“You’re welcome. It’s good to see you two talking again.”
Knowing Hen, it was more important to him than he’d admit.
Ry drew in a breath. “I know I’ll be paying for how I messed up when he was in high school for the rest of my life.”
I stayed quiet, not sure how to respond. Part of me thought he deserved to pay, but the sentiment felt a little cruel given his current state.
“Still,” he continued, “I was real glad he was willing to speak with me at Mr. Paige’s funeral. I see how close you are with your mom and dad, and it makes me regret how I handled everything. I might not ever have the same closeness with Hendrix as you have with your parents, but I’d like to repair what I can.”
“I’ll put in a good word for you,” I said.
My father and I were the kind to cut people out of our lives, full stop, but my mother insisted on giving people a second chance… with boundaries.
Reaching across the bar, he grabbed my hand, imploring me with his eyes. “I appreciate that, Oz. Thank you.”
I squeezed his hand back.
He sent me a nod as he took his drink and left, walking out the door with a weight on his shoulders I’d never noticed before. A moment later, Joel and Tristan made their way out from the back, rumpled and smiling. I raised my brow. “When did you two sneak off?”
“When you were having your very special moment with your uncle,” Joel answered.
Tristan smacked him. “Don’t tease him, or else he won’t confirm my theory.”
“Your theory?”
Tristan ran his fingers through his pretty hair, biting on his upper lip as he rocked back and forth on his Chuck Taylors.
“Spit it out, Tris,” I said.
Joel tipped Tristan’s chin up for a sweet kiss, then nodded toward me. “Tell him what you told me.”
Letting out a nervous breath, Tristan steepled his fingers, tapping them together. “So… this guy you’re seeing in a new light?” he whispered, careful of the locals and their antennae for gossip.
Jesus.Why did I say anything?
“Yeah?” I asked hesitantly.
“Does this have anything to do with a free tire repair and the pic you shared last night?”
Running my fingers over my beard, I bit back a smile. “Maybe.”
Tristan’s eyes brightened. “Oh my God. Walker isso fucking hot. He’s, like, pocket hot.”
“He’s not that short,” I responded, more than a little defensive.
“True. He’s also got some damn muscles,” Tristan said, his eyes going far too fucking dreamy. “Remember when he showed up to the Meeting House the night of the fire wearing only pajama bottoms?”
I nodded. “I remember.”
“Bet all those muscles looked good coated in sweat and grease yesterday,” Joel said, hip checking me.
“You saw the group chat. Walker is?—”
Joel made some sort of aborted sound at the back of his throat, his eyes cutting toward the door. Covering his mouth with his hand, he murmured, “This should be fun.”
As if out of a dream, Walker let himself into our humble little bar, a narrow box in his hands.
“Could that be a gift from your crush?” Tristan tittered.
