Page 115 of His Last Shot
I clutch the cheese.
Needless to say, he is aging well. When I saw him in the hospital, I was in shock, scared, and staring at his wound most of the time.
But now, I look. Ireallylook. A dusting of gray is shining through his hair at his temples, and a few new lines crinkle at his eyes as he smiles at me. His lips soften, and affection replaces the hint of amusement.
We stand awkward and quiet in the dairy section of the local grocery store, neither of us saying anything. But wanting to say everything. I’m instantly drunk at the sight of him, and my mouth goes dry because he’s striking. Breathtaking. And standing right in front of me.
He glances at the floor, then shuffles his feet. I don’t know what to do with my hands, my arms, or my heart, so instead, I fiddle with the cheese while fumbling with what words to say.
Uneasiness crackles between us. Desperation to fill the void consumes me.
I clear my throat.
“It’s great to see—”
“What have youbeen—”
Nervous laughter springs out as we both speak at the same time. I duck my head. “Sorry, you go.”
He squints, studying me, then shifts his basket from one hand to the next. “I, um … I was sorry to hear about Dexter.”
“I wasn’t.” The admission tumbles from my mouth before I can catch it.
Telling the truth was always easy with Johnny.
Right after the murder and every day after, I have played the part of the grieving niece. Only a handful of people know my true feelings on the matter. My brother and sister-in-law and the OBGs. That’s it.
When Micah got the call about Dexter's murder, he came to my house and told me. A wave of relief washed over me when he broke the news. Neither of us cried. Neither of us miss him. Dexter was a virtual stranger to me towards the end.
He took from me the one person I needed above everyone else. He saw me sad, crying, angry, and desperate the day after, and he never acted like he cared. Instead, his need for control and keeping up appearances was all he cared about.
His criminal empire was growing far beyond gambling. After Micah and I left the bar, rumors were all we had to go on. Talks of drugs being the most common, and considering the turn of events and Drew going missing, plus what I saw the day we fought, I believe it to be true.
For years, he had so much control over us. Yet, when we both left the bar and cut off all communication with him, he didn’t so much as bat an eyelash. Money and power meant more to him than his only family. When he didn’t need us anymore, he checked out.
And so did we.
But I wasn’t about to test fate and contact Johnny.
Over time, the OBGs became more than just a trio of men who came to Dexter’s for a nightly drink; they are our family. The solidarity Micah and I felt when they stopped going once we left meant so much to us. But obviously, they needed a new watering hole, so instead of the bar, they came to Micah’s every night. I joinin when I can.
But losing Johnny was the worst part. And now, out of nowhere, he’s standing right next to me. My heart is fluttering, my palms are sweaty, and my head is hot with anxiety.
In my imagination, if I ever saw Johnny again, I’d be the picture of beauty, looking hot, of course. My hair and makeup would have been pristine. We’d make eye contact, then, in slow motion, I would glide toward him with stunning grace and beauty. Naturally, he would be captivated. Our reunion would have been epic and memorable. A story we would tell again and again to our grandchildren as they roll their eyes, tired of hearing it.
Instead, this is our big moment. Full of cheese and day-old underwear.
When I saw him at the funeral, it took every ounce of self-control I had to not run over to him and thrust myself into his arms. But fear gripped my soul.
And it still does.
Which is why I haven’t contacted him. However, it’s like the decision is being made for me because, as I buy the ingredients to make tacos on a random Tuesday, he’s here.
And the fact he offered his condolences for a man he hated shows what a kind and good person he really is.
I release a puff of nervous energy while dragging my gaze to the rows of bagged cheese for self-control. “I’m sorry I haven’t contacted you yet.”
His face is stiff yet soft, concerned. “Why didn’t you?” he asks. Our eyes collide, seizing under our mutual anticipation. “After the funeral, I thought that maybe—”
