Page 17 of Told You So
“Casey’s still in a Little Mermaid phase,” Colton continues. “So, unless you have sing-a-longs and talking fish, we’ll have to take a rain check for the kiddo.”
“Shiiit,” Bobby says with a grin. “If singing and talking critters are all she needs, she’d love it! We have the national anthem—everyone’sfavorite sing-a-long—and a giant, fuzzy wolf running around on the ice and driving the Zamboni during intermissions. She’d have a blast!”
Colton chuckles and shakes his head. “We’ll see.”
I eye the guys’ beers, still half full, and glance at Mac’s cider, barely touched. She’s still digging around in her purse. “What are you looking for, Mac?” I ask her. “You’re stressing me out.”
She grumbles and blows a strand of dark hair from her face. “My mom gave me the number of a sports medicine doctor in Benton...I wanted to give it to Bobby before I forgot again, but I can’t find it.”
Bobby shakes his head and looks at me. “See what I have to deal with? A bunch of nagging ninnies. And they wonder why I need a little fun in my life. Hence, the Mustang.”
Mac tosses a peanut at his face. “Oh, stop it. You love the attention.”
A grin creeps between his lips. “Yeah, I do kinda love it.”
With the evening crowd trickling into Lick’s and the lively conversation with it, I turn the jukebox volume down and snag a fresh bar towel to wipe down the remnants of the afternoon wave.
“So, Nick,” Reilly drawls and shoves his phone into his back pocket. I recognize that tone and brace myself for whatever topic he’s going to breech that I’ve been avoiding. “What’s up with graduation? We throwing you a party in May or what?”
With a little elbow grease, I dominate a particularly stubborn sticky spot around the taps and glance up at him. “Yeah, I guess. Once we get the office finished and Sam and Aunt Alison situated in there, I’ll feel more like I’m home free, I think.” I want to be excited about graduation, but I can’t seem to rally.
“We still working on the windows this weekend?” he asks. “I picked up the skylights yesterday.”
“You know it.” I tear open a fresh bag of pretzels. “Hopefully with a bit more light, that space won’t be so depressing. Which reminds me,” I say, glaring at Reilly. I slide the refilled bowl toward them. “I have to work Friday night, which means I won’t be at Sam’s until late Saturday, so youbetterleave me some breakfast this time.”
“No guarantees.” Reilly smirks and pops a pretzel into his mouth.
Sam’s breakfasts are the best part of my weekend, and I try not to let him rile me up. “You’re such a bastard,” I grumble, earning a deep-throated laugh from him.
“Oh, you guys!” Mac says over all the banter. “We have to talk about our trip to the beach.”
“Babe, it’s barely April.” Colton scoops a pile of peanut shells into his hands.
“Yeah, and the weather is beautiful.” Mac’s green eyes are bright with excitement. “I’ve already unpacked my summer clothes. We can thank global warming for that. Besides, the timing’s perfect. We get to have a nice beach day, maybe play some volleyball—”
Bobby laughs. “Yeah right. I bet you and Sam don’t budge from your towels.”
“Oh, hush,” she says and glances around at us. “Plus, there won’t be hordes of people yet.” Mac smiles, and I forget how happy group trips always make her. “How about the 22nd?”
“I’m in,” I say. “Call the boss lady and get it in my calendar.”
“That’s the problem,” Mac says, gaze fixed on Reilly.
He glances around at us. “What didIdo?”
“We need to make sure boss-lady Sam takes the time off,” Mac says. “Every year she tries to tell me she’s too busy for our trips. You have to start prepping hernowand get it on the calendar.”
“Well,” I say, tossing a clean towel over my shoulder. “You guys figure out the details and tell me what to bring. Other than beer, obviously.” I head into the back to grab the last couple bags of peanuts and pretzels and add a new order to Brady’s ownerly list of to-dos this week.
When I step back out to the bar, Bill and Franky, a couple of regulars, have slid into their normal seats at the other end of the bar, handfuls of snacks already in their mouths.
“Gentlemen,” I say by way of greeting. “The usual?”
They both nod, and I grab two Bud Light bottles from the small fridge, tucked beneath the counter, and pop the caps off. “It must be that time,” I say.
“What, beer time?” Franky asks.
I nod. “The hordes tend to follow you in, Franky.” He’s in his late forties, has a graying goatee, and comes in with dirty clothes and a construction vest on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Fridays, like clockwork.
