Jojo: Heard the show. Come home.
I keep hearing him. The older one. My son, and that small catch before he could get it out. I’ve taken a few hundred calls now, and most of them are gone by the time I’m in the truck. This one won’t go.
It’s an old man’s voice. Tired. Slow. He weighed every word before he let it go, especially the one about his son. I’ve heard somebody carry a word like that before. I just can’t put a face to it.
I sit in the dark until the hum is the only thing left in the room. Then I kill the board, lock the front of FMG Records behind me, and drive home to my wife with the window down, chasing a voice I can almost put a name to and can’t.
TEN
Ralph’s is empty for a Saturday afternoon. It’s the lull time—between lunch and dinner—which is exactly how I like it. I’m behind the bar, filling in, and I’m not the best bartender in the world. I can pour a beer like no other but ask me to make a margarita and that’s where I need help.
The barstool on the end is reserved for Mason, every day of the week. No one sits there. We’d come to Ralph’s as teens. He didn’t really care and would serve us if no one else was around. The stool is my way of sharing this bar with Mason.
Everything else has been updated. We installed new booths, new flooring, stripped and repainted the walls. We did keep the signs, posters, and other wall decals and put those back up.
Old Pete wraps his knuckles on the bar top, getting my attention. He sits in same spot—middle of the bar—right in line of the television. His wife passed in the spring, and he started spending more time here. I refill his coffee, which is always on the house.
“Glad to see you back in town,” he says.
I sigh heavily and rest my hands on the edge of the bar. “I’ll be here for a while.”
“Bad band break-up?”
“Nah.” I shake my head. “Hiatus. We need a break, physically.”
“Makes sense. I remember when you first started. My wife was a big fan.”
I beam and then remember she’s no longer with us and I think I should write a song or at least dedicate one to her, but then I’d have to perform, which isn’t the end of the world.
“I’ve been listening,” Pete says, pulling me from my internal brainstorming session. “You give out good advice. Do you have any for me?”
Pete catches me off guard. I open my mouth to say something but then realize I haven’t really done this in person, only behind a microphone. He asked for advice, but not about something in particular. The words finally come to me, “You’re a treasure to Beaumont,” I tell him. “You always have family here and a spot at my bar. Keep your wife’s spirit alive by talking about her, making everyone around you feel her presence.”
He stares at me for a long moment, picks his mug up and drinks. “Thanks,” he says hoarsely. “Like I said, you give good advice.”
For the next hour, I clean, restock, and refill his coffee until he switches over to a pint that he’ll end up nursing for an hour. I start on inventory, working top shelf down. Thanks to Elle, my inventory system is Liam-proof and there’s no way to mess it up. Unlike the time I lost a case of bourbon. I blamed the delivery driver, who was entirely too eager to show me that I signed for it. He was right. I owned it and apologized, and realized I put the bourbon under the bar, where it didn’t need to go.
I’m halfway through inventory when the front door opens and Nick Ashford steps in. We glare at each other, long and hard, neither of us blinking.
Actually, I don’t know if he’s blinking because the motherfucker left the door open and he’s letting all the cool air outside.
“Huh,” he says.
“Ashford.” My voice is even.
“Didn’t figure I’d find you back there pouring,” he says as he sits down at the bar. He could’ve sat anywhere and had table service, but no, he has to sit here, where I’m working. He likes to remind me that he used to date Josie.
“I own the building. I own the beer. I can manage to pour one.” I set the clipboard down. “What’ll it be?”
“Whatever’s coldest.”
I pull him a draft, slide it down and go back to my inventory. I’ve promised my family I’d be cordial to Nick, but that is as far as I’m willing to go. The deep-seated anger I feel—while isn’t his fault—is his fault. It doesn’t have to make sense to anyone but me. Even though his son, Mack, moved in with Josie and me temporarily while his parents were in South Africa, sorting their shit out . . . Nick’s still my frenemy.
Nick pushes his empty to the edge. I fill him another pint and this time set it in front of him. “Want something to eat?”
He shakes his head. I groan because I know there’s something wrong.
“Aubrey still in South Africa?” I ask, because Mack hasn’t mentioned his mom in a while.
