“Ha,” she said blackly. For a second, amusement flickered.
“Isn’t that your boyfriend, Corncob, on the cover?”
She hesitated, as if deciding how to answer this. “His name’s Corbin,” she said tautly.
“Honestly, is Corbin really abettername than Corncob, or just more accurate?”
“They’re both ridiculous. Muchlessridiculous to be named after a Roman emperor, huh, Mac? Maximilian is much more memorable. It’s just a shame that ‘a million’ part of your name doesn’t apply anymore.”
He froze as if she’d literally run him through. So thoroughly shocked by the attack it was almost funny.
Because just like that, she’d hurdled a few days’ worth of passive-aggressive gamesmanship and landed right smack in the heart of an ugly hurt. He hadn’t even realized he had a spot left unprotected.
He was Achilles, though.
And now it was clear she was targeting that undipped heel.
Damn, she played dirty. But even as he half admired it, he could feel his own face pale with a low-simmering fury.
She knew he was angry, but met his eyes anyway.
“Some people seem to have found it easy to forget,” he just said, evenly. Almost dispassionately.
She blinked. Surprised.
And then he nodded as if he was bored.
He didn’t know it was a gesture he’d gotten from his dad, a gesture that implied that whomever he was acknowledging was in fact not really worth acknowledging, as dismissive as a gesture could get.
Mac was on his third beer, an uncharacteristic overindulgence, but then, he was in an uncharacteristic mood.
Usually a meeting with the local veterans helped put things in perspective for him, but he was distracted and edgy and so blackly silent throughout, they all told him he should go get a beer. Which was pretty funny. He was clearly lowering the overall mood and they were trying to show him mercy by getting rid of him for the afternoon. He didn’t take offense. He was suitable for his own company only, and frankly, that’s pretty much all he wanted.
He looked up from his battered wood table at the back of the Misty Cat as Gabe walked in.
“Hey, Coltrane.”
“They let just anyone in the Misty Cat these days, don’t they?” Mac said dourly.
“I wish there was more than one respectable drinking establishment in town so I wouldn’t have to look at your ugly mug,” Gabe said in reply.
Affectionate greetings out of the way, Mac and Gabe argued over who would get to buy the beer, which Mac won. He felt like he needed a win.
He held up two fingers and Glenn Harwood—Avalon’s father, of all people—brought them over. They were between waitresses here at the Misty Cat since Glory Greenleaf’s fortunes had changed so dramatically, which also meant the caliber of open mic talent had rather plummeted. Glenn didn’t show any signs of recognizing Mac as the kid who had run around Devil’s Leap with his own kids about a thousand years ago, though he did nod politely to him and to Gabe. Who, as the school principal, was often at Glenn’s granddaughter’s various pageants and softball games. Mac had been busy over the past year planting and caretaking. He wasn’t precisely a fixture in anyone’s life in town.
“Good meeting tonight?” Gabe asked.
The meeting of local vets was pretty informal; guys from all branches of service from the various small towns nearby convened in a meeting room at the Adult Learning Center, and Mac and Gabe were both in a position to help in a lot of ways. Sometimes Mac made repairs to wheelchairs or gave advice on home repairs; they swapped farming stories and tips; he taught guys how to build and repair their own stuff, too. They all swapped financial advice and war stories.
“Yeah. Randy, Morty... pretty much everyone made it this week.” Except Mike, he didn’t say, but Gabe would have guessed that. “Why’d you miss it?”
“Basketball game at school. I’m pinch-hitting as coach.”
“Kind of mixing your metaphors there, aren’t you, Gabe? Not a lot of hitting in basketball.”
“You should watch kindergarteners play it. Pinchingandhitting. Also, sitting down in the middle of the court to cry, and wandering off because they saw something shiny.”
Mac grinned at this.
