Page 61 of The Doctor's Truth

“That’s my girl!” Pearl smiles.

32

Donovan

“Do you think she’ll come?”

Jason hasn’t taken his eyes off the door all night.

The Anchor is packed. Regulars. Doctors off shift. Fishers and seasoned boaters. I prefer this crowd over tourist season. They drink stouts, laugh heartily, and have that same sun-leather skin my dad had.

The Anchor is a haven for locals, which is why it’s my go-to spot. The walls are a dark, polished oak, decorated festively with mistletoe and pine. They’ve got booths, round tables, a pool table, and a couple of muted TVs with an eye on the Times Square ball drop. There’s also a stage, where they’re doing karaoke all night long. So far, it’s been a lot of Billy Joel and Jimmy Buffett.

I’ve been hanging out by the bar, where Maria is bartending. But it’s hard to enjoy my discounted cabernet and the fourth rendition of “Piano Man” when Jason keeps pacing, looking for Kenzi.

I haven’t seen him this glum in a while. He looks good tonight—he’s wearing a button-up that stretches across his biceps, top buttons released enough to show off a sliver of chest underneath. Black pants that rest snug on his hips.

He could have his pick of the litter for his New Year’s kiss. He’s already gotten lingering stares from every woman at the Anchor.

But he’s laser focused, eyes on the door. Waiting for her to walk in.

“She’ll come, right?” he says. “I mean, it’s New Year’s.”

“You need a fucking fidget spinner,” I tell him. “Settle down.”

He slumps against the bar. Looking like a kicked dog.

I sigh. “Enjoy yourself. Sing a song. That will make you feel better.”

“I’m not in the mood.”

And then the song changes—an instant rapid-fire drum solo—and the light turns back on in Jason’s eyes.

“Oh fuck! I love this song!”

Sometimes, he has the attention span of a toddler. Just need to distract him with a shiny set of keys to get him to perk up.

“Up next, Jason King with ‘One Week,’” the announcer says.

Jason blinks at me. “Did you put me on the set?”

I shrug, answering without answering. “Knock ’em dead.”

His grin lights up his whole face. “Love you, man.”

“Love you, too.”

I lean back against the bar and watch him take the stage.

It doesn’t matter that his heart is hurting. Jason King always comes alive for an audience. He takes the microphone, gets into a Michael-Jackson-esque pose, and immediately the Anchor gets noisy with whoops and claps.

I can’t help the grin that climbs my face as I watch him light up the crowd.

“Listen to him,” I hear a grumble behind me. “Sounds like a bag of cats getting choked to death.”

I turn. Nick is at the bar, along with two of his pug-faced cronies. Nick is one of the few locals. He and Jason used to be best friends growing up. Only Jason changed. Nick never did. He’s still the same bitter bully he’s always been. Only now he works as a waiter at the marina restaurant and shucks clams in the summer—a lifestyle that makes him rougher and constantly smelling like cigarette smoke. Currently, he’s hunched over his pint, cackling at Jason’s expense.

Jason might be an idiot. But he’s my idiot.

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