It’s a strange answer, but not accepting it would be like the pot calling the kettle black. “Okay, I can wait, I guess.”
Letting go of my hand, he reaches for my face and runs his fingers through my hair, gently tugging at the roots and sending a shock of pleasure through my body. Dear God Almighty.
“Thank you for trusting me,” his voice perpetuates my body with heat as his fingers slide from my hair to my cheekbone.
We leave the sunnier part of town behind and enter the rougher side, leaving the old-fashioned shops and restaurants in exchange for old and dilapidated houses and warehouses. Rusted cars clutter yards and bars and smoke shops fill up the business sections. It’s frightening how much this side of town feels like home.
My concentration centers on Asher. “So where’s this mysterious place you’re taking me?”
He returns his hand to mine and then downshifts. “That’s kind of a surprise, but I thought we could get something to eat first. I mean, if that’s okay with you?”
I crack the window and let in a cool breeze. “Yeah, that’s fine with me.”
“Are you sure there’s nothing bothering you?” he asks. “You seem a little… sad. Or sadder than usual.”
The wind gusts through my hair and I shut my eyes, breathing in the cool air. “I’m fine. I promise.” I erase my sadness as much as possible, and open my eyes, summoning up a small smile. “I’m actually just really hungry.”
“Good.” He grins and turns the car into the crowded parking lot of Phil’s Shenanigans and Fun. “Hmm…” Asher observes the sign. “I wonder what kind of fun it’s referring to.”
“No, you don’t,” I say. It’s the bar where my dad hung out and I know way too well the fights that go on inside.
“You’ve been here?” Asher shuts off the engine and takes out the keys.
“Once or twice.” I omit some of the truth. “And I think they card here.”
“I heard they don’t.” He points a finger at the front door where a young couple are walking inside with their arms wrapped around each other. “And I think we go to school with them.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.” I sigh heavily. “I think they do let in minors.”
My dad came here a lot and brought me with him. I’d sit in the corner booth, coloring, while he drank himself into a stupor, ranting about his philosophical ideas on life and death until he’d piss off someone enough that they’d take a swing at him. Then, Phil, the owner—who was like a second father to me—would load us up in his Chevy and drive us home.
“Do you know if the food’s good here?” Asher opens the car door and steps out.
“Yeah, the food, the service—it’s all great.” Except for the memories.
Before I can climb out of the car, Asher hurries and opens the door from me, then helps me out. The boy blows my mind with his gentleman skills and if I didn’t know better, I’d guess he came from an earlier era. He holds my hand as we walk across the parking lot, smiling at me like I’m the best thing in the world. There’s a row of motorcycles in front and a bench where people are smoking. The windows of the bar are shielded with flashing neon signs and flyers.
At the entrance, Asher releases my hand, but only to open the door. I fan the smoke from my face as the door swings closed and then Asher returns his hand to mine. The bar is packed, the music’s loud, and there are no barstools available. Paper-mache spiders and witches hang from the ceiling and each table has a miniature pumpkin.
“Hi, y’all. My name is Amy and I’ll be your waitress today.” A perky girl in her early twenties appears in front of us. Her black skirt barely covers her legs and her white shirt is tight enough that it shows she’s not wearing a bra “We only got booths tonight. Is that okay?”
“What do you think?” Asher asks, looking at me. “Is a booth good?”
“A booth’s better,” I answer.
“Okay.” The waitress leads us through the smoke and people with a cheery skip in her walk. We settle in the corner booth, sitting across from each other, and she hands us our menus and sashays toward the bar. Phil’s the bartender tonight. He’s a large man with tattoos casing his arms and neck and his shaved head reflects in the low light and his goatee touches the bottom of his neck. He has a T-shirt on with the sleeves torn off, jeans, and biker boot and he’s pouring a shot as the waitress says something to him. His eyes lift to me as I slump down in the booth, holding the menu in front of my face, ducking for cover.
“Please, don’t come over here. Please, don’t come over here,” I chant under my breath.
Asher guides the menu away from my face. “Okay, what’s up?”
I pretend to be very interested in the list of appetizers. “Nothing. I’m just reading the menu.”
He eyes me suspiciously and aims his attention to a person standing next to our table.
“Holy biscuits and gravy, it is you.”
I take a deep breath. “Hey, Phil.” I plaster a fake smile on my face and look up at him.
He grins and opens his arms, waiting for a hug. Internally cringing, I get to my feet and wrap my arms around him. He smells like cigars and booze, both of which will be the cause of his death, something I’ve known for years.
I pull away and drop back down in the booth. “I thought you were going to quit smoking.”
He tensely rubs his neck. “I did for a while, but old habits die hard. But look at you. All grown up. I haven’t seen you since the night your…” he trails off. “Well, anyway. How are you doing? And how’s your mama doing?”
“She’s doing good.” I pick at the peanut shells wedged in the cracks of the tabletop.
“Is she still working down at the diner?” he asks. “Or did she finally get away from that shithole.”