Page 52 of Back in the Country
“Youdidask.”
He ignores me for a moment before asking, “You guys official yet?”
“Yeah, for a couple of weeks now.” I pause. “Way doesn’t want to tell Sorren yet.”
“Well, make sure he’s not an idiot again. And don’t wait too long to tell Sorren. He deserves to know.”
I ignore the second part of his statement. “Isn’t that your job—keepin’ Waylon in line?”
“I can’t watch all of them. You claimed Waylon—he’s yours.”
I laugh and I feel lighter. Hank may be surly with everyone else, but he’s always been a safe place for me to land.
We don’t talk after that, but the silence between us is comfortable as I watch him move around the kitchen. He’s right; weexistin this space together. There’s no pressure or expectations, and even without words, we’re saying volumes.
The sun is lower in the sky when I finally leave the sanctuary that Hank’s space provides. I don’t yet have a plan, but I feel better, like maybe everything will work out the way it’s supposed to if I just give it time.
Like Hank said, patience has never been my strong suit, but for my brother, who played dolls with me and brought us to the first place I felt at home, I’d do anything.
21
WAYLON
Iwatch as Marlee storms out of her house and down the path toward Hank’s cabin. It hurts that she didn’t want to come to me, but I understand her desire to not force me to take sides.
Also, I’d taken to getting her naked whenever she looked sad because there was only so much Mama’s home cooking could fix. I don’t know how else to help. Every time I tell her to back off a little, she gets defensive and then it ismein the doghouse. It’s an exhausting sequence of events, but until they figure their shit out, we seem to be in a holding pattern.
I wait another few minutes before calling Sorren.
“She call you already?” he says without preamble.
“No, but I saw her storm off toward Hank’s.”
He sighs and the sound holds so much more weight than just an argument with his sister.
“Let’s go to the bar.”
“No.”
“I’m not asking, Sorren. You need to get out of the house.”
“Did I not just get rid of my sister and now I gotta deal with you?”
“In this case best friend trumps sister, and if you tell her that we’ll both be in trouble.”
He snorts but finally agrees as I pull up to the front of the house. His stride is slower and more intentional as he reaches my truck and climbs inside.
Marlee’s right. He is hurting, but me saying anything on the heels of their fight won’t do any good.
Silently, I navigate the relatively quiet streets of our hometown to the local bar, the Tap and Table.When I turn the truck off, Sorren doesn’t move. His gaze is focused on the solid, oversized farmhouse door that serves as the entrance. I’m regretting my decision to bring him here when he pushes out of the truck and heads down the sidewalk.
The bar is busy, but it thankfully isn’t crowded. Patrons and staff move around the room like a skilled dance. A lot of local places get knocked on just for being alocal bar,but this isn’t one of them.
The Tap and Table is only about fifteen years old and run by two transplants from the Adirondack Mountains—which apparently is athingin Upstate New York.
Who knew?
Holly and Marcus Sullivan were high school sweethearts who had worked themselves to the bone in corporate jobs before picking up their lives and moving to Tennessee. They are in their late forties and never had kids, claiming that the people who frequent their bar are fulfilling enough.
