Page 61 of I Am Salvation

I sigh.

I suppose it wasn’t meant to be.

I walk back to my car and get in. A memory edges into my mind.

A memory of my father, and of a lesson he taught me.

He drilled it into me my whole life, but it became especially apparent when he took me to this old dive bar on the outskirts of Grand Junction when I turned twenty-one.

Five years earlier…

I look around the dive. Scratched tables and vinyl barstools with rips in them.

“Uh…Dad?”

“Yes, Dee?”

“When you told me you were going to take me out for my first legal drink, I kind of had something else in mind.”

Dad laughs. “I’m sure you did. Your brothers said pretty much the same thing to me when I brought them here.”

“Dale and Donny never mentioned that to me,” I say.

“That’s because bringing them here was something personal between me and each of them.” He looks into my eyes, smiling at me. “Same as it is for you, Diana. This place means a lot to me.”

“I’m sure there must be a reason behind that,” I say.

“There is.” He signals to the bartender. “I’ll have a bourbon.” He turns to me. “What do you want, sweetheart?”

“I suppose he’s going to want to see my ID,” I say.

The barkeep shakes his head. “No need. Mr. Steel here wouldn’t bring you in if you were underage.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You know my dad?”

“Yeah. He comes in every now and then.” The bartender holds out his hand. “I’m Lonnie.”

“Hi, Lonnie. I’m Diana.”

He nods. “I know you are. I know your brothers too. I’m sure in a couple years, I’ll meet your sister.”

I turn to Dad. “You’re a regular here?”

“Lonnie’s been here for about eight years,” Dad says. “He was here when I brought Donny in. Hadn’t started when I brought in Dale, though.”

“Okay.”

“You haven’t told me what you’d like to drink,” Lonnie says to me.

I don’t drink a lot. I kind of lost the desire when I was drugged my freshman year of high school. But I don’t mind a glass of wine every now and then. “Do you have any red wine?”

Lonnie turns around and looks through his shelves of booze. “I think I’ve got a Merlot back here somewhere.”

“Sure, that’s fine.”

Dad leans in, lowering his voice. “I have to warn you, honey,” Dad says. “This won’t taste anything like your Uncle Ryan’s wines. And the bourbon I get won’t taste anything like Peach Street.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Then I guess I have to ask again, Dad. Why exactly are we here?”

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