“What’ll it be?” I snip.

  But he seems not to notice my tone. “Vodka soda, two LandSharks, and the bride will have a…”

  He looks behind him to a woman I can only assume is Mrs. Torres. She wears tight black leather pants, an animal-print bodice, and a white veil. Her long dark hair falls to just under her arms, and her lipstick is bright red. Dragon Girl by NARS. One of my favorite shades.

  But the man next to her answers for her. “Captain and Diet,” he calls out to Trace.

  She looks at him, adoration all over her blushing cheeks. “Thanks, baby.”

  That must be the groom. He’s wearing jeans and a Hawaiian shirt.

  I dole out the drinks, and Trace takes them without paying, so I just mark it all down on paper to keep a running tab.

  A few others come up for cocktails, and I pour four pitchers, handing everything with some extra glasses to all the guys coming up. No one pays, so I just continue to mark everything.

  “To the bride and groom!” Trace holds up his beer.

  Everyone joins him, Army with the vodka soda I made, and Dallas with one of the LandSharks.

  “And ten more years of having sex in every single fucking location except your own damn house!”

  Roars fill the room, so loud I can’t hear the music. I laugh.

  The groom pulls his bride into his body, and she laughs with everyone else.

  “We love you,” Trace tells them. “Macon couldn’t be here, but he did give me the credit card, so order what you want. It’s on us!”

  He holds his bottle up higher, howls filling the air, and all of a sudden, the bar is flooded as a Brandi Carlile song starts on the jukebox.

  I lean over, scooping ice into five glasses and adding vodka, Tabasco, Worcestershire, and Bloody Mary mix, while Iris stands at the other end filling all the servers’ orders. Someone wants calamari, another wants cheese sticks, and I’m really glad the point-of-sale system is the exact same as Mariette’s because otherwise I’d be crying right now.

  Slowly, the crowd thins, everyone getting their first round, and Trace runs behind the bar, grabbing another beer.

  I mark another line to keep track of his drinking. If the inventory doesn’t match up, I’m not getting yelled at.

  He uncaps the beer and slaps a kiss on my cheek as I pop the tops on four Coronas. “Aren’t they already married?” I ask him as he rounds the bar again.

  “They redid their vows,” he tells me. “Every ten years, they say.”

  I watch Mr. Torres as he tries to put a maraschino cherry in his wife’s mouth, but she’s laughing too hard to let him. He circles her neck with his hand, pulling her back into him and planting a kiss on her mouth instead.

  He leaves her and approaches the bar, slapping Trace on the back. “Macon didn’t have to do that, you know.”

  “He wanted to,” Trace says, gesturing to me and handing me the credit card to keep. I stick it in an empty glass next to the register. “He appreciates you.”

  “How is he?” Torres asks. “I haven’t seen anything other than glimpses of him in weeks.”

  But Trace just nods, lifting a bottle to his lips. “He’s fine. Busy. Would you like another round?”

  I notice the quick way Trace changes the subject, but Mr. Torres doesn’t seem to. He rears back, shaking his head.

  But Trace pushes Torres’s drink up to his mouth, ordering him, “Chug it.”

  Torres downs the rest of his whiskey neat, and I start to make him another one. I hand him the new glass just as a woman slips her arms around Trace.

  His gaze darts to me, but I move down the bar, clearing away the empty glasses and bottles.

  I don’t care.

  He’s not mine. I’m not his.

  But I avoid looking back in their direction, because I do care a little, and I know I shouldn’t.

  It’s got to be a girl thing, right? Lingering territoriality? Possessiveness? Like I don’t want to be forgotten?

  I let out a breath. I’ll get over it.

  He takes her to the small dance floor, and they move, her body plastered to his and her arms around his neck. Dark hair longer than the bride’s, the smooth skin on her lower back glowing underneath his hands. The green silk top looks amazing against her tawny skin.

  “You’ll never look as good with any of us as she does,” a familiar voice says.

