Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 93453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
I try to think of the last time I went to see Jennifer as I look around the house, getting up and cleaning up a couple of things—putting things away, checking my mail, and doing shit I don’t want to be doing but doing it so I don’t go to the bar. An hour later, I finally give in and head to the bar instead of staying away from her. I walk over there, and when I step in, I see that it’s half full, and for a Sunday, that’s a great turnout. I walk over to the bar and sit down. She glances over from the group of men she is serving, and she looks surprised to see me. I can’t wait for the day when she’s expecting me to show up and not that me showing up throws her off. “Hey.” She tosses a coaster in front of me. “This is a surprise,” she admits.
“Don’t know why.” I tap the bar top. “I’ll have a soda water.”
She nods. “You got it.” She walks over and fills my glass, bringing it over. “On the house.” She laughs as she looks around. “I’ll be back. I sent Brady home, so I’m riding solo.”
“You need help?” I ask, and she shakes her head. “Of course not,” I mumble as she walks away. Slowly, people start paying their tabs. I see it’s close to eight and wonder if she’ll drive me home and then come in with me.
I’m thinking this when the stool beside me is pulled out, and when I look over, my mouth hits the floor. “Well, I’ll be—” I say, and the man sits down beside me and looks over at me. His eyes look like he’s lived ten lifetimes. “—damned.”
He chuckles, his hair longer in the back at the nape of his neck and on the top. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”
“What can I get you?” Autumn says and then stops when she sees who it is. “Brock?” she says his name in a whisper. From her reaction, I’m guessing this is the first time they have come face-to-face.
“Saw you were back in town. Then heard you were staying back in town,” he says, putting his hands on the bar top. His hand looks rough, his knuckles look like they are healing from being torn to shreds, his fingers tainted with grease, which means he probably just came from his shop down the street, a shop he inherited from his father. “Wanted to see if the rumor was true.”
“It’s me,” she says, putting her hands on top of the bar stretched out to her sides, “in the flesh. Can I get you something to drink?”
“I’ll have what he’s having.” He motions toward me with his head, so Autumn takes off and comes back and puts the glass down in front of him.
He picks it up and holds it up. “To old times.” He clicks my glass with his before taking a sip and then grimaces. “There is no alcohol in this.” We both laugh at him. “What is this?”
“Soda water,” I say, and he looks at the glass like it’s the most disgusting thing he’s ever tasted in his life.
“Why?” He shakes his head, and Autumn walks to the end of the bar and pours him some whiskey in a small tumbler before handing it to him. “Now, this is a color I like.” He takes a sip and then sighs. “Tastes like heaven.” He looks over at Autumn. “So what’s new?”
“Same old, same old,” she says, her answer guarded. I would imagine she’s still pissed at him for lying when the accident happened. He sided with the Cartwrights. Why? We had no idea; I didn’t care enough at the time to question it. After the accident, it seemed the four of us all went our separate ways. All four of us with our own journeys to go through to heal. Everleigh was here one day, and then when the truth came out, she was gone. From the rumors around, Brock let her go and quickly moved on with someone else, but it was over before the ink was dry on the marriage license, the only thing left is their eight-year-old daughter, Saige. “What about you?”
“Same old, same old.” He looks in the glass, bringing it to his lips and taking another sip. “You look good.” I glare at him, wondering where he is going with this. He finishes the rest of the whiskey, getting up, and taking a twenty out of his pocket and putting it on the bar. “I guess I’ll see you around,” he says, then slaps my shoulder. “Fuck, it’s good to see you.” He squeezes me before turning and walking out of the place.
“Eight years later,” she says, her voice soft, “and we are all still living with the demons from that night.” She takes a deep breath in. “I hate him.”