Chapter Twenty-one
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Cash
Apologies are the glue of life. They have the remarkable ability to fix most things.
At least that’s what I’ve been told.
Standing outside Maggie’s bar, I know I need to go in and ask for her forgiveness. Can’t seem to make my feet move, though. Not because I’m dreading saying I’m sorry, but because I can see her clearly through the front window, and I’m struck dumb by the sight of my sparkly, shiny girl with her tight black T-shirt, ripped jeans, and arms full of bracelets.
G-O-N-E-R. What does that spell? Cash Armstrong.
With effort, I shake myself out of my daze and rap my knuckles against the glass. When she sees me and the big bouquet of “I’m sorry” roses clutched in my hands, her face is about as welcoming as a roadkill dinner. She circles the bar and comes to the door.
Figuring it’s always best to lead with a joke in this type of situation, when she swings the door wide and looks me up and down, I say, “I can’t tell if you’re inviting me in or sizing me up for a coffin.”
“Can’t I do both?”
“Now, I know you’re mad at me…” I hand her the flowers as I push past her.
“But?” She lets the bouquet dangle upside down, twisting the dead bolt behind me.
“But nothing. I was simply stating a fact.”
She snorts.
Okay, time to eat some crow.
“I’m here to say I’m sorry. Truly.” When that’s not enough to smooth the deep line from between her eyebrows, I add, “Nowadays, I’m better in theory than in practice, and yesterday my head was hurting like the fires of hell. I tried to take the edge off, but the whiskey got ahead of me. Luc did a great job, though, right? He probably raised more money for your aunt’s charity than I ever could.”
“He raised five grand.”
I whistle. “See? Told you.”
She makes her way back to the bar. Filling a beer pitcher with water, she unceremoniously drops the roses inside.
I wince. Okay. Maybe it’sa lotof crow I need to eat.
Planting the bouquet next to the register, she shoves her hands on her hips. “When’s your next doctor’s appointment?”
My chin jerks back at the sudden twist in the conversation. “Uh, next Friday. Why?”
“I’m coming with you. Luc’s coming too. We want to talk to this doctor and see if something more can be done for you.”
Apprehension stabs into me. My head, which was blessedly pain free when I woke up this morning, suffers a twinge. “Nothing more can be done. And if you and Luc come,threepeople will be wasting their time instead of just one. Believe me.”
“I’ll believe you when I hear it from the horse’s mouth.” Her answer is a bull’s-eye shot straight through the heart of my argument. “Or maybe not even then,” she adds. “I’m not ruling out getting you a second opinion.”
“Get me a third and a fourth. They’ll all be the same. It is what it is. My head’s broken. Not a damn thing doctors can do about that.”
“We’ll see.” She grabs a pint glass and starts polishing it, daring me to naysay her.
“Fine. Come. I won’t stop you.” I grab a seat at the bar. “Now, do you forgive me for last night? Not that you should let me play the injured-soldier card, but I’m hoping you will.” I bat my eyelashes beseechingly.
She gives me the side-eye for a while, but eventually says, “You could fall into a barrel full of cow patties and still come out smelling like a rose. You know that, right?”
I point at her. “That’s a yes.”
