Because Andrew lived in Chesterwood and “popping in after work” loosely translated to an hour and fifteen-minute drive.
Because one didn’t simply “pop in” toThe Bootmaker. This was the type of place you actively ran awayfrom in case you got a staph infection from touching one of the surfaces.
But three weeks ago, Andrew had finally asked Nick out, much to his surprise and my elation. I stooped below the bar and began to rifle through the fridge designated for bar staff. Orson, as a way to placate us and stop us from unionising over our insulting wages and poor working conditions, usually allowed us to have one or two drinks during our shift. We kept a bottle ofvery cheapprosecco in there for moments like this one.
“Ugh, where is it?” I muttered to myself as I rifled through cans of lager and cider stacked on top of each other. “I swear toGod,if Brent has drunk it, I am going to lose my fucking?—”
“Never mind!” I said, pulling it from the back of the fridge and standing up to face Nick. “Here it is.” I felt the skin on the back of my neck prickle before I even turned, following Nick’s eye line to where they were locked on the man stood in front of him.
Danger! Danger! Danger!
The thoughts blared through my mind, a mental siren going off that something about this man was not quite right. I set my face in a weary smile that probably looked far more like I was in unimaginable pain, as I turned to look at him.
I set the prosecco down on the table, trying to ignore the way the bottle scraped quietly against the surface of the wooden bar, a clear signal to everyone around me that my hands were shaking. I wiped the condensation from my hands before looking up again. His eyes hadn’t moved from where they were locked on mine, and Nick had closed the gap between us, eyeing us both with a stricken look.
“Hi, there,” I said, trying to keep my tone as steady as fucking possible, even though I could feel the waves of bile lingering at the base of my throat. “Uh, have you been served?”
I looked over at Nick, widening my eyes ever so slightly and motioning for him tofucking do something.
“Yes, I have been served.” His voice was slow and calculated as if he was feeling each word in his mouth. Feeling each letter before he let them pass through his lips. “I have had a wonderful evening.”Ah, yes, nothing screams ‘wonderful’ like staring at a dirty bar wall.
“Well, we are glad to hear it,” Nick cut in, visibly retracting his earlier statement about the guy simply being a little peculiar. “Are you just visiting Darling?”
Maybe I was staring too hard. Maybe I was looking for something, a sign, a signal that would tell me this man was bad news. To the untrained eye, to aman,the change in his demeanour would have been imperceptible. But the scowl he levelled Nick with, one on his face for the shortest of moments before regaining his composure and recalibrating with a smile, was enough to have me stumbling back slightly and into some dirty beer glasses.
The sound of shattering glass drew his attention, the intensity of his leer pulling the breath from my throat. I clutched at the edge of the bar, my knuckles whitening just hidden from his view as he turned to leave. I was about to let out a withering breath when he stopped just in front of me, grabbing a handful of peanuts and shoving them into his pocket. Loose peanuts. Salted peanuts.
He put a handful of peanuts in his fucking pocket.
HE PUT A HANDFUL OF PEANUTS IN HIS FUCKING POCKET.
I just knew I would be repeating that sentence to anyone and everyone who would listen for weeks to come. Possibly years, depending on how the whole creepy-guy-at-the-bar story unfolded. Either way, I’d be sending out an APB on the guy. Itfelt like it was my duty as a Darling local to keep the people of my town safe.
“Don’t worry about leaving us a Yelp review,” Nick muttered to himself before snickering once the man had left the bar. Before the door had even closed, I’d downed most of the bottle of prosecco and proceeded to pour whatever was closest into a shot glass because sometimes needs must. And in this fucking instance, I needed it more than I’d ever needed anything in my life.
CHAPTER FIVE
It was one in the morning when we finally ushered everyone out of the bar. Despite our adamant protests, Rusty, the toothless charmer that he was, managed to wrangle another two pints out of us before his wife called and yelled at Nick down the phone. Although I was just as much to blame as Nick was, watching that burly, six-foot-something wall of muscle that he was getting yelled at by a little old lady was nothing short of hilarious. And very necessary after the weird interaction with the suited creep.
Both still feeling a little off about the whole thing, Nick had decided to drive me home and waited outside my building until I’d made it safely inside. A string of texted ‘thank yous’and one ‘you’re the best manager ever!’,and I was back in the comfort of my apartment. In keeping with my usual anxious energy, I locked the door, making sure to check it twice before whipping off my work clothes, tossing them into the laundry hamper, and heading for a shower.
I turned up the temperature of the water until it was so hot it was burning my skin. The kind of heat thathad you questioning if the water was actually hot or really fucking cold. Showering after a shift was a necessity, as was the scorching heat of the water. It was really the only way to wash away the grime that latched onto me the moment I stepped intoThe Bootmaker. And if I was being honest, I just wanted to wash away all the stress of the last twenty-four hours. Whilst the party had been fun, the social interactions had left me feeling physically and emotionally drained and in need of two or three days in the presence of my own company.
Unfortunately, I’d promised to see my grandparents tomorrow to help out with some last-minute gardening. I’d planned to be over first thing in the morning, which meant I had just enough time to wash my hair, put on some laundry, and continue pondering the lack of food in my fridge. But my mind kept pulling back to the book as much as I tried to convince myself it didn’t.
I mean, what the hell was I expecting to happen? The notion that trying again might somehow result in a different outcome was ridiculous. It wasn’t like demons were real. But in the realm of possibility, statistically speaking, somewhere in all the dimensions in all the universes, one of the Quinceys had managed to actually summon a demon, right? So, why couldn’t it be me?
As much as I was cynical about romantic love where I was concerned, there were no two people I loved more than my grandparents. My grandmother had gotten ill eight months ago with a lung condition I could never quite remember the name of. Or at least that’s what I told myself. I think a part of me, something subconscious but ultimately very selfish, had chosen not to learn it, hoping that it wouldn’t make it real if I didn't know.
But one routine check-up had evolved into countless hospital appointments, two procedures, and an endless string of badnews. My grandmother never showed it, but she was in a lot of pain. And my grandfather was too, for different reasons, but he was in pain nonetheless. Maybe it was desperate and ultimately futile, but I wanted to try each and every possible avenue to give them their life back. Modern medicine could spell out the wordterminalas much as it damn well pleased, but I would try anything, because they were worth it.
Theirlovewas worth it. I mean, it was the kind of love that came around once in a lifetime. My grandfather had said it countless times when I was growing up. He would gush about how lucky he was to find his soul mate, when so many other people were seldom as lucky as he was. When I’d asked him what it felt like, he’d barely been able to find the words to describe it, explaining it like a convergence, like everything collapsing inwards on one singular point before clicking into place. And suddenly, they were it. Theone.The only person who would ever make you feel whole again.
