Page 2 of Our Long Days
He snorts, but there’s a trickle of sadness in his voice. “Who do you think taught me?”
Grief has no expiration date. Almost seven years since our driven, tender father passed away suddenly, and it’s occasions like tonight that hit the hardest.
His memory lies in every nook and cranny. In the white wash paneling and ancient fishing equipment adorning the walls. Embedded in the bar’s woodgrain. Etched into the tables. Framed above the bar.
“He’d have us all doing the Cha-Cha Slide before midnight.” I laugh.
Before my emotions get the better of me, Patrick slides our drinks over then looks to Booth. “Hey, is Aly coming tonight?”
To his credit, my brother’s eyes only widen a fraction at the mention of their new boss’ name. He shrugs, overly casual. “Beats me. She’s invited.”
Deny it all he wants, he’s smitten for Aly, even if he swore to make her life a misery weeks ago.
The restaurant really is a family affair, with all my siblingsand their partners involved. Aly and Booth might not be an item, but she’s very involved in the day-to-day since purchasing the restaurant earlier this year.
Me? I prefer to be involved from afar, which was easy while I was backpacking across South and Central America. Now, not so much. I’m supposed to be on the white sand beaches of Mexico, the cerulean waters licking my toes, but instead, I’m here. I love Sutton Bay—my hometown—but this wasn’t the plan; crash landing back on my mom’s doorstep, with no money, no job, and absolutely zero clue as to what I’m doing.
I had another four months of traveling planned.
And whose fault is that?
I will the negative voice in my head to shut up for once.
“How’s the job hunt going?” Booth asks, apparently clairvoyant.
My head drops forward. “Shocking.”
He shuffles closer. “You know there’s always a job here if?—”
“Nope. No,” I cut him off. “I’m not working at the restaurant.”
I love my brothers, but working under the same roof as them will give them even more reason to fuss over me. Booth is the head chef, Patrick the general manager, and Graham the restaurant’s accountant. Plus, I don’t want a job handed to me because of my connections.
“All right.” He sighs, not totally convinced. He’s the most relaxed out of my brothers, though his protective streak shows itself occasionally.
The opening lines of “Say My Name” by Destiny’s Child starts, and Booth’s face morphs with delight. He abandons his gin and tonic, darts toward the dance floor, and starts gyrating provocatively to the music.
Alone with my thoughts, I watch the throng of people shimmy and shake. I take slow sips of my drink, the sweet and sour liquid sending a light buzz through my body, relaxing mymuscles. It’s rare my brain switches off, and tonight is no exception.
Once the first intrusive thought emerges, it triggers a domino effect of uninvited realizations.
I’m twenty-four. Jobless. Living at home. Broke. Navigating ADHD––and neglecting it. Scattered, messy, chaotic.
Diagnosed a few months before jetting out of the country, I’m no closer to understanding my sparkly brain than I was before the diagnosis. What makes me tick? Why is my brain like swiss cheese one day and a tornado the next? What can I do to make my life a teensy bit easier?
My mom is constantly on me to arrange an appointment, which naturally makes me procrastinate. A vicious cycle. To make matters worse, my brothers don’t know. I want to tell them, but I’m also not prepared for the onslaught of unsolicited advice and patronizing comments. They mean well, but it’s suffocating.
A plume of townsfolk charge the bar, jostling me back to reality. Not wanting to get trampled, I search for a quiet corner. That’s when a pair of stormy gray eyes catch my attention.
He must have just arrived. Standing at six-foot-five, the tattooed, husky man is hard to miss. Dexter Moore might look the part of the surly woodsman, but he’s a big softy under all the flannel and ink. Point proven when a brilliant smile graces his face, mustache hitching up, sun-kissed even during the height of winter from all those hours outside.
The first butterfly awakens when I make my way over, happy to find someone to talk to, even happier it’s him.
“Little Sadler.”
Goose bumps prickle my skin at the deep voice, gravely and oh-so-masculine. It’s a thought I shouldn’t have about Patrick’s best friend, but I’m human. I have eyes and a healthy libido, and this man has had this effect on me since I was seventeen.The rule: look, don’t touch. And I’ve done a lot of looking over the years.
“Dexter.” The low lighting of the room hides my crimson cheeks. “Fancy seeing you here.”
