a little sorry for him.
“I’m sorry,” I say, taking another long drink of beer.
“What?” His face pinches, all his features bunching closer to the center.
“I’m sorry I fucked up your life,” I repeat. “Wasn’t my intention. Doubt it was my mom’s, either. She was only fifteen.”
He scowls. “I don’t want your apology.”
“Then what do you want?”
“I don’t want shit from you. Never have, never will.”
I lean in closer to my uncle. “Now you’re lying, Parker. You’ve been dying to watch me fail the way you did ever since I was a kid. But guess what? I’m not going to roll over and play dead. Never. No matter what you do to me, no matter how you gloat when I fall short of what I reach for. Never.”
Never, I think again to myself, resolve banishing the whiskey haze.
I’m never going to be like my uncle.
And I don’t belong in this bar.
Parker starts cussing, but I barely hear him. I reach in my wallet and toss a couple of twenties on the bar for the drinks, then step off my stool.
“Thank you,” I say, cutting through the stream of obscenity. “If you hadn’t come in here, I would have spent a lot more time feeling sorry for myself.”
“Go fuck yourself,” he growls.
“You’re going to need a new hobby,” I say, clapping him on the back in the same chummy way he’d greeted me on the way in. “You can’t touch me anymore.”
He has a few more choice words to say to that, but they drift in one ear and out the other, becoming a nonsensical hum that buzzes harmlessly around my head as I walk to the door and push out into the sunshine.
Outside, it’s quiet except for the soft rush of traffic a few streets over and the chatter of birds nesting in the ruins of the train station a hundred yards away.
It’s a beautiful day and I’m alive to walk around in it. No matter how foul I feel, no matter how miserable I am over what happened with Lark, I’m alive when so many aren’t. It seems like a simple thing to be grateful for, but it isn’t simple, not really. There are so many people in the world who waste their aliveness, who hang back when they should reach out, who sit out when they should join in, who hang on when they should let go, and I don’t want to be one of them.
It took years of hard work on myself to feel like I’m living my life right, and I’m not going to give up on that because a dream has died.
Even if it is the brightest dream, the best dream, the one thing I most want in the world.
I’m not going to waste the gift of being alive. I’m going to get up, brush myself off, and move on.
Even if I have to do it with a broken heart.
Chapter 25
Lark
Two months later
There’s nothing more miserable than a blazing Georgia afternoon in late July.
All day it’s been as hot as Satan’s kitchen. The bugs waged war against the appetizers (and nearly won) and the humidity pressed in on the wedding party like a dog’s hot, damp breath.
The bride spent half the reception rushing to the bathroom to spray more hairspray on her up-do in a vain attempt to maintain control of her naturally curly hair, and the guests consumed twice as much water as wine to keep from passing out on the dance floor.
“Thank goodness that’s over.” Melody dumps a load of empty serving trays in the back of our new Ever After Catering van, the one we bought after booking four mega weddings in August, and two in September.
Business is good. Very good.
I can’t complain, even when grilling T-Bones in hundred-degree heat.
“Why any woman would plan an outdoor reception in July is beyond me,” Aria agrees, collapsing onto the grass by the truck and shrugging out of her tuxedo vest.
We were one server short tonight—Natalie called in sick—so Aria suited up to fill in. She finished the last minute touches on the wedding cake, then spent the rest of the night circling with drink and hors d’oeuvre trays. I offered to take over after the meal was served, but Melody insisted that Aria should stay on duty. She said something about Aria having a sunnier smile or something that I hadn’t paid much attention to.
I have a hard time paying attention to anything these days. It feels like I’m drifting through my life, going through