chuckles heartily, causing his belly to bounce underneath his whitish wife beater. Even from a distance, I can tell he doesn’t have all his teeth. “Oh, and we’re being graced by the presence of Sheriff Marks’ daughter.” He wriggles his eyebrows at me, which only succeeds in making me more wigged out. “You know I can’t serve minors, Parker, especially the sheriff’s daughter.”
“Nope. I’m the only drinker tonight,” Parker says, motioning to one of the booths in the back corner of the bar. “Two pumpkin ales, Larry.”
I slide into the booth and feel every inch of the cheap pleather coating the seats, making me cringe. Parker follows in right behind, trying to sit next to me. I scootch over more to put some space between us. There’s an awkward silence as we wait for the beers to be delivered.
Moments later, Larry comes by the table and slams two bottles of Holden Ridge Brewery’s Pumpkin Ale on the table.
“It’s a shame about that Benson boy,” Larry comments, cracking the top off both bottles with an opener. “I guess the sayings true, ‘Only the good die young.’”
Seeming to sense my uneasiness, Parker replies, “I guess so. Thanks, Larry.”
“Want me to start you a tab?”
Parker shrugs. “Sure, why not? We might be here a while.” As Larry walks away, Parker slides one of the bottles with the back of his hand so it sits in front of me. “Drink up.”
“I really shouldn’t. This place may be a dump, but I don’t want to get Larry in trouble. Besides, Unknown’s probably recording us as we speak, and I don’t want to give him or her any more ammo to be used against me,” I reply, pushing the beer back toward him.
“Do you really think he brought two beers over here for little old me? And fuck that Unknown bastard. Drink up,” he says, grabbing the bottle and setting it down right in front of me again.
I look over at Larry, who’s busy chatting it up with a couple of customers at the bar, and then snatch up the beer. “You’re right. Fuck Unknown. Here goes nothing.”
I pause for a second when it suddenly occurs to me that we’re missing Gunnar’s candlelight ceremony at the school. Raising the bottle, I say, “To Gunnar and Mr. Whitman,” clanging my bottle against Parker’s. Then I proceed to slam mine back. It feels soothing as the cool liquid rushes down my throat and swirls around my mouth. The pumpkin flavor pops, bringing a genuine smile to my face.
“To Gunnar and Mr. Whitman,” Parker echoes as I continue to down the beer.
Taking the bottle away from my lips, I release a hard breath as I slam it on the table. “Damn, that’s good,” I say, letting out a small laugh.
I look over at Parker and he has a pensive look on his face. He’s staring at me, but he doesn’t say anything. My subtle enjoyment of the beer fades away when I realize a serious conversation is about to take place.
“You want to talk, huh?” I ask him when I notice he starts swirling around his bottle on the table while still gazing at me.
“Only if you’re up to it, but yes, I think we should.” He brings the bottle up to his lips and takes a sip after he finishes talking.
I take a deep breath followed by another long drink of beer before I begin. “Yesterday, that sick bastard made me choose between saving Rory or Mr. Whitman. I found Rory unconscious in the school pool, and I thought Mr. Whitman was fine since nothing happened to him. Well, not until today,” I explain in a reflective tone. My eyes tear up at the thought of not seeing Mr. Whitman at school on Monday, or ever again. “That’s how I know it was Unknown. The psycho said I had to choose and I chose Rory. That’s why Mr. Whitman’s dead—because I chose.”
As I take another swig of beer, I see Parker’s face out of the corner of my eye and it looks like he’s mulling over everything I just dumped on him.
“I believe you,” he says after taking a sizeable gulp of his beer.
I find myself oddly happy to hear him say those words. Maybe it’s just the alcohol, but I feel my walls coming down brick by brick as I sit here with Parker. Though, he does tend to have this effect on me even when I’m not under the influence.
“Thank you. It’s nice to hear that