I take the waters to them and then hand my mother my credit card. “You guys should go down to Jake’s Steakhouse and have dinner on me. Walk there so you can sober up on the way.”
“You are so nice.” She clutches at her chest dramatically and looks at my father. “Benji, we did so well with him. Let’s go celebrate our parenting with his credit card.”
“We did do well with him,” my father says in agreement. “We should have more kids.”
“Menopause, honey. Remember when I hated you for an entire year?” My mother grabs her purse, and they take the glasses of water with them as they go.
“We should get rib eye since he’s paying,” my father mutters as they walk away.
I release a sigh of relief and then make my way back to the bar. The girl is tucked quietly into the corner, writing in a notebook. Roman isn’t behind the bar right now, so I’m assuming no one has taken her order yet.
I gladly volunteer as tribute.
“What can I get you?” I ask her.
“Water and a Diet Coke, please.” She doesn’t look up at me, so I back away to fulfill her order. She’s still writing in her notebook when I return with her drinks. I try to get a glimpse of what she’s writing, but she closes her notebook and lifts her eyes. “Thank . . .” She pauses in the middle of what I think is her attempt at saying thank you. She mutters the word you and sticks the straw in her mouth.
She seems flustered.
I want to ask her questions, like what her name is and where she’s from, but I’ve learned over the years of owning this place that asking questions of lonely people in a bar can quickly turn into conversations I have to maul my way out of.
But most of the people who come in here don’t capture my attention like she has. I gesture toward her two drinks and say, “Are you waiting for someone else?”
She pulls both drinks closer. “Nope. Just thirsty.” She breaks eye contact with me and leans back in her chair, pulling her notebook with her and giving it all her attention.
I can take a hint. I walk to the other end of the bar to give her privacy.
Roman returns from the kitchen and nudges his head in her direction. “Who’s she?”
“I don’t know, but she isn’t wearing a wedding ring, so she’s not your type.”
“Very funny.”
CHAPTER THREE
KENNA
Dear Scotty,
They turned the old bookstore into a bar. Can you believe that shit?
I wonder what they did with the sofa we used to sit on every Sunday.
I swear, it’s like this whole town is one huge Monopoly board, and after you died, someone came along and picked up the board and scrambled all the pieces around.
Nothing is the same. Everything seems unfamiliar. I’ve been walking around downtown taking it all in for the last couple of hours. I was on my way to the grocery store when I got sidetracked by the bench we used to eat ice cream on. I sat down and people watched for a while.
Everyone seems so carefree in this town. The people here just wander around like their worlds are right-side-up—like they aren’t about to fall off the pavement and land in the sky. They just move from one moment to the next, not even aware of the mothers walking around without their daughters.
I probably shouldn’t be in a bar, especially my first night back. Not that I have an issue with alcohol. That one horrible night was an exception. But the last thing I need your parents to find out is that I stopped by a bar before I stopped by their house.
But I thought this place was still the bookstore, and bookstores usually have coffee. I was so disappointed when I walked inside because it’s been a long day of traveling here on a bus and then the cab. I was hoping for more caffeine than a diet soda can provide.
Maybe the bar has coffee. I haven’t asked yet.
I probably shouldn’t tell you this, and I promise it’ll make sense before I finish this letter, but I kissed a prison guard once.
We got caught and he got transferred to a different unit and I felt guilty that our kiss got him in trouble. But he talked to me like I was a person and not a number, and even though I wasn’t attracted to him, I knew he was attracted to me, so when he leaned in to kiss me, I kissed him back. It was my way of saying thank you, and I think he knew that, and he was okay with it. It had been two years since I had been touched by you, so when he pressed me against the wall and gripped my waist, I thought I’d feel more.
I was sad that I didn’t.
I’m telling you this because he tasted like coffee, but a better kind of coffee than the prison coffee they served to the prisoners. He tasted like expensive eight-dollar coffee from Starbucks, with caramel and whipped cream and a cherry. It’s why I kept kissing him. Not because I enjoyed the kiss, or him, or his hand on my waist, but because I missed expensive flavored coffee.