Page 21 of 4 Hints You Love Your Best Friend

The woman waves and leaves, and I nearly bite through mytongue.

The past couple of days, when at work with Jake, I’ve avoided discussing Jolene. He hasn’t brought her up either, but my rumor-spreading has apparently taken on a life of its own. Or maybe he and Joarealready back together. And all I’ve done today is stoke my dangerous feelings for her, when I damn well know they can’t go anywhere.

My phone buzzes. One glance shows a group Bower chat helmed by Jake.

Jake: Family meeting at the Barrel on Thursday. We need to plan something for Mom’s homecoming.

Instead of replying, I abruptly stand and mumble excuses about having to leave. I’m stoked to make Mom’s return to Windfall the best it can be. I appreciate Jake taking the reins as always, putting his family front of mind. Selflessness I need to emulate. Soccer with Jo was clearly too soon. I need to keep our friendship contained and our hands very far apart.

Avoiding her eyes, I head for the exit, walking as quickly as my long legs will take me.

chapternine

Jolene

I have a Callahan Bower addiction. Every time he smiles, a little zip travels up my spine. When he laughs, dopamine floods my brain, and my mind chantsmore, more, more. Unfortunately, when he blows me off with awkward exits, my high crashes and burns. As it should.

“Why is Cal leaving like his ass is on fire?” Delilah asks, watching the bar doors slam shut after him.

“He likes dramatic exits,” Lennon says, but he slides a curious glance at me. “Or he reached his fun quota for the day and couldn’t handle more. I haven’t seen him that happy since before our lives imploded.”

Heat rises to my cheeks.

I can’t thank you enough for including me today. I had a great time.

There was nothing intimate about Cal’s quiet confession before he tore out of here. But the way he said it? With his generous mouth moving slowly, his deep voice gruff with emotion, and his huge, callused hand splayed on my thigh? As far as my befuddled brain knew, he was sayingI can’t live without you a second longer. Please be mine.

Words I’ll never—and should never—hear from my best friend.

“Hey, Jo. Sorry to interrupt.” Sue-Ann, one of tonight’s servers, crouches beside me, wearing a pained look I like to call Bar Bad News. “The stove is acting up again. I’ve already emailed Tim but haven’t heard back. Hopefully he can make it out tomorrow.”

My sigh is dredged from my toes. “I have his cell in my office. I’ll text him too.” I salute my friends and try to force a smile. “Duty calls.”

I don’t launch another dig about beating their sorry butts. Any lingering lightness from today fizzles as I try to put out the endless fires that pop up around here.

I close my office door and sit at my desk. The framed photo by my computer takes the edge off my stress—Aunt Becca and me, our arms slung around each other, my gold track-and-field ribbon clutched in my hand. The photo was the first decorative item she put in here. Beside it is the framed note she left me after she passed. It reads simply,Great things happen when you dream big.

The Barrel House was Aunt Becca’s dream. Every time I look at the two side-by-side frames, I remember how much she loved this place and me, even if the office smells like the inside of a deep fryer.Don’t you love the deep fryer!Aunt Becca used to say.Everyone loves fried everything!She adored every inch of this place, even that gross fryer.

I click on my emails to find Tim’s number. An unpleasant message has my stomach dropping to the floor.

Letter of Resignation.

I open Jonathan’s message—my best bartender who shows up early, stays late, and never complains about his shifts—as helplessness drains the last of my good mood. No matter how often I service equipment or try to boost staff morale with prank contests and monthly flag-football afternoons, stuff still breaks. Staff still quit.First World problems.I get it. But stress is stress, and Cal’s abrupt dismissals lately have weakened my usual armor.

“How did you do it?” I ask the photograph on my desk. “How did this place not drain your energy?”

The only reply I get is a serving of my own guilt. Aunt Becca left me this bar as a gift. I’m a spoiled brat who needs to be more thankful—and more honest with myself. I do love the happy customers and fun theme nights we host. Pressure is part of any job.

I text Tim about the stove, then reply to Jonathan, wishing him the best. Apparently, he’s starting a massage therapy course—an aspiration that’s news to me, which feels shitty. I’m not close enough with my staff to know their interests. Or close enough with anyone, really. Having Callahan back has been an awakening of sorts. Realization that I’ve shied away from deeper relationships since he vanished twelve years ago.

A knock sounds at my door. I cringe, praying no one walks in here with another Bar Bad News face.

“Come in,” I call.

The door opens and…I nearly give myself whiplash with my exaggerated double take.

“Larkin?” I say, pretty sure Larkin Gray is standing in my office, but I haven’t seen a strand of her beachy blond hair since high school.

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