That’s probably a good thing. I don’t want to talk aboutScott tonight anyway, and I’m not sure I want to talk about him at all to my half sister. Things are obviously going well between Bailey and Casey and I have no desire to bring down the mood.
There are a few more women and younger people in here now, including some preppy-looking guys in pastel polo shirts, but the men over at the pool table still stand out. The taller of the two is facing this way and he’s ruggedly handsome, a description I don’t think I have ever used about another human being, but which feels uncannily fitting. He’s deeply tanned with a broad forehead and a jawline that you can tell is strong, even though it’s graced with heavy dark stubble. He’s like a male model crossed with a caveman.
His friend with the dirty-blond hair and yellow-and-black-checked shirt still has his back to us.
Bailey’s head pops into my line of vision, waggling from side to side in an impressive execution of the dance move from “Walk Like an Egyptian.”
“Earth to Wren.” She glances over her shoulder before returning her gaze to me with a grin.
“Sorry,” I apologize, reaching for my drink.
“Someone keeps getting distracted,” she sings. “Or perhaps someone islookingfor a distraction?”
I almost choke on my mouthful.
“That’s Jonas, right?” Bailey glances significantly at the model-caveman, then at Casey, who nods. “If you’re looking for a distraction, I hear he’s a good one,” she adds.
“Bailey.” Casey’s tone is mildly chastising.
“Oh, come on,” she replies, slapping his arm. “Last time we saw him here, you told me he’d slept with half the women in this town.”
“That’s an exaggeration,” Casey replies. “But I don’t imagine your sister wants to be another notch on his belt.” He looks at me for confirmation.
“I don’t want to be another notch onanyone’sbelt right now, thanks.”
I’m not sure I even fancy him.
If I were sober, I’d be able to tell.
“Who’s his pal?” Bailey asks Casey.
“Can you stop staring at them, please?” he asks her reasonably.
Bailey smirks at me but does as she’s asked. She’s partially blocking my view, so at least I can look past her without it being too obvious.
“That’s Anders,” Casey answers her question. “And they’re not friends, they’re brothers.”
“Case knows everyone in this town,” Bailey tells me as an aside.
“I knowofpeople,” Casey corrects her. “I don’t know them well enough to talk to. Anders was in the year above me when we were in school. Jonas is a couple of years older than that.”
That makes them about thirty-five and thirty-seven.
“Are they from around here?” I ask. “Their names sound Scandinavian.”
“The whole family has Swedish names, going back generations. They take their heritage very seriously. The Fredrickson farm has been passed down for something like two hundred years.” There’s a touch of reverence in his tone.
“They’re farmers?” I ask.
“Jonas is,” Casey replies. “Their parents too. Anders lives in Indy, though.” That’s the nickname for Indianapolis. “LastI heard, he was working for an IndyCar team, which is pretty cool.”
Thatispretty cool. Dad and Sheryl once took Bailey and me to the Indy 500, a five-hundred-mile-long car race around an oval racetrack. It’s billed as “the Greatest Spectacle in Racing” and is part of the Triple Crown of Motorsport, along with the Monaco Grand Prix and the 24 Hours of Le Mans, but I thought it sounded boring when Dad told me he’d bought tickets. Once I was there, though, I got swept up in the high-octane excitement of it all.
“Haven’t seen Anders in ages,” Casey continues. “Although I heard he lost his wife a few years ago.”
“What happened to her?” Bailey asks.
“Car accident, I think,” Casey replies.
