper lip at me in the way only a small-town mayor’s daughter wearing an old high school varsity letter jacket can sneer at the housecleaner’s daughter.

  But my years of battling celebutantes for the last parking space at the Fred Segal sale on Melrose had given me armor against Lindbrook’s version of class warfare. I lifted my chin, sauntered past her, and realized that my hair actually might not be that bad.

  Flynn finally turned around and looked me in the eye.

  I smiled. I couldn’t stop myself—an insane, totally inappropriate grin took over my face as I stared at the guy who’d shared such a huge part of my childhood, and whose absence had played such a huge role in my burgeoning adulthood.

  He raised his eyebrows, but he started smiling, too. I didn’t think he could help it either, although he rolled his eyes and tried to look impassive. “Let’s get down to work.”

  “Whatever you say, dude.”

  “Did you just call me ‘dude’?” he demanded, folding both arms over his chest and leaning back against the counter.

  “Yeah, I guess I did,” I said. “Why?”

  “Oh, no reason.” But he was giving me the same look of scorn he used to give to Skye when she was in the ninth grade and insisted on reading aloud from Seventeen magazine. He raised the hinged piece of the countertop to usher me behind the bar, and when he turned back to attend to Sally, my eye was drawn to a thin white scar on his cheek.

  I had inadvertently given him that scar almost twenty years ago, when we were fighting over who got the window seat in the my parents’ truck. He had always been physically stronger than me, but I was quick and scrappy, so the scuffle had resulted in simultaneous damage to the rearview mirror and Flynn’s cheek. We left a lot of marks on each other’s bodies throughout our first eighteen years.

  I shook my head to clear my mind, horrified at my own nostalgia. Saccharine, wistful sap would not help me now. I needed money for the bar, an instant two-parent home for my sister’s unborn child, and a one-way ticket back to California.

  Luckily, Flynn had not witnessed my Hallmark reverie. He was too busy listening to the princess of Lindbrook’s Lutheran country-club set, who was telling a joke.

  “Okay. How many Catholics does it take to screw in a light-bulb?”

  He shrugged.

  “None, because they live in eternal darkness!” She giggled.

  Flynn, to his credit, looked nonplussed.

  I cleared my throat. “Flynn. Hi. Still here.”

  He shot a distracted glance my way, then resumed his conversation with Sally.

  Apparently, he had me confused with the woodwork. I waited as he took an order for a gin and tonic and then prompted, “You wanted to discuss something?”

  He gave me a curt nod. “Yeah. We’re selling the bar, and I need you to sign some papers.”

  I blinked. “I’m sorry. We’re what?”

  “We’re selling the bar. You’re signing some papers.”

  “Ah. But aren’t you forgetting something?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “Actually, you are.” I made and held eye contact. “You’re forgetting two things. One, I’m an equal partner in this business and you need my consent to make decis
ions like that. Two, we can’t sell the bar. I need the income and so does Skye.”

  He rested a hand on the bar and leaned casually to one side. “If you’re an equal partner in this business, then how come I haven’t heard about it until today? Where’ve you been all this time while I worked my ass off helping Skye?”

  I straightened the straps of my tank top. “I’ve been seeking my fortune. Making my own way in the world. Sucking the marrow out of life.” I decided to skip the parts about the jet lag, the sketchy model/bartender paramours and the insomniac nights. “I invested in this place and Skye runs it and shares the profits. That’s how business works. You can look it up.”

  “Well, it’s a shame you had to stop sucking and come back to the provinces.” He straightened up to his full six foot two. “But don’t worry, you won’t have to stay long. Because we’re selling the bar.”

  I planted my feet in the puddles of Pig’s Eye. “We cannot sell this bar.”

  He stared down at me. “Why not?”

  “Because Skye showed me the paperwork. I know all about the creditors and the debt and the mortgage. We are so far in the hole, we’re practically in China. So correct me if I’m wrong, but if we sell now, we all lose a lot of money. I know you were too cagey to put your name on any of the loan documents, but I co-signed a ten-year mortgage and I’m about to get my ass sued off.”

  “Exactly. That’s why we cut our losses, sell the building and the assets, and get out now.”

  “No, because then I lose my entire life’s savings.” I tried to ignore the panic swirling in my stomach. “Even if we sold everything in this place, we wouldn’t be anywhere close to recouping the original investment.”

  “True.” He grabbed a clean glass off the counter. “But you’ve got to know when to hold ’em, know when to fold ’em, and know when to walk away. That’s how business works.” He raised an eyebrow. “You can look it up.”

  I took the glass out of his hands. “Well, it’s time to hold them.”

  “Geary. Holding on to this bar is like shoveling money into a furnace. And you of all people should know how to walk away.” He took the glass back. His fingers brushed against mine, and both of us pulled back immediately. The glass dropped with a thunk to the black rubber mat on the floor.

  Neither one of us moved to pick it up.

  “Listen,” I said. “You may not understand this, because word is you have some sort of high-power hockey management career, but I am on the verge of bankruptcy thanks to this damn place. And what about Skye? Do you want to be the one to tell her that we’re going to leave her twisting in the wind?” I dropped my voice to a whisper. “Her and the baby?”

  He looked away first. “We’re not doing her any favors by letting her get further in debt.”

  I paused and looked down at the glass. “Well, if you’re so hell-bent on selling the bar, why have you been driving down to help out every single night?”

  “Things were different before.”

  “Before when?”

  “Before tonight.”

  “Why? Just because I showed up?” I shook my head. “Flynn. You called me. Come on. You want to sell this place just to punish me?”

  “I’m not punishing you.” He seemed surprised. “Calling you on Skye’s behalf is one thing. But I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to work together.”

