Page 82 of Plum

“Mine was fine. Still going strong.”

“Looks like you’re having a blast.”

“I’m winning every game, doll.” Forty draws the cue back and takes his shot. Table scratch. “Ignore the evidence of your eyes.”

I snort. “Want to talk about it?”

“Nope. You?”

“Nope.”

“Get me a beer?”

“Comin’ right up.” I drag the bag out to the dumpster and snag two bottles and a broom on my way back. When I return, Forty’s sitting at a table, chalking his cue. I hand him a beer.

“I’ve missed you, Jo-Beth.” He nudges a seat back from the table with his foot. I sit.

“You see me all the time at The White Van.”

“It isn’t the same. We’re working.”

“What’s this look like?” I jerk my chin at the broom that I rested on a chair beside me.

“Don’t recognize it. Can’t say I’ve seen one before in my life.” Forty raises an eyebrow, and I can’t help but grin. I guess I do miss him.

We never did fuck. He was either with Nevaeh or deployed. When he came back, he was never interested in what I was offering. He keeps tryin’ to date uptight bitches from town. Never works out, but it’s funny as shit watchin’ their faces when he brings them around.

“You see Nevaeh’s back in town?” His gaze is purposefully fixed somewhere across the room, unfocused, the cue forgotten, leaning against his knee.

“Yeah. I ran into her a little while ago. At the Shop Right.” That gets his attention.

The cords in his throat bob like he’s trying not to ask, but I know he will. “She say what she’s doing back here?”

“Something about laying low. She wasn’t specific.”

He tenses, his muscles flexing, the burns on his right arm blanching. It takes him a minute, but he breathes, sucks down a swallow of beer, fixes the cold face that says he doesn’t care. “That woman makes trouble like she was born to it.”

“You should talk to her.”

“Oh, yeah?” He lifts his lip in a sneer. “Now why would I do that?”

I shrug. “So you don’t regret anything.”

“I think maybe we’re talking about you now.”

I sniff. “I got no regrets. I got a ton of shit I wish turned out different, but no regrets.”

“I don’t see a difference.”

“I’ll give you an example. Nevaeh. You wish she were here now?”

His jaw tightens and his fingers clench around his bottle. He don’t answer, but I don’t expect him to.

“You sorry for anything you did?”

“No.” He doesn’t hesitate, biting the word out.

Forty’s a solid guy, no bullshit, no hassle. I’ve always liked him, but I never saw that I had anything in common with him before. I see it in his eyes now, though. We’re both miserable as fuck, clinging to our pride like it’ll make anything better.

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