After a light or two, the transitions are smoother, and I can breathe again. Noah too, relaxes into a quiet slouch, his jaw flexing over and over as he stares out the window. Realizing wemight need access to the Barker’s driver, I put Pala into the gps and follow cues to the freeway.
Miraculously, traffic is minimal and after about forty minutes, punctuated only by the occasional turn by turn direction, we’ve made it back to the outskirts of the farming town run by Tom and Cheryl Barker. I pull off the freeway and slow the car to stop at the offramp light before turning to Noah.
“You want to talk about it?”
He shakes his head and then leans forward, covering his face with his hands.
“God, I am so sorry,” he groans.
“Sorry? You have nothing to apologize for.”
“I should have insisted we leave as soon as I realized what my mother did. You shouldn’t have had to witness that.”
“To be honest, I’m not entirely sure what I witnessed. It’s fine,I’mfine. I’m more concerned about you.”
The honesty slips out before I realize what I’ve admitted and he responds before I can backtrack.
“This entire weekend has been nothing but mess after mess, and you’ve handled each with more grace and tact than I could summon in a lifetime.”
I shrug, playfully. “Make sure you put that on my employee of the month plaque.”
He laughs. “God, I am theworstboss.”
“My last boss smelled like old bowling shoes and barfed on me once. You’re scoring miles above him.”
“At least there’s that,” he says before falling silent again.
I maneuver along strange streets, keeping my eyes peeled for anything resembling a bar. My silent hopes are rewarded by a dancing cowboy blinking above a run down building. I swerve out of traffic, and pull a parallel parking job that can only be described as haphazard.
Noah takes in the dilapidated facade. “You can’t be serious. Did you even look at the reviews for this place?”
“Yourlast recommendation had us traipsing down the highway and nearly forced to eat waxy day-old pizza. We’re playing today Lottie Style.”
His eyebrows shoot up and I can’t help but remember the first time he witnessed Lottie Style. Ryan was it?
“Don’t worry, Graves,” I say, pushing out into the afternoon. “I’ll be gentle.”
Even for a western bar, Chico’s delivers more than I expect. With country tunes and two rows of billiard tables, the room welcomes us with the smell of stale french fries and beer. As the sign at the door suggests, we saddle up at the bar and wave down the only employee in sight.
“Two shots of Maker’s, and two of whatever light beer you have on tap. Please,” I add, sliding my card across the polished bartop.
The woman, a middle aged blonde sporting french braids and daisy dukes, nods and then gets to work pouring our drinks. When she slides them towards us, I push one set to Noah and take my own shot in my fingertips.
“To family,” I say, before throwing it back.
A shiver runs down my spine and raises goosebumps on my arms. Noah shakes his head and whispers a monotone “cheers,” before downing his. He hisses through clenched teeth and slams his shot glass back down on the counter.
“I don’t know if I’m cut out for Lottie Style.”
“Oh, you’re definitely not. But don’t worry, I’ll make sure you make it back in one piece.”
He shakes his head and raises his beer, tapping the edge of it against mine. We sit in silence for a few minutes, drinking beer and drumming our fingers to the tune of some top forty country song. Noah’s the first to break the lull.
“My father and I don’t really get along.”
“You don’t say.”
He makes a face and swallows a large gulp “I’m not sure why. On paper we have so many of the same interests. But there’s always been this . . . tension.”
