Page 3 of Out of the Blue

I debate with myself for ten full minutes before cracking open her diary.

* * *

“How dare you?” I scream at the tombstone. “You had no right!”

I read the inscription aloud. “Lorinda Washington. Beloved mother, daughter, sister. Dancing with the angels.” Yanking on my dreadlocks, I sneer, “You were beloved by them only because your parents predeceased you. And why did I feel it necessary to add in about my aunt? Not like you talked with her for over a decade.”

Kicking the ground next to her grave, I offer a derisive laugh. “Should’ve only said one word. ‘Liar.’”

I turn my back and take two steps away, only to spin around and stare down once again at my mother’s final resting place. “You know what? This isyourcross to bear. You did this. It’s all on you. Hope you rot in Hell!”

My hands form fists. “And don’t ever expect to see me back here again. I’m never coming back.”

Chapter 2 - Trent

Iknock back my second Bud and slam the empty mug onto the counter. I can’t process the shit my mother—the sainted woman who claimed her whole life revolved around me—fed me. And I swallowed it all like the gullible jerk I was.

The bartender approaches me. “Another?”

“Yeah.”

While he removes my mug, I scan the room. I’ve been to this dive bar several times, usually when I want to forget. And I certainly wish I could forget those fucking diaries now. My gaze lands on a woman sitting alone three stools over. Long, dark, straight hair with some reddish undertones. Olive complexion, a few shades lighter than mine. Lush lips stained red sucking on a straw.

My body perks up as I imagine those lips closing around me rather than the piece of plastic. Damn, she’s hot. Maybe Hot Chick is what I need right now?

A guy approaches her and she gives him her attention.

Or not.

The bartender stops in front of me and places a coaster down. Followed by another Bud. “Care to talk about it?”

My brows furrow. Rage surges through my bloodstream, perhaps fueled by the beer. Perhaps not. My pinky traces the condensation as it rolls down my mug.

He flips a towel over his shoulder. “I’m a good listener.”

My fingers wrap around my cold brew. No one wants to hear the shit banging around inside my head. The words my mother wrote so long ago. And recently, too. I guzzle a quarter of the Bud.

Well, maybe?

“Lies suck, you know?”

He fiddles with the towel. “I hear you, brother.”

Taking his comment as encouragement, I let loose. “And I’m not talking a little lie, either. More like a big, fat, motherfucking symphony of the biggest whopper you could imagine.”

His eyebrows go up. “Wow. Have you talked with her?”

How did he know it was a “her”? I slam back a long pull. “Totally not possible.”

“It’s always possible. And usually not as bad as you think.”

I huff an unamused chuckle. “Believe me.” I hold up my pointer finger. “It’s not possible unless you’re a medium.” My middle finger shoots up. “And it isworse.”

He rests his elbow on the bar. Leaning forward, he says, “Then you only have one other option. Find a way to make peace with whatever it is.”

Make peace? How the hell can I do that? Yell at her tombstone? Been there, done that. And my only remaining family member, her sister, got married and moved to New Hampshire when I was a pre-teen. She did come to Mom’s funeral, but too many years have passed to rekindle any real relationship with her. Besides, she has her own life now. No. My band’s my only remaining family. And Ican’tshare this with them.

Making peace with the intel in my mother’s diary is like telling a full-fledged caffeine addict to pass on a cup of Joe. I lower my beer as the bartender’s called to help another patron. Maybe I should get out of here, buy a twelve-pack at the liquor store, and drink myself under my own table at home.

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