  “Why not?” I asked, not sure I wanted to hear the reply.

  “Because I don’t want to.”

  Stung, I crossed my arms. “So you’d rather take a huge financial loss than work with me for a few weeks?”

  He shrugged. “It’s a lost cause, anyway.”

  “That is the most short-sighted, defeatist thing I’ve ever heard.”

  He reached into a drawer and unwrapped a package of paper napkins. “I’m telling you it’s hopeless, and I’m the one with a business degree.”

  I called a time-out. “You are? Where did you end up going to school?”

  “University of Minnesota.”

  “You took the hockey scholarship? Well then, why are you shuffling papers in the front office instead of brawling on the ice?”

  He stiffened. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Of course you don’t.” I threw up my hands. “God, you’re frustrating. And guess what? You might have the almighty business degree, but I’ve taken a few classes too, and I’m the one who actually has experience running a small business.”

  “Skye said you were a travel writer.”

  “More of a food writer,” I corrected. “But I used to own a juice bar.”

  “You ran a juice bar. In Los Angeles. And now you’re a food writer who goes to Italy.”

  “That’s right.”

  “That’s an abrupt career change.”

  I did my best imitation of his expression. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “But you don’t even like juice,” he pointed out.

  “True, but I liked the many paying customers who helped me make a small fortune out of lawn clippings, some organic papayas and a blender.”

  “I thought you were broke.”

  “I am! Because I poured all of my juice bar profits into this squalid hellhole. Skye begged me. And now she’s begging me to bail it out, so that’s what I’m going to do.”

  “It’s too late.”

  “Why are you being like this?” I took a step toward him.

  He took a step back, sending the glass we’d dropped rolling into the corner.

  “I mean it. I’m trying to work things out here, and you’re just being…” I tried to keep my voice level. “Don’t you even want to try?”

  “That’s what I’ve been doing, Faith. The whole time you’ve been gone, I’ve been trying.” He bent over, picked up the glass and placed it gently back on the bartop. His eyes were watching the crowd behind me. “But something’s got to give.”

  I stared at him. “Could you be a little more cryptic, please?”

  “I’m washing my hands of you and this entire liquor-licensed fiasco. I refuse to lose even more than I have already.” He paused. “But if you’re determined to straighten everything out, you can start with the tray of glasses back there.” He turned back to the patrons and resumed taking drink orders.

  “That’s it?”

  He handed an overfilled beer stein to a man with a Vandyke beard and red suspenders. “What else do you want from me?”

  “I don’t know.” I mulled it over for a moment. “Nothing, I guess. I’m just curious about what you’ve been up to for the past ten years. Don’t you want to know what else I’ve been doing since, you know…” I coughed. “Since high school?”

  He picked up the dishrag and looked me up and down without a hint of the affection I used to see in his eyes. “It’s pretty obvious.”

  My eyebrows shot up, and I could feel a red heat swelling in my cheeks. “I see.”

  He reached out with a gesture I recognized from years of washing and drying dishes in my mother’s kitchen. I instinctively handed him a glass from the stack behind me.

  “Thanks,” he said. This time, our fingers did not touch.

  And I realized, with a jolt of shame and surprise, that I wanted him to touch me again. I took two faltering steps backward. When the corner of the countertop dug into my back, I ducked under the bar’s partition and put the thick planks of wood between us.

  I bowed my head to hide my face behind my hair. “I’m going to go deal with those glasses,” I informed my sandals.

  “If you have time, you should probably check the condition of the ladies’ room. Wendy Drake was in there about ten minutes ago, and she looked a little green around the gills.”

  Things just went downhill from there.

  7

  Leah called me early the next morning for an update on the Flynn situation, and ended up coming over to the bar for breakfast. She brought her entourage with her. Hans Gruber divided his efforts between licking the beer stains on the floor and beggin
g for handouts, while Rachel fussed in the car seat we’d perched on the bartop. Given her status as a minor, we’d thought it best to cut her off after a bottle of apple juice.

  My usual bouts of insomnia had reached new levels last night, so I’d gotten up early to pore over Skye and Bob’s account ledgers. Leah’s visit was a welcome respite from the vast seas of red ink I’d discovered.

  “So how’d it go last night?” she asked.

  “Two words: not good,” I said, helping myself to one of the cinnamon rolls she’d so thoughtfully provided.

  “Hmm. Well, what does Skye say?”

  “About what? Flynn?”

  “Yes.”

  “That would be nothing, because I don’t talk to her about it.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s got a lot on her plate right now, and I’m her older sister. I’m supposed to be helping her out, not scrapping with her sole reliable bartender. She’s in kind of a chaotic place right now…”

  The Inquisitor in Blue Chambray just raised her eyebrows.

  “Oh, I don’t know.” I sighed. “My relationship with Skye just doesn’t work like that. I’m not used to talking to her about my personal life. The deal is, I take care of her and in return, she loves me in spite of my many shortcomings. Besides, she never has trouble with men. She doesn’t know what it’s like.”

  Leah laughed. “Excuse me? The woman is twenty-four, and her second marriage just disintegrated.”

  “Yeah, but I mean, she never has trouble attracting them.”

  She pounced. “I see. So you were trying to attract Flynn last night?”

  I realized that I had just strolled, whistling and carefree, into a steel-jawed trap.

  “I…what?” I thought about his strong, tanned hands wrapped loosely around that white cloth dishtowel. “No. God, no.”

  “So you don’t need any help from anyone?” Leah smiled knowingly at Rachel.

  “I’m only staying in Minnesota for like, five more minutes,” I ranted, “and the only reason I’m staying that long is to keep this stupid bar afloat. We dated ten—count ’em ten—years ago. It was high school, for heaven’s sake.”