Page 32 of Under Pink Skies

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“To hell with the clock,” Malcom shouted. “I need it, and I need it now.”

The anger in my chest tempered slightly at the sheer desperation in Malcolm’s voice. It reminded me of how it hadn’t been that long since I’d been in this same spot, begging Kameron to let us go to one more bar, swearing up and down how I was fine and could handle it, that I didn’t have a problem. I would never stop being grateful that Kameron never let me get to this point.

“You need to eat something, Dad,” Abbie said, fetching an apple and a bag of beef jerky for him. “Please. Let’s get you back upstairs.”

Malcolm took the food from Abbie, not abandoning the fight completely, but based on the way he kept glancing back at me, he wasn’t keen.

Good. Hopefully he understood I would cross that line if I had to.

“Sorry about that,” Abbie said when she returned downstairs. Her eyes were red, and my chest tightened at the realization that she was most likely holding back tears.

“He’s got an . . . arrangement with Willie from the Roadhouse. It’s really expensive importing liquor this far into the mountains, but we go half in on orders with the Roadhouse. Willie and I are trying to limit his access to the bottle, but.”

“It’s hard,” I said. “I get it. I really do. You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Abbie.”

I knew enough about alcoholism to know that Malcolm really believed he’d never be able to function without. That he had completely ruined his life, wrecked his close relationships, and that the only way to survive in this new world was to tunnel deeper into his depression and addiction. I prayed there would be an opportunity to change that perspective, but until we could get him away from the bottle long enough to realize it, it was more a matter of keeping him, and the people around him, safe from harm.

A small light returned to Abbie’s eyes as I extended a hand towards the door, all too eager to get her away from this situation.

“Shall we?”

As I opened the front door of Watford General for Abbie, her hair shifted over her shoulder with the small jump down onto the sidewalk and my stomach went taut with the all too familiar feeling of butterflies.

I knew somewhere in the mountains Kameron was laughing at my sheer inability to talk to women in anything other than a professional capacity. I hadn’t told any of my close friends in the service about Abbie, but being around other young men that often meant that most of them had figured out my inability to hold a conversation early on.

“Which way are you parked?”

I nodded my head toward the Roadhouse and the sheriff’s office on the far side of the road.

“I parked in the north lot.”

Abbie nodded, pulling her brown satchel farther up her shoulder.

“Lead the way,” she said as she tucked one of her curls behind her ear.

I realized then that I was staring. I awkwardly cleared my throat, slipping my hands into my front pockets before turning on my left heel and walking down the sidewalk. Abbie fell into step beside me. The silence between us wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was a stark reminder of how much had changed.

And despite it all, walking with Abbie felt as familiar as breathing. The desire to wrap my arm around her shoulders and bring her close to me, to whisper some stupid joke in her ear just to make her stumble and laugh in a way that meant I could catch her and kiss her, threatened to consume me.

“Watford hasn’t changed much,” I said, inclining my head towards the small laundromat on the crossroads corner, just one storefront down from Watford General. “I always imagined they’d rebrand at some point.”

Abbie shrugged. A sudden gust of wind tousled her hair, and she reached up once more to tuck it behind her ear.

“Well, Paula died at the beginning of last year. Heart attack,” Abbie said, frowning as she updated me about the owners. “Safe to say Bobby’s not doing well.”

I sighed, a heavy ache settling in my gut. “That freaking sucks.”

Abbie gave me a small smile, though it looked like she was fighting it.

“You still don’t curse?”

“Only for dramatic effect, or when it feels necessary.”

“I have to say, I’m impressed,” Abbie said, waving to a young woman in the laundromat who was folding freshly dried clothes into her hamper. The woman smiled and returned her wave. “I kind of assumed that was a phase you’d grow out of. You know me and my potty mouth.”

A pause stretched between us as I began walking once more.

“Where did you end up?” Abbie finally asked. Her voice was hesitant and soft, no doubt preparing herself for my answer.