Second Chance Summer (Chance #1)(51)
Author: Emma Hart

“You win,” he gives in. “But it was still harsh.”

“Maybe a little. But if Adam has any brains, he’ll explain to his girlfriend what he was doing on Saturday night before Luce tells her.”

“Tells her what?”

Oh, shit.

Luce appears next to me and looks down at me. “Who’s tellin’ who what?”

Reese points in Adam’s direction before I can say anything. I watch as Luce’s eyes squint, widen, then narrow.

“I thought-”

“Apparently not,” I say softly.

She gasps, her hand flying to her mouth and her eyes focusing on us. “Were they… Saturday?”

I never thought of that.

“Reese?” I prompt. “Were they?”

“No. Yesterday,” he reassures us. “He was single then.”

Luce sighs and drops onto the barrel next to us. “I almost wish it wasn’t true. I almost wish he wasn’t single. Does that make me a bitch?”

“Depends why you wish that.” I shrug.

She smirks, glancing at me. “If he wasn’t single, I’d be totally justified in going over there and kicking his ass the f**k to Canada and back.”

Reese buries his face in my back and shakes with silent laughter.

“I’d still do it,” I tell her.

“Why?” she asks. “We had one night. Sex. Neither of us promised anything to the other. I owe him nothing. He owes me nothing.”

But, as our eyes meet in the darkness, we both know that final statement might not be entirely true.

~

My fingers strum the strings of the guitar, not following any particular song. I’m playing in the most relaxing way. I’m playing the kind of music that comes straight from the heart. It’s the kind that drags up every feeling and thought and pours them out, the strings sending vibrations through the air. Each note resonates through me, wrapping me in comfort and maybe even touching my soul deep down inside of me.

This kind of music is the best, because it’s free. Effortless. Thoughtless. It’s the epitome of the word truth. And it’s all I have to express, because sometimes words just don’t feelings justice.

Sometimes when you feel enough things, strong enough for long enough, words become inadequate. They become meaningless in your life because the way you feel becomes more than the way you speak. When you’re too scared to speak, you scream. When you’re too sad, you cry, and when you’re too confused, you simply say nothing at all.

And the gentle, familiar notes winding into a beautiful, honest melody is my way of saying everything while saying nothing at all.

Until my phone buzzes loudly on the side, breaking through my peace. I set my guitar aside with a heavy sigh, grabbing the cell from the side. Denny’s Bar is the number on screen – a number I have saved for emergencies only – and I instantly freeze up.

“Hello?”

“Kia? That you, girl?” Denny’s rough voice growls down the phone.

“Who else is it gonna be?” I snap back. We don’t exactly have a love-love relationship.

“You need to pick your momma up. She passed out here last night, and she needs to sleep her liquor off before she gets her ass into work at six tonight.”

“And she can’t sleep there?”

“I’m a bar, not a f**kin’ hotel.”

“She’s been there all damn night, Denny. Why you just callin’ me now?”

“I thought she might have woken her ass up by now. I got a delivery comin’ in now, so get down here and pick her up.” He hangs up, and I throw my phone on the phone, crying out in frustration.

I snatch my car keys from the bed beside me and storm downstairs. I haven’t seen her for I don’t even know how long, yet I’m still expected to be the parent. I’ve had no answers to my questions, no explanations from her… Nothing since the day she handed me the divorce papers and expected me to deliver them to Daddy.

So why am I doing this? I have no idea – but I do know it’s gonna be the last time.

Driving through town is simple as always, and it feels like no time has passed when I park outside Denny’s. The bar looks like it should be in a Western movie, not outside a small, barely-heard-of town. It’s total cowboy, and honestly, I’m not surprised Jay refers to all Southerners as cowboys.

Denny’s place doesn’t exactly give off any other impression. And neither does the man, I remember, as I push open the door and step into the stale-smelling bar. He’s standing at the end of the bar, his long, dirty blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck, wearing a checkered shirt and jeans tucked into cowboy boots.

Yeah. The guy should be on a goddamn ranch, not behind a small country bar. Preferably in another state.

“Kia,” he drawls, leering at me. “You look more like your momma every time I see you.”

“Thank God I don’t act more and more like her,” I retort. “Where is she?”

“She’s out back, feelin’ sorry for herself no doubt.” He cocks his thumb over his shoulder, and I pass him, breathing through my mouth.

Momma’s sitting on an old ratty sofa, a glass of water – I think – resting on her knee, and her hand over her eyes. She’s wearing last night’s clothes and make-up, and I click my tongue.

“We’re goin’,” I say shortly, staring at her.

She drops her hand. “We are, are we?”

“I’ve just driven here at the order of your boss to get you home, so you bet we are. If you could see yourself, you’d know you need to get home and have a damn good shower.” I put my hand on the door handle and glance back at her. “Well?”

“I’m comin’.”

I leave without checking she’s following, and almost walk straight into Denny.

“Excuse me,” I say through my teeth. He steps to the side, allowing me to pass. “Thank you. Oh, and, Denny? Don’t call me expectin’ me to do this again. You want her to go home, then you put her in a cab and send her back. I’m not her keeper or your skivvy. If she’s in your bar, it’s your job to watch what she’s drinkin’, and it sure as hell ain’t my job to clean up the mess.”

“You’re her daughter, Kia.”

“Exactly. I’m her daughter.” I yank open the bar door, taking a deep breath of fresh air. God. I really do hate this place.

I get into the car and wait for her to come teetering out, but she doesn’t. Her heels swing from her fingers as she walks barefoot across the parking lot and slides into the passenger side. She barely closes the door before I tear away from the bar.