Page 30 of Missed Exit

17

Law

When Restraint Fails

Thisisthethirdgig in a row where Derringer has actually shown up. On time and sober enough to perform. I can’t help but wonder if there’s a new someone in his life who’s a good influence on him, but his eyes aren’t stopping on anyone in particular in the crowd, and I don’t see a smitten young woman on a barstool, staring at him with hearts in her eyes.

I’m afraid to let myself believe he might be straightening up for his own good. Few twenty-one-year-olds do, but miracles happen, I guess.

I stay until he’s safely off the stage with a local beauty hanging on him at the bar, but I leave him with some parting words of wisdom.

“If you plan on getting stupid tonight, please do it away from here. You sounded good up there. Don’t follow a good performance with a bad decision.”

“I won’t. I’m just going to have a few drinks and then head home.” He smiles with a quick sideways glance at the young woman attached to his side, as if I might not have understood why he’d be wanting to head home soon.

“Be safe. See you next weekend.”

“How much longer, Law?”

“I can’t predict the future, Derringer.”

His question keeps bugging me on my drive home. I’m not convinced what I’m seeing from him lately is real. Was he asking how much longer until he gets a shot because he’s ready or how much longer he has to keep up an act because it’s getting harder for him to behave? It’s only been a few weeks.

I want to give him the benefit of the doubt, but my gut says to trust my instincts. And my memories.

Greta’s bedroom light glows behind her blinds. She’s still up. I sit in my truck for a few minutes, debating whether I should text her or leave her alone tonight. We’ve spent a lot of time together since the night she lost the bet. I love every minute of it, but she came here for space, and I don’t want to smother her.

I kill the engine and walk to my own front door.

When I step out of the shower, my phone lights up at the edge of the sink. I towel off enough to check the notification. It’s Greta.

How’d he do tonight?

Surprisingly good. How are you doing tonight?

It’s been productive. But I’ve run out of things to do . . .

If you’re trying to hurt my feelings, you should know I’m not too proud to be your last resort.

Get dressed and come over.

Why would I bother getting dressed?

So you don’t have to go back home wearing nothing but a towel in the morning?

Again, you’ve overestimated the depths of my pride.

She doesn’t text back, but I hear her laughing on the other side of the wall. I love the way she laughs out loud even when she’s alone.

The moment she opens the door, I say, “You look tired.”

My regret is consuming, but thankfully, she laughs.

“See, this is why I invited you over. I was feeling pretty good about myself, and I thought, hmm, what would remedy this? And for the record, I am tired.”

“What I meant to say was you look beautiful when you’re tired.”

“Nice towel. You look tired, too, by the way.”

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