  I hold back my groan as I wipe down the bar. “Oh, we don’t know that.” I glance over at Dallas, who stands there with an empty beer bottle. “I haven’t been through everyone in your house yet.”

  His eyes dance because he knows I never will and I’m just talking out of my ass. I uncap another beer and hand it to him, walking away before he can say more.

  The jukebox goes through every song twice, and I spend a good amount of time trying not to have a meltdown when Aracely needs help cleaning up vomit in the bathroom. She kicks a stall door in anger, and it slaps me in the nose, but after the pain subsides and we’re sure I’m not going to bleed, she buys me a shot but still doesn’t say she’s sorry.

  The bride and groom start making out on the dance floor, and I watch as Trace’s hand slips up his girl’s shirt. Dallas eyeballs me every time I look at Trace. I really feel like I’m going to end up in Dallas’s trunk someday.

  I finish the dishes, clean up the bar, and take out a load of trash, leaning against the counter as the party goes on and the servers start dancing and chatting.

  But every once in a while, I turn my head and look out the window. The house was dark for a while, but the garage door is back open and the light is on. He’s awake. Still there.

  I don’t know why I worried. I’m reading too much into his behavior. He’s drinking a lot. It affects the appetite. And definitely his moods. That’s what his problem is.

  I shouldn’t have tried to stop him from having sex with Turin on Halloween. Everyone else was having sex. Everyone was drinking. He needs to feel close to someone.

  So why didn’t he come out tonight? Why doesn’t he ever go out?

  “You worked a full shift,” Army says, approaching the bar. “Two full shifts, actually. You should go home.”

  I face him, standing up straight. “My brother and sister are in bed, and if I go home, I’m legitimately scared my mom will have invited Jerome Watson over to ambush me.”

  He breathes out a laugh, but he doesn’t ask me to clarify.

  Did I tell him about Jerome Watson? I know I told someone.

  In any case, he doesn’t ask me more.

  “I loved how you described our house to your brother and sister.” His eyes gleam under his dark brow. “It made me feel pride again. Maybe the grass always looked greener everywhere else, or maybe…maybe I just needed to remember how to see the beauty in things. The little things.” He stares at me. “You make things pretty, Krisjen.”

  I do?

  He rises up. “We’re going to the strip club. You should come with us.”

  “I’m a minor.”

  “I know.” He grins. “I’ll make sure you’re safe. It’s not really my scene, but I think I might like to see you experience it.”

  There’s a gleam of mischief in his eyes, and for a second, I’m not sure I like it. I’m a legal adult, but he’s ten years older than me. Macon would never invite me to a strip club. I’m certain he would consider it inappropriate.

  I turn my eyes back out the window, seeing his light still on, something inside of me warming. “I think I’ll be jealous if I go,” I murmur.

  “Seeing Trace watch other women dance?” he asks.

  I shake my head, looking at him again. “Seeing all of you watch women dance.”

  His smile softens, silence stretching between us. After a moment, he lowers his voice. “It’s my one night out. Dex is staying over at the sitter’s. You should come.”

  Meaning, he has his room to himself tonight. I glance down at his bracelet like I might be able to tell if that’s the one I squeezed in my fist on the couch that night.

  I thought it was Iron, but…

  It wasn’t the same.

  “May I ask…” I hesitate, but then just go for it. “Who is Dex’s mom?”

  His eyes hood, the beautiful green turning gray. “He doesn’t have one.”

  I open my mouth, about to rephrase my question, but he knows what I’m asking. If he wanted to answer, he would. “Sorry.”

  “Me, too.”

  I’m sure I could find out from Liv or Trace, but Army’s message is clear. He’s not talking about her.

  He starts to back away. “You should come tonight.”

  Everyone starts spilling out of the bar, hopping into cars with their open containers of liquor, and I kind of want to go. All the other women are going.

  Removing my apron, I take out my tips from the restaurant and stuff them in my back pocket, following everyone out of the bar.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I call out to Iris, not asking if I can leave. The place is almost empty, and it’s her shift to close up.

