Page 54 of When The Mountains Held Us

Maybe that’s why he does it.

Maybe he likes seeing me flustered.

The drive to work is uneventful, my mind wandering as I take the backroads I’ve come to know like the back of my hand. It’s a picture-perfect day, and I’m a little sad that I won’t be spending it exploring more of the mountainous region around me. A cool breeze rustles my hair as I drive, the chill in it ushering in the promise of winter soon to come.

My time here has flown by in some ways, and crawled in others, but I do my best to keep my spirits high in the hopes of continuing to build my life here. I’m feeling more optimistic than I have in months.

My tires screech on the gravel when I pull into the parking lot, and I throw the car in park before flipping down the mirror and doing a quick makeup check. It’s still early afternoon, so the bar isn’t packed when I walk in.

A few regulars sit at the bar, and I know things will start to get busier the later into the night we get. I expect to see Cliff greeting me with his signature smile from behind the bartop, but all I get is an annoyed glare from Layla. Thankfully, I don’t typically work with her, so I’m surprised to see her behind the bar and Cliff nowhere to be found.

Cliff is a sixty-something who’s been working at Joe’s since his early twenties, and I swear his infectious personality is what keeps the townspeople coming back time and time again. It certainly isn’t his signature cocktails that smell and taste like straight gasoline that have people crowding around the bar three deep on the weekends. A self-proclaimed mixologist, with absolutely none of the education to back it up, Cliff is always concocting another creation that is sure to have even the burliest man coughing and spluttering at the very first sip.

My mood dampens a little when I meet Layla’s fiery stare, but I plaster a friendly smile on my face and give her a little wave. She rolls her eyes and turns back to the taps, pouring a beer that’s half foam and slamming it down in front of one of our regulars, Bill. He looks at it disapprovingly, but when Layla turns her gaze to him and arches an eyebrow, he takes a sip that leaves a layer of foam in his mustache and manages a weak smile.

Rounding the bar, I shove my bag onto one of the shelves beneath the bartop and grab a towel to start drying some of the clean glasses set to the side of the sink.

“Hey, Layla. No Cliff tonight?”

“I don’t see him here. Do you?” she snaps back, her voice dripping in condescension that has annoyance prickling within me. I’m not sure who pissed in her Cheerios this morning, but if I give any ounce of attitude back to her, it’ll only serve to make this the longest shift of my life.

“No, I just— Is he okay?”

She tosses her rag down and turns to face me, a hand on her hip. “I don’t know. Probably. Joe called and asked me to come in, so here I am. Anything else you’d like to know, princess?”

I flinch a little at the harsh words, wondering what the hell I did to her to make her hate me so much. “Nah, I think that about covers it,” I answer, allowing some of my obvious irritation seep through.

“The Coors just kicked. Why don’t you make yourself useful, and go change it?”

Holding back a groan, I tuck the rag into the back pocket of my jeans and make my way into the back to change out the keg.

The next few hours pass without incident, Layla and I doing our best to keep our distance from each other and only speaking when absolutely necessary. Her entire demeanor changes when a group of guys walks in off the street, dressed in faded Levis and tight white shirts, complete with cowboy hats. With no shame whatsoever, she pushes her boobs up and yanks the neckline of her tank down.

Bill shoots me a look that says exactly what I’m thinking, and we silently agree that no, we didn’t think it was possible for Layla’s boobs to get any higher up on her chest than they already were. She’s one wrong move away from a nip slip, and I’d bet the tip jar that she doesn’t care. She plasters an outrageous smile on her face and walks over to greet the guys at the other end of the bar.

“Fresh blood waltzes in, and all of a sudden she’s Mary freakin’ Poppins,” Bill grumbles, and I chuckle as I pour him another beer and slide it across the bar to him. He studies me for a moment over the rim of his glass. “I like you, Oakley.”

“You’re not so bad yourself, Bill.”

“I mean it. You’ve always got a smile on your face. What’s your story?”

“My story?” Amusement lights my eyes, but he’s serious as he studies me and nods. I consider for a minute how much to tell him, before giving him the honest truth.

“Just trying to build a new life for myself.” I shrug. “This seemed like a good place to do that.”

“Something about the small-town way of life,” he agrees. “These mountains have a way of healing you better than any doctor or therapist ever could.”

“That they do,” I agree, turning to grab a towel off the back counter, but freezing when his next words reach me.

“When my wife was diagnosed with cancer, I wanted to move us to the city so we could be closer for her treatments, but she refused. Said all she needed was right here in our backyard. That she didn’t want to be surrounded by concrete and skyscrapers when her time came. When the treatments didn’t take like we’d hoped they would, it was the view of these mountains that brought her peace in the midst of unimaginable pain. It was only when she passed, lying in our hammock on our back porch, facing these beautiful mountains, that I knew we’d made the right decision to stay.”

Silent tears threaten to spill over as I listen to his story, my work tasks forgotten in favor of giving it the attention it deserves.

“You didn’t want to move away after she passed?”

“Why would I?”

“It must be painful for you to be here without her.”