Page 8 of Sunshine
My dad stopped visiting the year I started junior high, and like Mona, I was something of a wild spirit, so she encouraged my independence long before I should have been on my own. I’m still sorting through how I feel about my childhood, figuring out which heartbreaks I can lay at my father’s feet and which ones belong to my mother. Most days, I decide it doesn’t matter. What’s done can’t be undone, and the pain is mine now, no matter who or what caused it.
“So, I have some news,” I say. “I’m starting a new job on Monday. It’ll mean early mornings and weekend work, so I won’t be around much, and I’ll need to cut back on shifts at The Tipple. You don’t mind, do you?”
I know what she’s going to say, and I know the time we spend together behind the bar means more to me than it does to her, but I’m still disappointed when she replies, “No problem. I’ll get Tiffany to cover your shifts.”
“Great.”
“What’s the new job?”
“It’s nannying for Dylan Davenport. You know—for his daughter Izzy? She does so many extracurricular activities, and she’s transferring to a new school—”
“That sounds perfect.” Mona pats my hand as she sets aside her still-steaming mug. “Dylan is lucky to have you. I’m going to have a quick shower so I can get to The Slippery Tipple. Can you still cover the bar this afternoon, or should I call Tiff to ask if she’s free?”
“No, I can work tonight. I’ll even go one better and head over there now. Open up so you can”—I glance pointedly at her bedroom door—“finish your date.”
“You’re a doll. Thank you, honey.”
I return her grateful smile with one bright enough to cover my disappointment, hoping that maybe this time she’ll see through me…but no. She disappears into our shared bathroom, and I wash my bowl and spoon in the tiny kitchen sink before grabbing my tote bag and taking the short walk to The Tipple.
Saturdays are our busiest day at the bar, and within twenty minutes of opening the doors at noon, I’ve already served a handful of customers, and the kitchen is sending out lunch orders. If I’m honest, I don’t mind pulling beers and slinging wings at my mom’s dive bar. Daisy was right about the long hours and crappy tips, but the buzzing neon lights and peanut shells on the floor give the place a certain charm. I’ve got the final say on the country music crackling from the jukebox, and my conversations with locals are always a bit of fun.
As Saturday evening rolls into nighttime and I exchange a frothy pitcher of beer for another lousy tip, a guy I know all too well strolls through the front door, his faded blue jeans and dirty t-shirt snug around the hard shape of a man who spends his days hauling hay and wrangling cattle. Wade Mitchell pulls up a stool at the bar, drags off his grimy baseball cap, and hits me with a crooked smile that would be sexy if it were on anyone else’s face.
“The usual?” he asks.
I’ve already got a chilled glass wedged under the tap for his favorite draft beer, and once it’s filled and got a heavy head of froth, I set it down in front of him with less care than I usually take. Let him drink from a wet glass.
“You need to stop harassing me, Wade,” I say, wiping my hands on a dishcloth that I tuck into the waist of my apron.
“Who’s harassing you?” He looks around the bar like he’s searching for someone before slurping from his glass. The froth catches on his thick mustache, and when I bite back a grin, he cocks an eyebrow like he knows what he’s doing and gets a thrill from making me smile.
Wade Mitchell isnotcharming. He’s not.
“It’s the weekend, and I’m here for a drink,” he says. “Same as everybody else, only I’m here all alone, and I enjoy your company.”
I respond with a flat look. “I’m not going to sleep with you, Wade.”
He runs a hand over his mouth to hide a shit-eating grin, wiping away the foam at the same time. “I’m just here for the beer, Poppy. Nobody said anything about sex.”
My stomach rolls with something I can’t name—not quite shame, not quite regret—as I think back ten years to the night I let this guy take my virginity. I knew it wouldn’t be special. I knew it wouldn’t mean anything. I also knew I wanted to leave my hometown as a real woman and that I’d never have a shot with the guy I really wanted to be with. Eighteen-year-old Penelope thought it’d be better to do it with her high-school boyfriend than a stranger—or worse, save it for someone special who might never turn up. I was young and stupid. I thought I knew it all, and I was determined to get my first time over and done with so I could go out into the world with one less thing to worry about. I don’t believe in regrets, but choosing Wade Mitchell to be my first wasn’t my finest moment.
In my defense, I thought I’d leave Aster Springs and never see him again. In a plot twist nobody saw coming, I’ve poured him a beer every Saturday night since he started showing up in September. If this were anyone but Wade, his persistence might be flattering, but itisWade, and no matter how polite he is now, I can’t go forgetting that this is the same guy who cheated on me once, dumped me twice, and treated me like a doormat for the two years we were together. I’m not that stupid. I know he’s only hanging around because he wants to get in my pants, but I’ve given him nothing but months of lukewarm conversation, and hestillshows up every week without fail.
It’snotromantic. It’s not.
Out of nowhere, Daisy pops up and perches on the stool beside Wade. She pointedly ignores him as she sets her elbows on the bar and leans over like she’s got a secret.
“Can you take a break? I’d sit here and talk to you, but there’s a weird smell.”
Wade grunts as Daisy wrinkles her nose, waving her hand in front of her face as she pretends to fan the air, and I shake my head with a smile as I remove my apron. There’s no love lost between the two of them, and Wade glowers as he keeps his focus forward, drawing deep on his beverage.
“Grab a table while I ask Mona to take over here,” I say. “I’ll swing past the kitchen and meet you in five.”
Daisy spins away from Wade and beelines for a booth that’s just been vacated as I hang my apron on a hook on the wall.
Wade pulls out his wallet and drops some cash on the bar—enough for the beer and a generous tip. “I guess that’s the end of our date, then?”
I tuck away my tip and then open the register. “It wasn’t a date, Wade.”
