He purses his lips and nods his head. “Fair enough, but maybe you could look a little harder, darlin’.”
“What exactly am I looking for?” I could point out the dirt beneath his fingernails and the fact that the look doesn’t go well with a three-piece blue suit that he chose to wear to a funeral. I could also tell him most people choose to wear black to a funeral, but those are minor details I can safely assume he wasn’t waiting for me to notice.
“Who am I?” he continues.
“Your name is Chance. Chance, I don’t know.”
“Chance Miller,” he corrects me. “I wasn’t asking about my name.”
I lift the glass of whiskey to my lips, taking a break from the twenty questions I believe he is trying to use to distract me from my misery.
“Okay, then what am I looking at, Chance Miller?”
“Pre-existing damage, the damage that formed scar tissue stronger than anything else in my body. Damage that would protect me from ever experiencing anything worse.”
“Fall off your bike when you were five?” I ask. I smirk to remove a little bit of the jerk appeal. This conversation is getting more serious than I’m in the mood for—not that I’m in the mood for any type of discussion, but I lost power over that when I got into his truck.
“Sure, darlin’. It hurt like a son-of-a-bitch.”
“I figured, but at least now you know nothing will ever hurt you as much as falling off that bike, right?”
The bartender places his food down in front of him, and I wave her over. “Could I have another, please?”
Without assumption or accusation in her eyes, she fills my drink and moves on. I guess this is the time of day to hang out in this place. I wonder if she served Keegan drinks at this hour.
Since Chance looks like he might need a few minutes to polish off his lunch, I take advantage of the opportunity, finishing the drink with a few big gulps and reaching into my clutch for the money I had folded up and shoved to the bottom. I place the cash beneath a cardboard coaster and step down from my stool. “Thank you for the ride.”
Chance’s mouth is full as I walk by, but he swallows the food before I reach the door. “Where are you going?”
I tilt my head to the side, wondering why he would be asking me such a personal question. “I don’t believe that is any of your business, Chance Miller.”
He looks irritated or frustrated by how his eyebrows arch then deflate as I take another step backward. “Look, answer me this,” he says before taking a swig of his soda. “Are you in trouble?”
“I’m not as dumb as Keegan,” I say, walking out the door.What the hell?What kind of nerve does he have, asking me that question, today of all days?
When the door to the bar closes, a sense of relief overwhelms me. I need to be alone, able to swallow my thoughts and drown the hatred I feel inside.
I pull the four-inch heels off my feet and walk down the paved sidewalk without caring what anyone thinks of my barefoot look. My feet are killing me. The sharp gravel against the bottom of my feet hurt less than the shoes. In any case, everything is numb in comparison to the thoughts firing through my head.
I find the small bike path set off this road has a cobblestone inlet that overlooks the water, knowing it should be quiet this time of day.
As I expected, the masses of people I might typically expect here are at work or doing whatever another normal thing they would be doing on a workday after lunchtime. I drop my shoes against the stone ledge and sit down, swinging my feet around the front to dangle over the calm water.
I close my eyes for a long moment and lower the slim strap on my clutch down to my wrist. The flask slips out easily. I twist off the cover and pour the remaining contents into my mouth. I don’t have much left, but there wouldn’t be anything left if Chance hadn’t interrupted me earlier.
“Every chance you got to be alone, the bottle was in your mouth,” I say out loud. “You never quit. You never had any intention of quitting. You wasted us, our life, me.” I replace the top of the flask and place it down beside me. “This doesn’t feel good … being drunk all the time. My pain is still here. My anger is louder than ever, and I still can’t forgive you.”
After a quick glimpse at my watch, I already know where my next stop is on this beautiful day off.
Every weekday between two and three o’clock on Blue Corn Avenue, in the basement of Church Andrews, Keegan would join others in his situation. I’ve never been inside of that church, but I have sat outside many times, searching for Keegan’s truck, making sure it was where it was supposed to be.This is what a caretaker does.
My feet are throbbing with pain as I approach the arched red doors. I wasn’t planning to do so much walking today. I would have worn my flats if I had. Chance messed up my plans.
I wrap my hand around the golden handle of the door and use most of my strength to pull against the heaviness. The church unfurls before me, reminding me of my irreverent behavior when it comes to religion. I don’t remember the last time I’ve attended Sunday morning mass or any ceremony in a church, for that matter. Mom and Dad didn’t raise me as a strict Christian, but I went to classes for a couple of years and made visits to church on holidays. Once I went to college, those days fell behind me.
The scents of old wood, dusty books, and floor cleaner fill the air. The pews are empty, leaving me to focus on the altar in front of the glowing glass-stained windows, portraying history in the form of art.
A soft sound of mutters steers my attention to the right, where a door is propped open by a wooden wedge.
