Page 43 of Your Place or Mine

I didn’t like it. Not one bit.

Drew gave me a long, slow look. “From what?”

I stared at the beer label.

He didn’t press.

That was the thing about Drew. He was good at shutting up when it mattered. He knew the difference between poking the bear and letting it sulk.

Finally, he said, “Melanie’s not bad, either.”

I glanced at him.

He was smiling at nothing in particular.

“You’ve got a thing for her.”

“She threatened you with a wine cork. I respect that.”

I groaned. “God help us all.”

Drew stretched, cracking his back, then stood and grabbed another beer from the fridge. “I’m just saying, you’ve been married to this bar for a long time. Maybe it’s time to date around a little. See what else life has to offer.”

I snorted. “You sound like a self-help podcast.”

He just laughed. “Maybe. But even woolly mammoths need love.”

I threw a coaster at his head.

He dodged and took a swig of beer.

And I sat there, staring at the bottle in my hand, wondering why the idea of someone like Lydia rooting herself in this town felt like both the worst-case scenario and the only one I couldn’t stop imagining.

And why the hell I cared so damn much.

Drew flopped back onto the couch with his second beer and propped his feet on my coffee table like he didn’t fear death. I shot him a look, but he just smirked, clearly daring me to say something about it.

“I don’t know why I let you in here,” I muttered.

“Because I’m the fun one,” he said, popping the cap and letting it land somewhere on the rug. “And deep down, you love me.”

I took a long drink from my bottle. “Deep down, I tolerate you. With conditions.”

“Touching.” He grinned. “You always were the poetic one.”

We sat in comfortable silence for a minute, the kind that only comes when you’ve known someone your whole life and no longer feel the need to fill every second with words. I stared at the grooves in the coffee table, the worn spots on the wood from years of our lives—beer rings, Dad’s old ashtray that I still hadn’t thrown out, a burn mark from a firecracker we thought was a candle when we were twelve.

“You ever think about him?” Drew asked, more serious now.

I didn’t answer right away.

I didn’t have to ask who he meant.

“Every damn day,” I said finally.

Drew nodded, quiet for a beat. “I miss him, too.”

I took another pull from my beer, then leaned forward, resting my forearms on my knees. “He was stubborn.”

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