Page 27 of Now to Forever

I click my tongue. “And”—my eyes drop to the glass of wine she’s white-knuckle gripping—“I don’t mean to shit in your chardonnay, but when he pushed up against me, it was anything but emotional. Or soft. On the contrary, I thi—”

“You know what?” Anna stands, downing her wine and grabbing her purse. “I’m not doing this.” She looks at Ford. “Your psycho ex-girlfriend will not ruin this night. Ford, let’s go.”

I look at him, surprised to see a coldness in his eyes. Surprised I care.Wasn’t this what I was trying to do?He stands, pulls cash out of his wallet and tosses it on the bar, scowl on his face. “You happy now?”

Surprisingly, I am not.

“I—”

He doesn’t wait; he’s gone. Following Anna. “And I wasn’t his girlfriend!” I shout at their retreating backs, neither of them turning to look.

I look at Dean, who’s now standing too, slipping his wallet out of his khakis. “Where are you going? We just got here. Iestimatedthis would last longer.”

He shakes his head, small smile on his face as he drops a few bills on the bar. “Do I need to answer that, Scotty?”

“That?” I ask, gesturing to the door with a disbelieving snort. “That was nothing. That was someone who was something before but isn’t now. And that woman is a wimp. She was begging for it! She should actually thank me for toughening her up!”

I laugh, but he doesn’t.

“It’s fine. You don’t need to explain. But I’m not sticking around for it.” He dips his chin. “It was nice meeting you.”

“Right,” I say softly, watching him leave.

I sit there, alone. It shouldn’t feel different than any other night, yet it absolutely does. At the familiar crowded bar, my solitude feels like it’s been put under a microscope. Magnified. I drink another drink with my chin lifted, imagining myself sitting at a dusty bar in the desert, wondering if a new solo stool surrounded by different strangers will feel any different. Why I hated seeing Ford walk in here tonight as much as I couldn’t stay away from him. Wondering why I haven’t felt this alone since the day I came off the trail and found him not there.

And with my final sip, I wonder if loneliness gives two shits about geography, and if me leaving will only ever lead to new places filled with the same kind of empty.

Eight

Wrenshowsupeveryday for a week and it’s always the same: dark eyeliner, hair hanging in her face, combat boots, and a dark-colored sweatshirt despite the sweat on her forehead. Our exchanges have been the opposite of revealing. After asking about Zeb, she hasn’t asked anything else about my family. Like I scared her straight by simply existing.

In return, I’ve asked very little about her.

She shows up, lobs me a few angsty remarks and eye rolls, helps me with whatever project I’m working on, and pets Molly.

Fucking Molly.

The dog does nothing but eat the things she shouldn’t and bark so much I think I’ve lost hearing in one ear. Yet today when Wren arrives while I’m in the middle of taking cabinet doors off the kitchen cabinets, Molly sits quietly and performs tricks like a circus pony.

Bitch.

“Looks like a crack house in here,” Wren says, as I pull a door from its hinges and stack it on the floor with the others.

I eye her. “How do you know what a crack house looks like?”

“I do.” She gives me a challenging look. “Got a problem with that?”

“You’re snippy.” I unscrew another door with two quick zips of the screw gun. “When’s your poet of a mother get back from her trip? I think you need a hug.”

Eye roll.

Something’s wrong. I have a negative number of maternal instincts, but I know a pissed-off kid, and she’s standing right in front of me. “You in trouble?”

She shrugs and toys with the hem of her sweatshirt. I take the last two doors off the cabinets and lean against the now doorless kitchen, studying her.

“I got in trouble a lot,” I say casually. “Let me rephrase that: I got in trouble a lot compared to my best friend, but not that much compared to kids from the wrong side of town. Half empty, half full, that whole thing.”

“My dad found weed in my backpack,” she finally admits, her gaze down on her shoes as she scuffs a toe against the linoleum. “He’s pissed. It wasn’t mine, but—it’s—he didn’t care. Gave me the company-you-keep speech.”

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