  I walk out into the parking lot, tires sloshing through puddles as people leave, and I catch sight of Army, stopping in his truck and waiting to see what I’m doing. Dallas is in the front seat, Trace and the girl in the back.

  But I look away and keep walking, seeing him finally pull away out of the corner of my eye. Off to the strip club without me.

  I walk toward the light in the garage. Macon shouldn’t be alone so much.

  10

  Krisjen

  Taillights disappear in the distance. As the roar of the cars fades, it leaves the Bay deserted and quiet as I step into Macon’s garage. My Rover is up on the lift, about six inches off the ground, and two of my tires are missing.

  The car shouldn’t be taking this long to fix, but I’m not complaining. He’s busy, and I’m lucky to have him at all. And for free.

  The speaker on the shelf plays Hozier, and I walk around the car. Sections of paint are sanded off, all places where I had either scratches or maybe a dent or two. I don’t know. I didn’t keep track of every time someone’s car door slammed into mine, or maybe the few times I drove over bushes or through trees, sneaking around with my friends and causing havoc like an idiot.

  The driver’s side door no longer has the two-foot-long line of silver paint that I just suddenly noticed one morning after coming out of my house this past summer. Coincidentally, I’d told Milo off (again) the night before. It’s probably related.

  Macon steps out of the house, stopping at the top of the stairs. He holds a greasy cloth in one hand, a car part in the other. I clear my throat. “Iron replaced the two tires that were damaged,” I say, walking around the car. “What’s wrong with the other two?”

  I’m not going to be nervous. If he tells me to beat it, I will. Let’s see what happens.

  But he continues down the stairs, saying instead, “They were bald.”

  I follow him with my eyes, taking stock of the dark circles under his eyes that are always there now. I would’ve thought he was going to bed after that shower earlier. I spot the bag of food on the table, still unopened.

  I squat down, picking up a piece of sandpaper on the cement floor.

  But a hiss hits my ears, and I halt in my tracks, gasping. A snake sits coiled on one side of the garage door, gray with black spots. That’s a…

  That’s a…

  Oh shit.

  I jerk my eyes to Macon, but he’s already there. He leans down, and I open my mouth to scream for him to stop, but he yanks the tail, catches the neck, and I watch as he walks into the street, flinging it into the woods on the other side of the road.

  I’m breathing hard, my heart jackhammering, but he turns and heads back to his worktable, not looking at me.

  That was a…

  That was a…

  What the fuck? We have wildlife here, but that was a pit viper. A pygmy rattlesnake. We did a project in sixth grade about the wildlife threats in our area. I remember.

  I put my hand over my mouth, ready to vomit.

  I swirl my eyes around me, checking for any more. That can’t happen often, right? We don’t actually see them in St. Carmen.

  I glance at Macon. He squats down on the other side of the car, and I start to hear sandpaper grinding against the car like what just happened couldn’t have gone bad in a second.

  Like going to look for a gator on the loose by himself a couple of weeks ago wasn’t careless, too.

  He keeps toying with death.

  It takes a moment, but I move for the side of the car opposite him and start sanding the small mark he probably didn’t know was there. He really doesn’t need to fix my paint job, but it’s too late to say anything. He has to fix it now.

  I work the paper over the small scratch, but after a couple of minutes, my arm already burns. I reposition myself, putting some muscle into it. The tips of my fingers tingle with the friction.

  I look at him through my passenger-side windows, but when he glances up, I drop my gaze again. He’s not kicking me out. I guess that’s a good sign.

  But the next thing I know, he’s standing over me. I look up, seeing a pair of gloves in his hand.

  “I’m okay,” I assure him.

  “Put them on now,” he says. “Women should have soft hands.”

  I cock an eyebrow. “Why? Because we’re dainty?”

  Please…

  But he spits out, “Because you’re mothers.”

