August is getting comfortable at her, now, regular seat, ready to do more damage—or so, I assume.
It’s early in the day. Kenny’s opened less than an hour ago, and we’re the only two people in here, which leaves me the decision of whether to be pushy and sit down next to her or give her the space she will likely want.
To be safe, I leave a few seats between us.
The back bar door that leads into the kitchen swings open, and Annabelle, Bobby’s wife, spins out with a rack of glasses. In her typical bar attire, a black tee, a pink and black plaid shirt tied at the waist, and her dingy blue jeans, she drops the crate down onto the counter and releases a heavy sigh. “Hey, Chancy, what are you doing here so early in the day? It ain’t even lunchtime.” Annabelle sweeps her shoulder-length sun-streaked blonde hair off her shoulders and combs it into a ponytail, wrapping it with a rubber band she pulled from her wrist.
Annabelle fills in for Bobby sometimes during the afternoon shift, but that’s usually just when he’s sick or has an appointment somewhere. “It’s a long story,” I tell her, making an inconspicuous swift nod toward August, along with a look that can explain just enough for her to get the hint that she’s the reason I’m here. “You know what? I want some lunch. I’ll have the corned beef on rye and a Coke.”
“You got it, sugar.”
“Where’s Bobby at?” I ask her.
“Oh, he wanted to pay his respects to that guy ... what’s his name, Keegan, was it?”
“Ah, I must have just missed him. That’s where I’m coming from too.”
“It’s just so sad,” Annabelle continues. I want to make another gesture for her to stop talking about Keegan, but it’ll only make things worse. I shake my head and glance down at the dirt caked under one of my fingernails, but I can still see Annabelle’s stare out of the corner of my eye.
Chapter Twelve
August
Why isit I can’t sulk in private? I didn’t ask for any of this to happen.
“What can I get you, honey?” The woman behind the bar seems kind enough but busy cleaning the place up, so I have a little hope she won’t give me the third degree like the guy who works here at night. Of course, I still have Mr. Nosey here, watching every move I make. How can he not have anything better to do with his day than follow me around? He should know it’s a waste of his time, not mine.
“I’ll have a glass of Old Crow, on the rocks,” I tell the bartender.
“One of those kinds of days, huh?” she asks, grabbing a clean glass from the rack she just carried out.
“It’s been one of those weeks,” I respond.
“I hear ya, hon.” Without another question, the woman pours the whiskey over ice and hands me the glass with a cocktail napkin. “Let me know if I can get you anything else. I just got to go grab the other rack of glasses from the kitchen.”
“Thank you,” I offer.
“Day drinking gives me a migraine,” Chance says, staring forward at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar.
“That’s nice,” I respond.
“So, Keegan came here almost every day. He enjoyed his whiskey, much like you are, but he had a dark secret no one knew. Keegan was quiet about his personal life but loud about everything else. He was a funny drunk, but he was funny all the time, so no one ever knew when he had too much to drink. No one spoke up about the amount he drank. No one followed him home to make sure he wasn’t driving. No one asked him enough questions.”
I hate everything he’s saying. I hate that he knew Keegan. I hate that he thinks he knows me. I hate that he doesn’t care how hard he pushes my buttons. I hate that he won’t just go away.
“Jesus, stop. What’s with you? Are you trying to make this harder for me?”
“No,” he responds.
“Okay, so what is it then?”
“What do you see when you look at me?”
I take a second to study him, not because I haven’t already taken a look, but because I wonder if I’m missing something.
He has all four limbs, no visible scars. His eyes are green but olive-green with a hint of gold. His coppery colored crew-cut hair matches the wild freckles on his face, offsetting the square jaw that gives him a hardened look. He looks like he works with his hands for a living, and judging by the barrel-chested athletic appearance; I would say it’s most likely hard labor. The mild sunburn on his cheeks tells me he probably does this work outside. I don’t know whether I’m right, but that’s what I see when I look at him.
“A creep,” I respond.
