“Got it in one.”
While my grandfather looked down on his bestie’s comparatively humble estate, I was the thing Cornelius Walker held over my grandfather’s head. Pretty fucking judgmental for two wrinkled old assholes who’d clearly never heard of sunscreen.
“Unbelievable.” Ryan looked to the side, cursing under his breath. “While at the same time completely believable.”
I was wary of my uncle trying to get into my good graces. I knew he’d paid a heavy price for rejecting his son—my cousin, Hendrix—when he came out in high school, and Ryan was now trying to make amends. The results were uneven at best.
“Yep.”
“I’m sorry you had to deal with that.” Rubbing his clean-shaven face and sharp Cavanaugh jaw, he sent me a strained smile. “I was gonna stop by anyway.”
“Yeah?” I asked, filling a go-cup with Dr Pepper for him.
His eyes brightened as I slid it across the bar along with a straw, and he took a moment to pull off the paper wrapper and shove the straw through the lid. “Your dad and I had coffee this morning. We were talking about how well the Watering Hole was doing. He’s real proud of you.”
My father was as skeptical as I was about Ryan’s motives, so I took it as a good sign that Dad had agreed to meet for coffee. “That he is,” I answered, distracted by his fidgeting with the straw wrapper. After watching him for a moment, I asked, “Uncle Ry, are you okay?”
Avoiding my eyes, he answered with a question of his own. “Hendrix was here last week, wasn’t he?”
Damn. I’d hoped he hadn’t found out about that.
We’d thrown a big party to celebrate the opening of the new, improved Meeting House. Hen had quietly flown in from halfway across the world to show his support. Even though he’d tried to keep his visit under the radar, a few photos of him in a Meeting House T-shirt got out on social media.
“He was,” I admitted.
“Oh.”
Like I said, uneven.
I reached out and grabbed my uncle’s hand. “That wasn’t a dig against you, I promise. He was stretched too thin to do anything but fly in and fly out again.”
Ryan shifted his jaw, his eyes sad. “He looked terrible when I saw him at Mr. Paige’s memorial service. I can’t figure why he’d burn himself out like that—his finances are okay, right?”
“I don’t manage his money, save for a couple of backup offshore accounts, but I recommended his financial advisor, and I’m pretty sure he’s doing well for himself.” Hen and I had both grown up as Cavanaugh outcasts, and as a result we took care of each other where we could.
“Okay,” he said softly. “I’m just worried about him, you know?”
Frankly, he had reason to be worried. Mr. Paige had left a piece of art to Hen in his will, contingent on Hen spending a year off the road. He’d even set aside a rental property on the river for Hen to stay at. It was a meaningful gesture, and Hen had agreed to the terms, but less than a month later he booked a tour extension through Europe.
He’d flown out before any of us could talk him out of it.
“Me, too, Uncle Ry. But me and the group of guys from school?—”
“The Lost Boys?”
Funny how the same question, coming from different people, had such different meanings. There was hope, not scorn, in Ryan’s voice when he asked.
“Yep. We’ve got a group chat going, and Hendrix participates. I think he’s tired, but every other day he sends a picture from a different part of the world.”
“Okay, good,” Ry said, going back to shredding the straw wrapper. It was odd how he could stand there in his uniform and gun belt, a figure of power and authority, and seem so lost. “It’s hard for me to get a read on him. He doesn’t pick up when I call, though we have been texting back and forth a little.”
“Hen prefers texting,” I explained, slipping the nearly disintegrated paper from his fingers. “Don’t take it personally. He’ll FaceTime before he does a call.”
Ry’s brows sloped together. “Do you think he’d let me FaceTime him?”
“Maybe. If you text him first.”
“Good to know,” he said, sipping his drink. “I appreciate it.”
