That snapped him out of whatever stupor he’d been in. He looked me dead in the eyes, and it was my turn to inhale sharply. “No, Oz. You’re one of my best friends, and I can comp a tire repair. We comp our friends all the time, don’t we, Mom?”
She cleared her throat. “When it’s appropriate, son. We don’t like to make a habit of it, though.”
“A Cavanaugh always pays his debts,” I joked, paraphrasing Walker’s favorite dragon-filled TV show.
That prompted a tiny smile from him, and some of the tension bled from his muscles. I returned a smile of my own, along with a discreet wink. Just like that, he brightened all over, and I was once again swamped by visions of blue eyes and curly hair.
I was in a world of trouble.
Rather than prolonging the awkward interaction, I sent Mrs. Walker my most insincere smile, then finished paying and got the hell out of there.
* * *
The group chat dinged a few times as I drove to the bar. I parked a couple of blocks away and pulled out my phone as I walked, catching up as Hendrix shared a selfie of himself standing in front of a familiar castle.
My stomach bottomed out when I saw my cousin. He contrasted so miserably with the alpine mountains and blue skies that it looked like someone had badly photoshopped a black-and-white portrait over a full-color photograph.
Walker:That looks like the Cinderella castle.
Hen:That’s because it is. It’s about a twenty-minute drive from my house.
Tristan:Damn, you’re fancy.
Me:I bet it’s nice to be home. How’s Germany treating you?
Hen:Not sure I can call it home anymore. Won’t even be here long enough to stop by the place.
I let out a frustrated sigh, not liking that answer one bit. I’d already been worried about Hendrix when he went back on the road so soon after his last tour, and this photo confirmed that something was seriously wrong. Dread tightened my gut. I knew he wouldn’t accept our support easily, but we were getting to the point where he might not have a choice in the matter.
It was a damn miracle he’d already lived longer than his namesake, but I was hoping to have my cousin around until we were old and bitching aboutthe kids these days. More and more that seemed like a pipe dream.
My growing feelings for Walker crashed into my worry for Hendrix, then got all mixed together with the stress of the new restaurant and visions of Joel and me turning downtown into a thriving center of food and culture with this Syrup project of ours.
I had no clue how to do it all, and the thought of failure on any of those fronts felt fucking unacceptable.
I thumbed through the group chat, wishing I could throw it all out on the table and have them tell me it would be okay. I couldn’t share everything with everyone in the chat, though, so I created another group with Joel, Major, Beckett, and Sawyer.
Me:Hey guys, sending this to you separately. I’d like to get some time on the schedule if possible.
Beckett:Sure. Something wrong?
Me:Life’s getting awfully big these days.
Major:Yeah? Lay it on us, buddy.
Me:First of all, I’m worried as hell about Hen.
Sawyer:That picture was awful.
Me:I was hoping we could put our heads together and figure out how to help him.
Sawyer:Could we start with his diet? Do we even know if he’s eating? He’s clearly not sleeping, but is someone making sure he has some goddamned nutrition?
Me:He’s got a really great tour chef, but he says he basically collapses after each show and forgets to eat.
Sawyer:…
Me:I know, man. I know.
