Page 16 of Heart of a Rebel

“Adrian.” He tips his empty glass up but looks away.

His elbows are pressed on the bar top, and he’s hunched over it. Sadness draws thick wrinkles on his skin. He’s aged a good fifteen years in half that many. Another thing grief will do to a person.

“Marcus.” I slide onto the stool beside him.

When I was a kid, I called him Mr. Wright because he’s always been a big guy and his scowl is terrifying. But somewhere between spending the weekends on the swing set in his backyard and learning how to fix a car engine in his garage, we got on a first-name basis.

Marcus and my dad were best friends, and by default, it made Sam and I the same. I think they assumed at some point it would also make us more. After all, Sam was so sweet and so fucking pretty. But not all love is romantic. And while I loved Sam with everything, she might as well have been my sister. I would have done anything for her.

If only I could have.

“You’re out,” Marcus says, sliding his glass across the bar to Tommy who fills it halfway with a decent bottle of whiskey.

I nod. “A few months now.”

Marcus brings his glass to his lips, and I wonder how much booze it takes to drown what’s raging inside him. For myself, nothing seems to do the trick. I’d know because I’ve tried. All it did was resurrect more than it buried.

We’ve put more in the ground these last eight years than walks above it, and I still haven’t figured out how you come back from that.

Tommy lifts the whiskey bottle in my direction, but I shake my head. I’ve got to start my shift soon, and even if the owner doesn’t give a crap what I do as long as I’m still able to pour drinks, I don’t need anything else clouding my head.

“Sorry about your father,” Marcus says, his chin down.

“He said you came to see him often.”

Marcus shakes his head. “Not enough.”

It never is. And that’s the problem.

“You wanted to see me.” I can’t help but cut to the chase. There was a time I would have been comforted by the presence of Sam’s father, seeing as he was like a second one to me. But being around him now is a reminder of the kid who shipped out eight years ago with his daughter, only to return alone.

Marcus turns on his stool and faces me. “I’m selling the house. It’s too big for one person.”

“I’m sorry about Nancy.”

My dad let me know when Sam’s mom passed away. Said it was a broken heart or some shit. But if it’s possible to die from one, I can’t help but wonder how I’m still standing.

“Lots to be sorry for nowadays.” Marcus chuckles, unamused.

“Ain’t that the fucking truth.”

He tips his glass up and drains it, turning to fully face me now.

No matter how much time passes, I don’t feel ready for this. The last time we stood face to face was outside the church at Sam’s funeral. He looked me in the eyes, and I realized there was something worse in this world than whatever had broken inside me at her death. It was whatever had shattered in him. The man he was before and the one after were barely remnants of each other. A muted presence where a strong man once lived.

Marcus’s eyebrows pinch, and I wonder what he’s reading in me if anything. I’ve never been transparent with my feelings, and the past eight years did nothing to help that. Sometimes I wonder if it’s a shield or just who I am now.

Impenetrable.

Unbreakable.

Cold.

Sam knew the person I tried to bury, but I’m not sure anyone else will.

“I’ve been cleaning things out, and I thought you might want these.” Marcus digs into his pocket and pulls out something small that makes my throat constrict.

Dangling on his fingers is a simple chain with Sam’s dog tags.

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