I close my eyes and lean back against the workbench, staring up at the rafters of my workshop. Outside, the clouds have already started to thicken, the spring storm that’s been threatening all day settling in.
“I didn’t know she was coming.”
“Well, fuck,” Luke says. “Neither did I, or I’d be there myself.” He blows out a breath. “I can’t get away for a few more days, and she’s already there. At the Rusty Nail.”
That pulls me fully out of my head.
Fuck.
“What the fuck is she doing there?” It doesn’t matter because whatever the reason, the only thing that matters is that sheshouldn’tbe there. The Rusty Nail isn’t a place I choose to spend time, and it definitely isn’t a place for a kid.
I blow out a slow breath. “I’m on my way.”
Luke doesn’t thank me. He never does.We burned through the formalities of our relationship a long time ago.
We’d served together decades ago, little more than kids ourselves. Luke had a daughter back then, juggling fatherhood and marriage while serving overseas, which didn’t leave a lot of room for much else. But he had us. Hisbrothers.
I met the kid when she was small. The last time I’d seen her was before Luke and Cheryl split up for good. She was eleven or twelve, maybe. All big eyes and scraped knees, following her dad around like his shadow. And when I popped in, she’d look at me the same way. Like I was a hero or something.
I was most definitely not.
Still wasn’t.
I leave the workshop and my half-finished table behind and jump in the truck to rescue the kid who has no business on this mountain.
The last thing I want to do with a storm coming in is babysit.
My jaw is set tight as I navigate the slick roads, the rain already starting to fall, slowing my passage down the rough mountain roads.
With the way the rain is falling, I don’thave much time for my task. The roads will be impassable soon, and I want to be on the right side of them before that happens.
Tessa
I slide into a booth in the far corner of the bar. It’s the only seat available and a little further from the door than I’d prefer, but there don’t seem to be many options while I wait.
Wait.
I’m still not even sure what I’m waiting for.
Dad’s not even home.
I still can’t believe it. I’d just assumed… I knew I should have called first.
Still. I can’t change anything now.
“I’ll just go up to your place,” I’d suggested to him on the phone.
“No. The roads aren’t safe. Stay where you are. I’ll figure it out.”
So here I am. Waiting for… a rescue?
I probably shouldn’t be surprised that he’s not here. Somehow, for my whole life, he’s managed to not be there for me. This is pretty on-brand, really.
I wrap my hands around the glass of water in front of me but don’t take a sip. The table is sticky, the vinyl seat is cracked and worn, and I can feel every eye in the place on me.
I keep my posture relaxed and try to maintain some sort of air of belonging, despite the way my stomach is twisting in knots.
In an effort to distract myself, I pull my journal out of my purse and flip to a blank page.
