Annette:Sure. Okay.
Brooke:Do not do that.
Annette:Yep. I got it.
Brooke:I will walk into your bookstore and slap your boob if you don't stop it right now.
Annette:Stop what? I'm just thinking back to all those times we had drinks at the Galley and how you'd push JJ's buttons and how I thought it was just you getting some of your puppy energy out, but now I know you were pulling his pigtails.
Brooke:Allow me to repeat my original statement—I hate you right now.
Annette:Promise me you won't be a bridezilla. Swear to me that you won't scream at a florist over a precise shade of blush-pink peonies.
Brooke:Can't. Putting shoes on. Leaving the house. Coming to slap your boob so hard it slaps the other one for me.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
JJ
Insolvency Risk: the risk that an organization will be unable to satisfy its debts.
Exactly fifteen minutesafter the midday rush wrapped up, Sheriff Lau marched into the tavern. If I had to guess, I'd say the man had a deputy keeping track of my patrons and notifying him when it was all clear. As much as it irritated me, I had to give him credit for respecting my terms.
"Sheriff. What brings you in today?"
He stopped, rested his arms on the backs of a pair of barstools. He glanced at me, then Nate. "If you have a moment to spare, I'd like to speak with you privately."
"You're in charge, kid." I passed a bag of limes to Nate. "These need to be washed and sliced." As I dried my hands with a dish towel, I caught the sheriff's raised eyebrow. There was no way in hell Nate missed that eyebrow or the meaning behind it. "When you're done with that," I continued, shaking my head at Jackson, "restock the oranges and olives. That should keep you busy for at least—"
"Nine, maybe ten minutes," Nate said. "I'll refill the ketchup bottles if I feel like getting really rowdy."
"Smart plan." Despite this situation being a pain in my ass, I liked the kid. I enjoyed his permanently dark, surly mood and I appreciated the way he was determined to prove everyone wrong. Add to that he'd taken it upon himself to plant the pollinator garden at the cider house in his free time and I was damn well ready to adopt him. At the minimum, I was getting between him and every shitty eyebrow the sheriff and anyone else in this town sent his way.
I led Jackson to my office and shut the door behind us. Immediately, he remarked, "He seems to be doing well."
I dropped into my chair, glared across the desk. “It’s been months. Many months. You're not helping anyone with this."
Jackson, ever the Boy Scout, gave a chastened nod. "You're right. It seems like he's"—the sheriff paused, visibly sorting through his words—"he's back on his feet."
"You're fuckin' right he is," I yelled. "But if you come in here one more time and give him a visual pat-down, I won't be as pleasant when I say 'I told you so.'"
Holding up both hands, Jackson said, "Understood."
"Thank you," I replied. "Now, what the hell do you want?"
Jackson clasped his hands in his lap, inclined his head. "I don't have to tell you our women are best friends."
"Jesus Christ," I muttered to myself. "No, sheriff, you don't have to tell me they're best friends, but it would be good if you found a way to speak of them as something more respectful than 'our women.'"
"What's disrespectful about that?" he asked, his brows bent together and confusion rippling his features.
"Do I actually have to explain to you that they don't belong to us? I recognize there are shades of meaning here and the notion might give you some warm fuzzies, but I'd rather not reduce Brooke or Annette to possessions. In case it's not obvious to you, neither of them need us."
"No, that's plain to see." He bobbed his head in agreement, but he was busy deciding whether he understood my point.
"Listen, I'm not trying to bring down your worldview. I'm just trying to tell you there's a big difference between the things you say to Annette privately, when you're at home, when you're in your bedroom, and what you say to other people. It matters how you talk about women."
He ran his hand up the back of his neck, around the inside of his collar. "I thought I was good at this. The feminist stuff."
