Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,33
to need something stronger if I’m going to process this new information.
“I think I’m going to need something a little stronger,” I say, offering Dee a smile. “You want another?” I ask, pointing to her sea breeze.
“That’d be lovely, thank you,” Dee says, leaning back in her chair in search of her purse.
I excuse myself and walk over to the bar in a daze.
I don’t know what to do with this new information. Maybe the answer is right in front of me. I’ve been in town now for almost a week and I’ve heard nothing from Everett, notwithstanding his marital status. Maybe despite whatever I think happened in our past, he’s moved on. I take in a deep breath. I can’t . . . I won’t believe that. I know I meant more to him than someone he could easily get over. Shit, I’ve seen every kitchen from here to New York and I can’t rid myself of the memories of him. But maybe that’s just me. I was always the . . . my breath catches . . . I was always the dirty little secret. I was the thing that contaminated the mighty Everett Coburn. I was the old paint workhorse that would sully the Paragon thoroughbreds. He was my one and only. But what was I to him?
“Hello, Mr. Mueller,” I say, trying to steady myself. Mr. Mueller owns the Hall of Fame. He had a rocky relationship with my mother in the past. I don’t blame him for it, she was not any kind of neighbor I’d like. But he liked her cooking, so he put up with her.
“Queen Elizabeth,” he says, looking from under his low cowboy hat, the ever present toothpick switching from one side of his mouth to the other as he takes my measure.
“I’ll have a bourbon and branch and a sea breeze for Dee, sir,” I say, standing tall.
Mr. Mueller turns away without so much as a word. I continue to eye those potato chips.
“Why don’t you just order them already.”
Everett.
“I was going to offhandedly suggest that hey, Mr. Mueller, you know . . . screw it, why don’t you throw in some of those potato chips while you’re at it.”
“Seems like a lot of work for a bag of chips,” Everett says, leaning onto the bar and facing me.
Goddamn. He takes my breath away.
In the darkness of this bar, the hard edges of his face are shadowed and beautiful. The stubble that appears late at night outlines his jaw just as it always has. That crooked smile and those hooded, pinwheel-green eyes, the right one always a bit more squinted than the left. He makes me feel like I’m the only person in this room as he looks straight through me.
“These are on the house,” Mr. Mueller says, sliding my two drinks across the knotty wooden bar.
“Sir?”
“Welcome home,” he says in his gruff smoker’s voice.
“Yes, sir. Thank you,” I say.
“Now you really can’t ask for those chips,” Everett says, holding up three fingers. Mr. Mueller turns and goes to get what I know will be three bottles of Shiner Bock beer.
“Hoist with my own petard,” I say, picking up my drinks. Everett smiles.
Mr. Mueller comes back over and cracks open three Shiner Bock beers. I can’t help but smile.
“Thank you, sir. Hey, Mr. Mueller, you know . . . screw it, why don’t you throw in some of those potato chips while you’re at it,” Everett says, nodding his head in the direction of my beloved chips. I sigh. I can’t help myself. I sigh.
“All right then,” Mr. Mueller says, turning to pluck a bag of chips from its hook. He sets the bag on the bar and nods to another customer as if to say, “May I help you?”
“Welcome home,” Everett says, presenting me with the bag of potato chips. I take them, the plastic crumpling under my touch.
“Thanks,” I say.
I can’t help myself. I look straight into his eyes. Just as I’ve been doing my entire life. His eyes lock back on to mine and we just stand there. We’re inches from each other for the first time in ten years and yet we’re frozen. I can’t breathe. Everett leans in mere centimeters, but it feels dangerous. A crooked smile and that right eye squints just a bit more than the left. I let out a laugh, trying to hide the nervous gasp that sneaked out as I feel the heat from his body nearing mine. I hear