Page 7 of Golden Hour

I almost drop my beer. “And my dad hired you?”

“Yep,” she says. Her exuberant smile disarms me, and I suppress my own. I’m losing my edge. She shoves her hands in her pockets, teetering on her sneakers. I see a hole near the pinkie toe. Why doesn’t she get new shoes?

“How can you sell our beer if you don’t drink?”

“I’mveryoutgoing,” she says.

“I’m shocked.” I hand her an off-brand root beer. “Is this okay?”

“Perfect,” she says like I offered her ten thousand dollars. She opens it and takes a sip, her eyes closed in bliss. Who the fuck is this girl? “I love root beer with my whole heart.”

“I prefer the real thing,” I say, taking a big gulp, wincing a little bit. The hops overpower this one, but the faster I drink this, the more tolerable everyone becomes, including Shiloh. She unnerves me. It’s more than Shiloh sharing her middle name.

Shiloh is too sunny, too positive. She acts like the world is full of wonder and possibilities. She probably believes everything happens for a reason, that what happened was meant to happen. She doesn’t know yet that this life is one long string of endless coincidences until you die into nothingness.

I’ve given her zero reason to invest what short time she has on this earth into me. Why is she even bothering? I should leave, but I stand here, watching her drink a soda while I chug this beer. It’s so pure the way she closes her eyes, savoring the taste of the soft drink.

We stand there, uncomfortably, as I watch her.

Shoot me. Shoot me now.

“Why do you talk to me? No one else talks to me,” I ask.

“I want to.” She hesitates for a moment before she says, “You’re obviously a stunning conversationalist.”

I chuckle from deep inside my chest. That’s a new one.

Shiloh takes another sip of her drink and shakes her finger at me. “I was warned about you, but you don’t seem that bad. I think there’s a big squishy heart in that stone-cold façade.”

I laugh again. My body doesn’t know how to react. It’s been so long since I’ve genuinely laughed. I guess the gall from a tiny woman who wears overalls would do it.

“I’m all machine under this.”

She laughs, and her smile is cute. “Jackson Finch, I will make you like me.”

“That’s quite a challenge. Because I don’t like anyone.”

“What about your niece? You seemed somewhat fond of her.”

“Spunky raccoon-loving children I’m blood-related to don’t count.”

“Hmm,” she says, taking another sip. “Challenge accepted.”

“It’s an impossible challenge. Are you up for it?” I cross my arms.

Shiloh rests her hands on her hips and looks up at me. “Yes. I don’t know why you have a chip on your shoulder, but I intend to find out.”

I clench my jaw. If she asks around enough, she’ll find out what happened. Why this whole town feels like a minefield of excruciating conversations. Why I shop right before closing, why I see the two delivery guys in my town more than my siblings. Why there are only three places I can go in this town without seeing someone who will give me doe eyes.

It makes my skin crawl if I think about it.

The whispers. The pity.Jackson, the oldest Finch son. So sad. So tragic.

I could barely handle it when Shiloh said her full name.

“Ask around,” I say, crossing my arms tighter, the beer warming in between my arm and my body. “This town loves to talk about me.”

“I would rather you tell me,” Shiloh says, turning away, holding her root beer to her chest.

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