Page 65 of The Backtrack
Her eyes slowly opened, and she found herself in a booth at a bar.
She turned around and it didn’t take long to spot the ponytail of long red hair seated at the booth next to hers. And there, next to Alt-Sam, was Damon, wearing distressed skinny jeans and a black vest over a white tee. Alt-Sam fit snugly into the crook of Damon’s arm, but still wore glasses.
Why would Alt-Sam have glasses if the surgery happened?
“It’s nice to see you two cozied up, but can we talk about the eyesight thing?” Sam asked. “How are we doing there?”
Alt-Sam and Damonwerecuddled up, but they weren’t talking. The way Damon rubbed the same spot on her neck over and over again, like he was trying to work something out, made them seem...off...
“Ah shit.” Sam slumped onto the top of the booth. “Please be wrong, please be wrong.” She waited for one of them to speak and, eventually, they did.
“Are we okay?” Alt-Sam asked.
Damon looked down at her, slipped his arm off from around her shoulder. “I don’t know. You tell me.”
Alt-Sam sat up stiffly. “I think you’re feeling weird about being at the opening of your sister’s bar.”
Alt-Sam reached for the bowl of popcorn in the center of the round table. Next to the bowl was a Grand Opening placard, with the words, “Sister Brews” surrounded by celestial stars and a crescent moon. The logo was witchy and feminine, and so different from the Band Practice Brews Damon and Farrah had opened together.
Alt-Sam continued, “You both talked about doing this. It was basicallyyouridea—”
“That’s not why I’m mad,” he cut her off.
“Okay, so youaremad,” Alt-Sam said.
“You just seem so distant lately. And whenever I ask what’s wrong, you say nothing. But I know you, Sam-Sam. Tell me what’s going on,” Damon pleaded.
Alt-Sam chewed a handful of kernels, either ignoring or not hearing Damon.
“Sam, look at me.” He lifted her chin up.
“Nothing is wrong. I’m just feeling a bit down.” Alt-Sam scratched at the surface of the wooden table and didn’t meet Damon’s eyes.
“Talk to me.” He grabbed her hand, but she pulled away.
And then, like the vulture he was, Myles planted his hands firmly on their table. He wore shutter sunglasses and a trucker hat. “Hey there, boss.” His words were slurred.
“Hey,” Damon replied for Alt-Sam.
Alt-Sam eyed Damon, maybe annoyed. “I told you not to call me that,” she said, definitely annoyed.
“This is a party,” Myles continued, oblivious. “You should be having fun. I mean, did you see the giant piñata in the shape of an old lady?”
“That’s supposed to be a witch,” Damon said.
Alt-Sam allowed a small smile to cross her face. “You are literally too stupid to insult.”
“Wait a minute. Did you just quoteThe Hangover?” Myles raised his beer to her in acknowledgment, then he finally looked at Damon. “Later, dude.”
“That guy is an asshole,” Damon said.
“Maybe we should go home.” Alt-Sam grabbed her absolutely enormous black purse from the seat and moved to leave, but Damon blocked her with his arm.
“It’s Farrah’s opening night. We can’t go yet. And you didn’t tell me what’s going on with you,” Damon added.
Alt-Sam tried to leave the booth again. This time, Damon let her, but he followed closely behind.
“Come on,” he tried again.