  I look up at him again, and for the first time ever, he blinks. Then he drops his gaze. “Even when you’re not.”

  I don’t know what that means, but I stop in my spot. I’m not a mom. I won’t be one anytime soon.

  I grind my thumb over my fingertips, taking note that they’re still soft, even though I wash them a hundred times a day at the restaurant. Paisleigh likes the smell of the lotion that Mariette puts next to the sink.

  I take the gloves, then he taps the car, near the roof, showing me another scratch that I didn’t know was there.

  I take that as an invitation to stay.

  He buffs out the scratch on top of my roof that was from the tree branch I grazed once, and I sand the paint over the five little scratches from the Coke bottle Mars threw straight up in the air that accidentally landed on my hood. Macon starts replacing the two wheels, and I scan the car one last time for any remaining blemishes.

  “High Enough” by Damn Yankees comes on, and I can’t stop smiling all of a sudden. I work a scratch a little more, lost in my thoughts.

  “My dad used to listen to this music,” I say. “When I was little.”

  He squats on the other side of the car, refastening the lug nuts.

  “He had an eighties Corvette he bought in college,” I go on, “and I wasn’t allowed to touch the car, but he bought me one of those motorized kid cars, and I would fix mine while he worked on his.” I still see everything in my head. Him in the driveway, my car parked behind his. “It was pink—mine, I mean—and I like pink, but there were like fifteen shades of pink on that car. It was hideous.” I laugh out loud, even as the tears well. “He’d have a beer, and I’d have a bottle of strawberry soda. Out in the driveway. Music cranked up. A light breeze.”

  I swallow over the needles in my throat. It was perfect.

  I haven’t seen him in months.

  “He was different then,” I say, my voice softening. “I guess he forgot the things he loved.”

  His hair bands, his Corvette, his dreams…

  “I guess I’ll forget the things I love, too.” I go back to sanding. “Life takes you over like that. You lose yourself. Who you were when you were five was the real you. Before everything started to kill you.”

  My father couldn’t have been obsessed with his stock portfolio when he was a kid. He wanted other things.

  I see Clay’s mom out in the world now. Buying a seaside cottage. Learning to garden. Wearing jeans and eating ice cream on the sidewalk.

  Regressing, my mom says. A midlife crisis, she says.

  But it’s not. Clay’s mom isn’t having a midlife crisis. She’s remembering herself.

  I look at Macon through the windows, seeing him just sit there, his body still.

  I don’t want to sell any of me to Jerome Watson. I don’t want to lose time.

  I walk over, and Macon sees me coming and starts on the tire again. He’s attached the others, now removing the lug nuts from the fourth. The one Aracely stuck her knife in. He cranks the wrench, loosening the first bolt.

  “May I try?” I ask. “To learn? In case I break down on the road by myself sometime?”

  He opens his mouth, inhaling something that looks like it’s going to be a sigh, and rises without sparing me a glance.

  I lean down, grabbing the wrench in both fists, and pull, the bolt spinning easily. I twist and twist until it pops off, and then I fasten the tool to another bolt. Gripping it with both hands, I pull again, but this time it doesn’t budge. I yank, putting everything I have into it. He must’ve loosened the last one. I jerk it again and again, grunting, but then I stop and look up. “Oh, you know what? We should make a TikTok.”

  But he blurts out, “Get up.”

  I do and watch as he puts one of his suede work boots on the long bar of the wrench and stands up on it, showing me how to use my weight to loosen it.

  The bar budges, and he steps off.

  “Cool.” I beam up at him. “Thank you.”

  He doesn’t smile back. He walks off, and I crouch down again, twisting the wrench until the nut falls off.

  I look over my shoulder. “And thanks for the tires.”

  He opens the bag of food I left hours ago, sniffs it, and winces, dropping it back down on the tool bench.

  I don’t know why he doesn’t just tell her to make him a steak, or some stew, or even an omelet. Something light if he’s tired of burgers. All it takes is a text.