mornings here. Afternoons at the bar always seem to hold excitement. Sometimes it’s the lonely fisherman’s wife who gets shitfaced midday and tells us everything about her life. Sometimes it’s even the housewife whose husband lives in Seattle on weekends but keeps her here because he likes a less complicated life than the city. Makes sense?
Yeah, doesn’t to me either, but she’s also been drinking straight vodka since about noon so we’ll see where that’s heading later. Dylan’s making friends with her, so maybe she’s into chicks now. I wouldn’t put it past her.
What you don’t usually see?
Children.
Because, well, surprise, it’s a bar. But also, they’re in school. Strangely enough, I’m not entirely surprised when Fletcher comes in at one that afternoon with a child trailing close behind.
I peek past Fletcher and his usual façade of “just let me drink and don’t ask questions” to the three-foot-tall boy behind him. “Did you kidnap a child, Fletch?”
He grunts out a response, one I don’t catch, and tosses his flannel over the back of the stool. He nods to the kid and pats the stool behind him. “Take a seat, boy.”
My apprehension flicks to Mal, then Dylan. Presley went home for the afternoon shift, or I’d have a feeling she’d be staring at him like “what the fuck is going on” too. Dylan shrugs, and Mal, she comes over. “Fletch, it’s a bar. He can’t be in here.”
He rolls his eyes. “He ain’t gonna drink. Actually, give the boy a root beer.” He glances over at the boy, who’s still wearing a backpack on his shoulders. “You like root beer, right?”
“I don’t like beer.”
“It’s not beer,” Fletcher tells him. “Haven’t you ever had soda pop?”
“I don’t know.” The boy shrugs, his backpack slipping off his shoulders.
Fletcher knocks his fist against the bar. “He’ll have a root beer.”
Mal sighs. “Okay, but if Avie finds out, I had no part of this.”
“Avie ain’t gonna do shit,” Fletcher grumbles as I pour his usual into a glass.
I glance over at the boy, who’s now staring at the television above me. He’s adorable. Wide blue eyes framed with the thickest black lashes, pink cheeks, dark brown wavy hair. My heart thuds wildly in my chest as I watch him. The warmth of his smile when I hand him his soda and the way he says, “Thank you, ma’am.”
“My kids need to hang out with this dude,” Mal notes, shaking her head at his use of manners. Sadly, it’s rare that kids have them these days. “What’s your name, buddy?”
Shyly, he smiles at her. “Atlas Hardy.” Wiggling out of his backpack, the boy pulls it around the front of him and then unzips it. Digging through its contents for a moment, he pulls out a piece of paper and slides it over to Fletcher. “I made this for you.”
Fletcher glances at it and then winks at the kid. “What is it?”
“It’s a drawing,” he tells him. “That’s me, you, Daddy, and Uncle B on a boat.”
Remember when I said I always seemed to attract the secret keepers? Exactly.
Pots - Traps made of wire mesh, plastic, wood, and netting which are baited and left on the ocean floor. When fish or crab enter the pot, they can’t get out.
I draw in a breath and then let it out slowly. My heart twists and catapults into an unsteady rhythm. Could it be he’d been keeping more secrets than I thought?
Knowing men, yeah, he probably is.
I stare down at the drawing. Fletcher’s eyes lift to mine. I never noticed the color of his eyes. Until now. Familiar sea green. Adrenaline bubbles inside me. It pricks at my skin, like needles and butterflies attacking me. I look at the boy. Atlas.
His eyes, they’re more blue.
Maybe it’s all a coincidence, or maybe, I don’t know Lincoln at all, and this is just one of the many secrets he’s been holding on to. I guess maybe I can’t blame him, and I certainly haven’t asked. My only question so far has been if he had a wife, not a son. I never even thought his “I have somewhere to be” could have been because of a kid.
Fletcher clears his throat and gives the child his attention. “I look a little fat.”
Atlas tosses his head back, laughter rolling through him softly. “You’re not fat. I just made your head too big.” He pulls out a pencil from his backpack, his brow dipping in concentration. “Here. I’ll fix it.”