Page 30 of Beat of Love
And his secrets weren’t secrets. Not anymore.
Everybody knew his family. Knew him. Knew most of his story.
He’d been in the headlines.
The Lawson twin who’d gone south. Literally.
The one who’d come back haunted and hollow-eyed.
A scuff of shoes approached. “You’re gonna waste away, broodin’ here like this.”
He looked up.
Aunt Marlene — his mother’s best friend and diner owner — stood at his elbow with a coffee pot in one hand and a maternal scowl on her face. Her grey hair was pulled into a frizzed bun, and her lipstick was slightly smudged.
“You need food, Rafferty. I’ll get you some eggs.”
“I’m fine,” he muttered.
“Fine is what people say when they mean the opposite.” She placed a clean mug on the table and filled it with fragrant, steaming coffee without asking and then added, “Got a slice of buttermilk pie with your name on it.”
“Aunt Marlene—”
“Your ma would want me to look after you.”
He exhaled and looked away. “Fine. One slice.”
She flashed a victorious grin, removed his lukewarm coffee, and retreated to the counter.
He leaned back against the booth seat and stretched out his legs, absorbing the sounds around him. The clink of silverware, the low hum of conversation, the rattle of glasses, the sharp wail of a small child. Somewhere in the kitchen, a radio played faint country music. Just a diner with everyday people going about their everyday lives.
It was all so … ordinary.
So normal.
And yet, so foreign.
Extending his arm along the back of the booth, he felt the NA pamphlet jab him through his jacket.
Reminding him.
Mocking him.
He was not an ordinary everyday person anymore.
He hadn’t meant to take the pamphlet, but his hands had grabbed something on the way out. Like a fallback weapon.
Or maybe as proof he had attended. For his mother.
She had guilted him into going.“Just once, Raffie. Do it for me.”
So, he’d sat in that basement, surrounded by strangers confessing how their choices had wrecked their lives.
He didn’t share. Didn’t say a word. Just sat in the corner, minding his own fucking business.
No tears. No healing.
Still — he hadn’t bolted.
