“Can’t, sorry. I have plans.”
“Tch. I know what your plans are. It’s time to change things up. Make a new tradition.”
“Go out to get drunk instead of staying in?”
“Exactly.”
“I’ll pass. Puking in public isn’t a good look for me.”
She scoffs. “I know for a fact you’ve never puked in your life. You have zero gag reflex.”
“That’s a very strange thing to know about me.”
“There are no secrets here, babe. We’ve been best friends since before we had pubes.”
I say drily, “How touching. I can see the Hallmark card now.”
She ignores me. “Also, I’m buying. That should appeal to your inner Scrooge.”
“Are you trying to tell me I’m cheap?”
“Exhibit A: you regifted me a twenty-dollar Outback Steakhouse gift certificate for Christmas last year.”
“That was a joke!”
“Hmm.” She’s unconvinced.
“You’re supposed to regift it to someone else, I’ve told you that. It’s a thing. It’s funny.”
“Yes, if your frontal lobe was damaged in a terrible car accident, it’s funny. For the rest of us with functioning brains, it’s not.”
My sigh is big and dramatic. “Fine. This year, I’ll buy you a cashmere sweater. Satisfied?”
“I’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes.”
“No. I’m not going out tonight.”
She says firmly, “I’m not letting you sit at home for another anniversary of your rehearsal dinner that never was, getting wasted on the champagne you were supposed to have at your wedding reception.”
She leaves the rest unsaid, but it hangs heavily in the air between us anyway.
Today marks five years since David went missing.
Once a person has been missing for five years in the state of California, they’re considered legally dead. Even if they’re still out there somewhere, for all intents and purposes, they’re six feet underground.
It’s a milestone I’ve been dreading.
I turn away from the window and its pretty, sunny scene.
For a moment, I think of Chris. I remember the bitterness in his voice when he said I’m living in the past…and how everyone knows it.
Everyone including me.
I say softly, “Okay. Pick me up in fifteen.”
Sloane whoops in excitement.
I hang up before I can change my mind and go change into a skirt.
If I’m going to get drunk in public, at least I’m going to look good doing it.
Downrigger’s is a casual place right on the lake, with a wraparound deck and spectacular views of the Sierras on one side and Lake Tahoe on the other.
The sunset will be beautiful tonight. Already, the sun is a fiery orange glow dipping low over the horizon. Sloane and I take a seat inside next to a window, a spot that lets us see both the water and the bar, which is crowded with people. Most of whom I know.
After all, I’ve lived here my whole life.
As soon as we’re seated, Sloane leans across the table toward me and hisses, “Look! It’s him!”
I glance around, confused. “Him who?”
“The pirate! He’s sitting at the end of the bar!”
“Epic-scruff guy?” I turn and crane my neck to see around the crowd. “Which one—”
That’s all I get out before I spot him, taking up a sizeable portion of the bar and dwarfing the stool beneath him. The impressions come fast.
Broad shoulders. Tousled dark hair. A hard jaw that hasn’t been acquainted with a razor in weeks. A black leather jacket paired with black jeans and a pair of combat boots, all of which look somehow both expensive and battered, carelessly worn. Chunky silver rings decorate the thumb and middle fingers of his right hand.
One is some kind of signet. The other is a skull.
A pair of dark glasses hide his eyes.
It strikes me as odd, wearing sunglasses indoors. Like he’s got something to hide.
“I’m not getting pirate as much as rock star. Or head of a motorcycle gang. He looks like he stepped right off the Sons of Anarchy set. Ten bucks says he’s a drug dealer.”
“Who cares?” whispers Sloane, staring at him. “He could be Jack the Ripper and I’d still let him come all over my tits.”
I say with affection, “Floozy.”
She waves that off. “So I like dangerous alpha males with big-dick energy. Don’t judge.”
“Go make your move, then. I’ll get a drink and watch from the wings to make sure he doesn’t pull out a knife.”
I motion for the waiter. He gives me a chin jerk and a smile, indicating he’ll be over as soon as he can.
Sloane says, “No, that’s too desperate. I don’t chase men, no matter how hot they are. It’s undignified.”
“Unless you’re a cocker spaniel, the way you’re panting and drooling is undignified. Go rope that stallion, cowgirl. I’m going to the restroom.”
I stand and head toward the women’s bathroom, leaving Sloane gnawing her lip in indecision. Or maybe that’s lust.
I take my sweet time using the toilet and washing my hands, checking my lipstick in the mirror over the sinks. It’s a scarlet red called Sweet Poison. I’m not sure why I wore it, as I almost never wear makeup anymore, but I suppose it’s not every day your missing fiancé becomes legally dead, so what the hell.
Oh, David. What happened to you?
A sudden wave of despair crashes over me.
Leaning on the edge of the sink to steady myself, I close my eyes and blow out a slow, shaky breath.
I haven’t felt grief this strong in a while. Usually, it’s a restless simmer I’ve learned to ignore. A dull ache behind my breastbone. A wail of anguish inside my skull that I can turn down until it’s almost silent.
Almost, but not quite.
People say time heals all wounds, but those people are assholes.
Wounds like mine don’t heal. I’ve just learned to control the bleeding.
Smoothing a hand over my hair, I take several deep breaths until I feel more in control. I give myself a quick pep talk, plaster a smile on my face, then yank open the door and head out.
And immediately crash into a huge, immovable object.
I jerk back, stumble, lose my balance. Before I can fall, a big hand reaches out and grips my upper arm to steady me.
“Careful.”
The voice is a pleasing, husky rumble. I look up and find myself staring at my own reflection in a pair of sunglasses.
It’s the pirate. The drug dealer. Big-dick-energy dude with the epic scruff.
A crackle of something like electricity runs down my spine.
His shoulders are massive. He’s massive. Sitting down, he looked big, but upright, he’s a giant. He’s got to be at least six-four. Five. Six, I don’t know, but he’s ridiculously tall. A Viking.
I could never be described as petite, but this guy makes me feel positively dainty.
He smells like the tasting notes on an expensive Cabernet: leather, cigar smoke, a hint of forest floor.
I’m sure my heart is beating so hard because I nearly just fell on my ass.
“I’m so sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going.” Why am I apologizing? He’s the one who was standing right outside the damn bathroom door.