Page 14 of The Love You Fight For
“Sorry to disappoint. It just never got past that. And then a few weeks later, he was dating Selena.”
“Sable,” Lennon corrects, and I wave her off.
“Anyway. We were only hanging out because you and Macon were all loved up in your own little world and we felt abandoned.”
Lennon’s jaw drops, and I roll my eyes.
“Kidding! Kidding. Not abandoned, but maybe left out? Definitely bored. The point is, it was never anything serious. It was never much of anything at all, actually.”
She’s quiet for a minute, then she sighs.
“Maybe it could have been.” Her voice is wistful, and I groan.
“God, no. Could you imagine? His idea of a date is probably a fried food basket at The Outpost and then beers from a Styrofoamcooler in the bed of his beloved truck.” I fake a gag, and Lennon laughs. “I have heartburn just thinking about it.”
“The horror,” she says flatly, then studies me with her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed. I’m about to tell her to stop analyzing me like I’m one of her paintings, but then she smiles and perks up. “I almost forgot. Are you still thinking about getting a place here?”
I blink a few times at the rapid subject change. I mentioned finding a place near Franklin months ago and haven’t said a word about it since. With the shitstorm that’s sure to come with my father’s presidential bid, though, it’s probably best I make it a priority.
“Yeah, I think I am. Something away from D.C. that doesn’t require me to stay at my parents’ house. Why? You know somewhere?”
“Maybe.” Lennon shrugs. “The apartment above The Outpost has been renovated, and the owner is renting it out. It’s actually really nice. The music will probably filter through on weekends, but it’s worth looking into.”
I think about it for all of five seconds before I make up my mind. Living above a bar might not be the best for optics, but I have to be smart, and right now, any place in Franklin is better than my condo in D.C. or the house I grew up in.
“Do you have the owner’s contact information?”
FOUR
It’sweird seeing The Outpost at 9 a.m. on a Saturday.
The parking lot is empty. The sidewalk in front of the building is missing its trademark cigarette break crowd. The neon OPEN sign isn’t buzzing brightly in the window, and there’s no pulsing sound of music or loud rumble of conversation emanating from the building like its very own heartbeat. In fact, it’s quiet in a way I didn’t think possible when it comes to the popular Franklin watering hole. As I stand beside my car in the gravel lot behind the dive bar, the only sounds I hear are my own breathing and the breeze.
It certainly won’t stay like this. Come 4 p.m., the lot will be packed, the music will be loud, and the cloud of cigarette smoke covering the sidewalk out front will be suffocatingly thick. But right now, it’s almost peaceful.
I look up at the windows on the second floor of the building. Someone hung generic navy-blue curtains over them, but I can tell they’re new. Probably energy efficient and easy to open. There are stairs that lead down to the parking lot and a cute little porch light at the top of them. Enough space for a chair and maybe some plants, if I were the type to keep plants alive for longer than a few weeks. I’ve never tried, but I’d wager I’m not.
I try my best to picture myself climbing up and down thosestairs, entering and exiting through that door on the porch, parking my car in this gravel lot. I try to imagine what it would be like to pull back those drab curtains and look out the window into the parking lot while taking in the view of the brick building next door.
Every attempt I make at envisioning myself living in the apartment above The Outpost only makes me dislike it more, and I haven’t even seen it yet. I want a place in Franklin. I need a place ofmy ownthat is close to the only person in my life who matters. But this sure-to-be dingy, loud, stuffy little flat above the town’s diviest dive bar? This place might not be it.
My hand is wrapping around the handle of my car door when a loud rumbling catches my attention, and the sound of truck tires crunching gravel has me turning around. I almost laugh out loud, but I don’t. I fold my arms across my chest and wait. When Chris puts his truck in park and hops out, I make a show of checking my watch.
“You’re late.”
At the sound of my voice, his head shoots up and he stops walking. I’m grateful for my dark sunglasses because that means he can’t see the way my eyes scan his body. Dirty jeans. Dirty boots. A plain white, grease-stained T-shirt, the sleeves of which are tightly hugging thick, tattooed biceps.
He must have come here straight from the garage.
I stop myself from checking out his hands and instead glance at the ballcap sitting backward on his head. Black, not camo. I’m almost disappointed that I don’t have an excuse to scowl. He must not have known it was me he was meeting. Good. That means I’m not the only one caught off guard.
“The fuck are you doing here, Harper?” He stalks toward me slowly. Unlike me, he brazenly lets his eyes roam over my body. “I know you’re not here for the apartment.”
“I am.” I pop a hand on my hip. His gaze brushes over my skin like a phantom caress. I have to fight back a shiver. “Why are you the one here to show it to me? I thought I was supposed to be meeting Alan.”
“Alan moved to Kentucky. Been there for about six months. I own half the bar now since Mackie’s dad passed.”
I blink twice, but I don’t let him see my surprise. Mackie used to bartend at The Outpost, and then he bought into the bar a year or so ago. Last I heard, his dad was diagnosed with lung cancer, but I didn’t realize he’d died. Mackie must have moved to be with his mom.
