Page 7 of Take Two

“What do I mean?” When he shrugs, I add, “You can’t be serious? Have you seen yourself? You’ll be beating them off with a stick in no time.”

He grins then blushes before saying, “Yeah, right. You obviously need glasses. Besides, you don’t have the baggage I got.”

“When was the last time you had a drink? And feel free to tell me to mind my own fucking business if I ask too many questions.”

“Three years,” he says. “And I never intend to drink again. It’s taken so much from me, and I’m not letting it take anymore.”

“So, what you’re saying is you’re strong enough to stop drinking? I’m not going to pretend to understand what it’s like to have an addiction like that, so I’m not going to try, but I’m sure it can’t be easy.”

“It’s the hardest thang I’ve ever had to do. Alcoholism runs in my family. My daddy was a drunk, and his daddy was, and his daddy before him. Most of my uncles and cousins. Mama left Daddy before I was born because she couldn’t take his drinkin' anymore. She only took him back because he promised never to drink again. And he kept his word until the day he died.” I can hear the pride in his voice at the mention of his father. “They warned me and Colt of the dangers our entire life. He listened. I didn’t. I thought it was just Mama and Daddy being controllin’. Of course, when you’re a teenager, you think you know everythang when you really know nothing at all.”

“A hardheaded teenager?” I put a hand to my heart. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.” When he smiles, I continue, “A genetic predisposition, and you’ve been sober for three years, and you’re never going to drink again.” I hold up my glass so he can clink it. “Well done.”

“It’s been hard,” he says softly. “Really hard. This addiction has shown me how weak I am.”

“You were. Past tense,” I say. “And change weak to wired differently, but go on.”

“When I first decided to get sober—” He stops and runs his hand over his face. “I’ve fallen off the wagon before, but this time is different. When I finally decided I was done with the alcohol, I had to take things minute by minute. After that, hour by hour. Now, I’m day by day. It’s constant. People think you go through the twelve steps once and you’re fixed, but I’m constantly living those steps.”

“That doesn’t sound like weakness to me. That sounds a lot like fortitude and strength. The kind that you have to dig deep to find.”

“Yes, but I keep thinkin' of all the things I missed,” he says.

“Like getting drafted into the NBA?” He nods. “A wife and kids?” He nods again. “Success and accolades?”

“All of that. My own home with my family, even though the house I just bought is a fixer upper. Right now, I live with Mama in the house my brother bought her, but not for much longer.”

“You own a restaurant, Charlie. You’re already successful. The restaurant business is one of the hardest. Vickie told me you were thinking of opening a second one,” I say, but he only shrugs. “She brags on you a lot.” It’s true. Vickie brags about her siblings all the time, and that includes her brother-in-law. “And you’re a homeowner. You’re living the dream.”

“Gosh, I love Vickie,” he says. “As a sister,” he quickly corrects. “I don’t want you thinkin'—” He leaves the sentence unfinished. “She never refers to me as her brother-in-law or her husband’s brother. I’ve always beenherbrother.” He smiles wistfully before he says, “Even though she threatened to fight me the first time we met.” His eyes light up at the memory. “She cracked her knuckles and everythang. It scared the crap out of me because I wasn’t going to fight her back. I didn’t know if I was supposed to run or stand there and take it.”

“That sounds juicy, but we’ll come back to that,” I say quickly before we go off topic. “Now, you’re thirty-four years old, not seventy-four. You have plenty of time to meet someone and have a family.”

“I can’t wait to hear how you’re going to spin the NBA thang,” he says, finally relaxing enough for a genuine smile.

“Oh, well, I can’t. That dream is gone, but I’m a believer in things happening the way they're meant to. I’m sorry to say this because I think you really wanted it, but that was never your path. And listen,” I say, inching closer. I lower my voice before continuing, “No oneneedsbasketball. Sure, it’s fun. Not for me but for some.” He laughs at that. “But it’s not a need. Do you think that in the zombie apocalypse anyone will be looking for professional basketball players? Fuck no. You know what we’ll be looking for?”

“In the zombie apocalypse?” he asks, and I nod. “What do people need in the zombie apocalypse?”

“Men who can cook. I bet you can grow all kinds of shit in a garden. We’ll need men who can go catch us a boar, butcher, and cook it. And it won’t hurt if he’s handsome with dimples and dark hair and dark eyes.” He grins wider and blushes again, and I wonder if he has no idea how fine he is.

“So, what you’re saying is I have to wait for a zombie apocalypse to contribute to society?” He giggles at that, and it transforms his face. Some of the heavy baggage he carries seems to become lighter.

“Feel free to catch me a boar anytime,” I tell him. “You don’t have to wait for the world as we know it to end.”

“You’re sweet,” he says. Without asking, he puts another slice of pizza on my plate. “And yeah, the restaurant is successful, but that’s only because Colt eats there when he’s in town. People probably only come for a chance to see him. My busiest days are the days after he visits.”

“You’re a genius, Charlie Chastain.” He turns and frowns, clearly puzzled by what I just said. “You’re marketing the hell out of that restaurant and you’re not paying a dime to do it. Plaster your brother’s face all over those menus. Lure people in with the hope of a possible sighting. Put a dish on the menu called Colt’s favorite fixins and charge triple for it. You, Charlie Chastain, are an all-around American badass.” I offer him a fist bump and he bumps his fist with mine. “Restauranteur, marketing guru who has turned his life around with nothing but grit and determination.”

He looks at me, and I hold his stare. He grins and both of his dimples make an appearance. “Thanks for tonight, Violet,” he tells me. “This is much better than anything I could have imagined. Now, enough about me. Tell me about you. Someone as pretty and sweet as you should have a bunch of suitors, not wasting time with—”

“Uncle Fester,” I finish. We both laugh. “And suitors? Who says suitors?”

“Someone who has no idea how to talk to a pretty lady. This is the type of thang I should have figured out during those yearsI was drinkin’.” He puts his head in his hands. “It’s a lost cause anyway,” he says.

“I know you’re not sitting here in my kitchen saying you’re giving up on dating because of one rude bitch.” He shrugs. “Let me see her profile picture.”

He pulls out his phone, and a few seconds later, he hands it to me. Tiffany Kelly. She’s an average-looking woman with dark hair and dark eyes.

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